“It’s to be a salon, then?”

“More of a ball.”

“Oh.” A cold sense of dread washed over her. “A ball.”

“Yes. There will be supper and a bit of dancing. We must provide some amusement for the ladies, you see, or they will boycott the evening altogether.”

Maddie smiled. “I’m not much of a lady, then. I’m uninterested in dancing, but I would be fascinated by your display.”

“Then I hope you’ll attend.”

“Me?”

“I have a good friend who’ll be visiting. Mr. Dorning. He’s a scholar in Edinburgh, and he’s compiling an encyclopedia.”

“An encyclopedia?”

Lord Varleigh nodded. “Insects of the British Isles, in four volumes.”

“Be still my heart. I do love a book with multiple volumes.”

“Does that mean you’re interested?”

“Naturally. I should love to see the work when it’s finished.”

He smiled. “Miss Gracechurch, we seem to be misunderstanding one another. I’m asking if you’d be interested in meeting my friend so that he might consider engaging your ser­vices for the project. As an illustrator.”

Maddie was stunned. An encyclopedia. A project of that size would mean steady, interesting work for months. If not years. “You’d truly do that for me?”

“I’d consider it a favor to him, frankly. The quality of your work is exceptional. If you are able to attend our gathering next week, I should be pleased to make the introduction.”

She bit her lip. What a chance this could be for her, but . . .

A ball.

Why did it have to be a ball?

“Could I not pay a call earlier in the afternoon?” she asked. “Or perhaps the following morning. It would seem a shame to interrupt your amusements with talk of work.”

“The work is the reason for the gathering. You wouldn’t be an interruption.” His hand brushed her wrist. “I’ll look out for you, I promise. Do say yes.”

“I have a question,” a deep voice interrupted. “Does this invitation extend to me?”

Oh, Lord.

Logan.

After a brief, assessing pause in the doorway, he moved into the room. He was dressed for physical labor, it would seem, in his kilt and a loose homespun shirt. He must have just come in from the glen.

Lord Varleigh looked faintly horrified, but also intrigued. His glance to Maddie sent an almost scientific question:

Just what kind of wild creature is this?

Without so much as a nod in the direction of manners or propriety, Logan crossed the room in firm, muddy strides. He drew near Maddie, but his gaze never left Lord Varleigh’s.

He casually draped his arm about Maddie’s waist, then flexed it—­yanking her to his side. The brisk morning air clung to his clothing, bringing with it the faintly green scents of heather and moss.

“Good morning, mo chridhe. Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Maddie’s tongue went dry as paper. “B-­but of course. Lord Varleigh, may I present Captain Logan MacKenzie.”

“Captain MacKenzie?” Lord Varleigh looked to Maddie. “Not the Captain MacKenzie. The one you . . .”

“Yes,” she managed.

“Your intended?” His gaze darted to Logan. “Forgive me, sir. I was under the impression you were—­”

“Dead?” Logan supplied. “A common misconception. As ye can see, I’m verra much alive.”

“Extraordinary. I had no idea.”

“Well,” Logan said smoothly, “now ye do.”

“I should have mentioned it earlier,” Maddie said. “Captain MacKenzie only returned with his men yesterday. It was quite the shock. I’m afraid I’m still a bit scattered.”

“I can only imagine, Miss Gracechurch.”

“Miss Gracechurch is Mrs. MacKenzie now.” Logan’s hand slid to Maddie’s shoulder in a gesture as baldly possessive as it was unsubtle.

Mine.

“Actually,” Maddie interjected, nudging away, “I’m still Miss Gracechurch at the moment.”

“We exchanged vows last night.”

“In a traditional handfasting. But that’s more of a formal betrothal. It’s . . . well, it’s complicated.”

“I see,” said Lord Varleigh, although it was clear he didn’t.

Really, who could? This was madness. Any explanations she might attempt would only make it worse.