How to Marry a Highlander Read Online Free

marriage.”
    Silence.
    Complete stillness from the man and seven women staring at her.
    A book slipped from a sister’s hand and clunked to the floor. “Pardon,” the sister mumbled.
    “Why, Duncan, ye old trickster,” another sister exclaimed. “Ye’ve gone an found yerself an heiress to surprise us!”
    He swung his head to her. “I’ve no—”
    “I’m not an heiress.” It was only the second truth Teresa had spoken in a weeklong spree of creative inventions. She’d told her parents that Diantha had invited her to town for a visit. She’d told Diantha and Tobias that she needed new gowns and that Mama had sent her to London on a shopping lark for both of them. And she’d told Annie she was escaping Mr. Waldon, which actually was the truth.
    She stepped forward, her heartbeats atrociously uneven. All eyes turned to her, including his, beautiful and so blue—like the most vibrant autumn sky—that it was difficult to think.
    “I will have a marriage portion,” she said. “But while it is not shabby, it is not by any means a fortune.”
    “How much is it?” a sister demanded.
    “Sorcha!”
    “Dinna be missish, Elspeth. If our brither’s set to wed her, we should all ken hou much money she’ll bring to the family. We’ve anly got one chance at this.” Sorcha’s black hair was pinned tight to her head. Of the seven plain gowns in the room, hers was the plainest.
    “Well.” Teresa bit her lip. “I don’t know exactly how much it is. I only know that my mother, who spends far beyond her allowance every quarter, seems satisfied with the amount. So, I—”
    He took a step toward her, effectively closing her throat with lock and key.
    “I’m no set to wed anybody, Sorcha.” He looked directly at Teresa. “As this lass knows.” He tilted his head. “Dinna ye, miss?”
    He was so large, his shoulders and arms straining at the fabric of his rather shabby coat and the muscles in his thighs defined in trousers that had probably seen too many seasons.
    She was staring at his legs. Her gaze snapped up.
    Her breath caught somewhere in the region of her ankles. The slightest crease had appeared in his right cheek.
    “You are not set to wed me, of course,” she managed. “But I hope you will consider it.”
    A gasp sounded from a sister of no more than seventeen. “Are ye a doxy then, miss?”
    “Effie, hold yer tongue,” Sorcha said.
    “Dinna ye remember? Mither was always going on an on about Father’s doxies an hou they always wanted him to keep them like little goodwifies in their own houses an such.” Effie brushed a lock of curly hair from her eyes to peer more closely at Teresa. “Mebbe our brither’s more like Father than we kent. Are ye our brither’s doxy, miss?”
    “No!” she exclaimed at the same moment the earl said, “ No .”
    She looked at him hopefully. Hidden within his scowl, a grin seemed to lurk. But she was certainly imagining that. A gentleman would not find such a thing amusing.
    “She’s a leddy, Effie,” the sister who’d dropped the book said.
    “Hou do ye ken that, Abigail?” Effie challenged.
    “She’s no wearing perfume, powder, or baubles,” Abigail said with great sense, Teresa thought.
    “Una,” the earl said, “take yer sisters to the park.”
    The one that had fetched him, who was about Teresa’s age with eyes like her brother’s, moved toward the door.
    “But I want to stay an see what he says,” Effie complained.
    “Me too.” This one was near enough in appearance to be Effie’s twin but smiling with an open friendliness at Teresa.
    “Duncan—”
    “Go, Sorcha. All o’ ye. Go.” He waved them toward the door.
    “Come on nou. Ye heard our brither.” Una lifted a brow at the earl. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and returned his attention to Teresa.
    Taking up threadbare cloaks and dart-mended shawls, each sister gave Teresa a curious perusal and headed out the door. Then she was alone with the man she had been dreaming