by Eliza Knight
Jaime went upstairs to her sister’s bedchamber, staring around the room, wondering if there would be any clues inside that would help her. A journal, a letter, something. Everything was in the same place Shanna had left it. Soft pink silk comforter on her four-poster bed. Her dressing table was cleared of her brushes and combs. The curtains were drawn back to let in daylight, illuminating the creams and pinks of the décor.
But Shanna’s dressing table drawers were as empty as its surface, her wardrobe holding only the older gowns she’d not wanted and a few pairs of worn-out slippers. Nothing under the bed or mattress.
Sitting back on her heels on the floor, Jaime stared up at the ceiling, painted in delicate pink-and-gold scrolls. This was ridiculous. Shanna wasn’t hiding anything. She must have been spooked by the news of the duke’s return, just as Jaime had been. The careful world the two of them had built after the scandal and their parents disowning Shanna was crashing down around them.
It was up to Jaime to pick up the pieces.
8
Lorne loosened his cravat, feeling as though it were choking the life out of him. Or rather that the ball, and the dozens of carriages pulling up to his house with guests lavishly outfitted alighting, was suffocating him. The streetlamps outside shone brightly on them all, their jewels catching the light and twinkling.
He was fairly certain this had been a bad idea. One, because he abhorred most society functions, and two, because the whole reason he’d decided to have this ball in the first place was because he’d lost a wager to Alec. The added benefit was that he’d get to show the world he had no interest in Jaime Andrewson. To put the gossipmongers and their ridiculous rumors to rest.
Of course, since she wouldn’t be in attendance, their disinterest in one another would be easily surmised. But he had hoped they could ignore each other, make a show of it. Though he wasn’t certain why he’d agreed to the idea in the first place. It was clear the woman had no interest in saving her reputation, given she’d flat-out denied him.
Perhaps she was more like her sister than he’d thought.
Even as he thought it, he doubted it. There had always been differences between Jaime and Shanna, all the more so when Jaime was a young girl, not yet come out into society. There were, of course, the broader, more noticeable traits like intelligence, business acumen, and frivolousness. Both the former of which Jaime held copious amounts, and the latter was gifted to her sister.
There were also smaller, less noticeable qualities he’d taken note of as well. Years ago, when they’d had tea, Jaime had always made certain everyone was involved in the conversation, listening and recalling tidbits of personal anecdotes others told her in the past, while her sister was content to cut anyone off who she’d lost interest in. Jaime remembered he hated cucumbers, whereas Shanna always made certain there was an abundance of cucumber sandwiches on hand. He’d taken his betrothed’s behavior for nerves and thought that since the pair were sisters, they were likely very similar, and it was taking Shanna a bit of time to warm up.
What a foolish idea that had been. And he should have known better, for he and Gille, were very different people.
A knock sounded at his door, and Mungo came through. “Your guests are arriving, Your Grace, and none can be announced or enter the ballroom without your presence. Or are ye forgoing the receiving line?”
Lorne groaned. How he hated the proper way of things. Why could they not just go and dance and mingle and gossip without him, then vacate the premises at a preferably tolerable hour, leaving him in peace?
“Do I have to?”
Mungo raised a single brow. “Ye do no’ have to do anything, Your Grace, but the purpose of this function was to show your face, was it no’?”
“Somewhat.”
Miraculously, Lorne’s face had been unscathed by the cannon that laid him flat. He was lucky that way. But if he were to present himself naked before the ton below, they’d run screaming.
“I’m coming.” He retightened his cravat and tried to remove the scowl from his face as he descended the stairs, but the latter was proving quite a feat.
The grand foyer of his ducal townhome was packed with aristocrats trying to show off their wealth and popularity. Mungo’s voice belted out, silencing the crowd who turned as a collective to stare up at him, “His Grace, the Duke of Sutherland.”
Lorne nodded to his old friend, and then with a forced smile, nodded at his guests as he descended, taking each stair deliberately and giving them ample time to ogle him. He cut a dashing figure in his kilt and doublet. The tartan socks and buckled shoes were a bit irritating considering he much preferred his riding boots, but at least they showed off the muscles in his legs. That was one thing he wanted—to show he was still the strongest fellow in the room.
At the base of the stairs with Mungo beside him, his guests were introduced and filed into the ballroom. One face after another in a blur. The only ones he was happy to recognize were Alec Hay, Euan Irvine, and his cousin Malcolm.
When at last he was set free from the tediousness of greeting every guest he wished had declined the invitation, he sought out his friends and cousin.
“Took ye long enough,” Malcolm teased.
“If I have to smile and tell one more mother that her daughter is a vision, I’ll hang myself.” Lorne tugged at the collar of his shirt, wishing he could at least take off the cravat.
“Your ball is the talk of the town and will likely be the talk of London soon. Even my barber was talking about it,” Alec murmured. “Nearly cut off my ear when I mentioned I was going.”
Lorne chuckled. The four of them stood in the corner, observing the dance floor, as the small orchestra he’d hired for the occasion struck up a familiar song.
“Are ye no’ dancing?” Euan asked, looking nervous as if he expected to be accosted by several of the mothers salivating on the sidelines.
“I’ve no interest.” Lorne watched men gather ladies and pull them to the center of the floor.
“But it is your ball. Ye’ll be expected to.”
“And they’ll be disappointed. I supposed I can no’ interest any of ye in a fight instead?”
“Do ye think they’d notice if we went missing?” Malcolm asked.
Lorne let his gaze slide over the crowd. “Aye,” he answered, disheartened. Nearly every eye was on him rather than the dancers, obviously assuming him to have chosen a partner for the first whirl.
“Why no’ pick an older woman to be your dance partner,” Euan suggested. “A widow, perhaps?”
“Or someone’s granny?” Malcolm teased.
Lorne grinned. “That’s no’ a bad idea.”
“My grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Errol, is here chaperoning my cousins,” Alec offered. “I’ll make the introductions.”
Lorne nodded, following his friend to find an older woman sipping punch.
“My lady,” Alec said. “Might I introduce ye to the Duke of Sutherland? He has requested your hand for this dance.”
“Mine?” the dowager sputtered, flicking open her fan. “Och, but I’m too old to dance.”
“A lady is never too old to dance. It would be my honor to have ye on my arm,” Lorne said, bowing to Alec’s granny.
“Well, if ye insist.” The fan snapped closed.
“Oh, I do.”
He took the older woman by the arm and led her out to the dance floor, joining the others. At the far end of the line, Euan had brought out his partner and Malcolm the same, both of them looking sour as hell. Alec, meanwhile, gloated on the side.
Well, here went nothing.
As much as Lorne thought he’d hate dancing, the dowager made it fun by whispering bits of gossip each time they were paired to turn and nodding in the direction of whoever she was speaking about as they broke apart.
“Ye’re utterly charming,” Lorne said, leading her off the floor when the dance ended.
“If only I were younger,” she said with a mocking wistful sigh.
Granny flashed open her fan and waved it in front of her face. “Ye’re a charmer, Your Grace. And, I might add, it is good to have ye back alive.”
Lorne pressed his hand over his heart and bowed. “Thank ye, my lady.”
He retreated from the dowager, made his way back to the corner and stopped more times than he cared to be introduced to one debutante after another. He was nearly there when Mungo’s voice boomed out of the crowd and stopped Lorne dead in his tracks.
“Miss Jaime Andrewson and the Viscountess Whittleburn.”
Jaime stood at the entrance to the ballroom, all eyes on her and her aunt, who’d made a sneak attack visit that morning to inform her that she was not going to the ball alone. It was most unfortunate and rather irritating. Jaime was a grown woman and perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
But Jaime suspected the true reason her aunt had come up from London was that she wanted to be at the ball that was garnering all the talk of the Scottish ton, and even those in London who’d yet to step foot in Edinburgh.
It had been years since Jaime had been inside a ballroom, and nerves prickled every inch of her skin. The new gown fit like a glove, and when she twirled, the lights caught on the crystals, making it sparkle magically. It was the same when she walked, she noticed. She slowly made her way forward, smiling at familiar faces and trying not to look as frightened as she felt.
So many people looked astonished to see here there, and with little doubt as to why. It’d been years since she’d attended a ball, and now here she was, likely putting voice to all their rumors.
“Come, let us make our way to His Grace,” her aunt whispered in her distinctly English aristocratic tones. “We are here to show that despite past fractures, our family ties are not destroyed.”
“I’d rather no’,” Jaime whispered. Oh, why had she decided to come?
“Which is why we should.”
But they needn’t have gone far, for the duke approached them, looking unbelievably confident and devastatingly handsome in his kilt and doublet. Had he always been so tall? His gray eyes were cool as they met hers. Jaime flicked her gaze up to the center of his forehead, when all she wanted to do was take him in. Even looking there at his head, her imagination conjured what she wasn’t looking at. The turn of his muscled calf in his hose. The way his dark locks seemed to fall in all the right places, making him look as though he’d just come in from an exhilarating ride. The wide, full mouth that would undoubtedly demand she leave, but which she actually, for a fraction of a second, wondered what it would be like to kiss.
It was no wonder her sister had been obsessed with him. Lorne was too gorgeous for words. Unfairly good-looking. Damn him.
Aunt Beatrice tugged Jaime into a curtsy, which she did begrudgingly, hating the idea of groveling before the man who’d made it so clear the last time they’d spoken that she was not to be in his presence again. And yet, there was a thrum of excitement swirling in her belly, knowing his eyes were on her. Did he like her gown? Her hair?
“Lady Whittleburn and Miss Andrewson.” Lorne’s voice was smooth as silk, gliding over the silence of the ballroom as everyone—including Jaime—waited on bated breath for what he’d say next.
“Your Grace,” Jaime murmured, while her aunt was a bit more enthusiastic.
“You have a lovely home, Your Grace, and what a magnificent fete you’ve put on. We are so very glad that you’ve returned.”
“Thank ye, my lady.” Lorne nodded his head, but his questioning gaze slid toward Jaime. From what she could tell peeking through her lashes, he was waiting for an explanation. And he’d be waiting a long time.
She was losing her nerve.
Beatrice grabbed Jaime’s hand, starting to tug at the dance card tied around her wrist, but Jaime yanked back. “If you’re not already full, which I’m certain you must be,” her aunt said with a nervous laugh, “then I’m certain my niece would very much enjoy the honor of a dance. Two families coming together in peace, shall we say?”
Jaime sucked in a breath and held it, wishing she could run away. Oh, Aunt Beatrice, do shut up! Heat suffused her cheeks, and if the ballroom floor had opened up right then and there, she would have been the first to take a flying leap into a black hole. This was not at all what she’d had planned and it was embarrassing to boot. She was supposed to wait for an invitation to dance from any man, and she certainly didn’t want one from Lorne. This was a far cry from pulling him aside and asking for a moment to speak about her sister in private, or not in private. They could have done it beside one of the palm plants near the window for all she cared. But not dancing. Not touching.
The silence was dragging on as Lorne studied her, making an already awkward moment seem a million times worse.
If someone threw flames upon her cheeks, Jaime might have felt better than with the raging inferno of her face right now. She peered through her lashes at Lorne, who was staring down at her, his expression blank. Oh, how she wished she could read behind the steel-gray of his eyes, see beyond the flatness of his full mouth.
“As it happens, I am free at this moment,” he said at last. “Miss Andrewson.” He held out his hand..
Jaime stared at his outstretched fingers— long, slim, capable fingers—aware that the entire room was staring at them. Aunt Beatrice nudged her in the small of her back, and Jaime was forced to take his offered appendage.
His palm was warm but not overly so. When his fingers wound around her hand, she felt comforted—which she hated—and nervous all at once.
“Ye did no’ have to offer,” she murmured.
“On the contrary, Miss Andrewson, I had no choice. I thought ye were no’ coming,” he murmured so as not to be overheard by the other guests.
“I changed my mind.” Now was her chance to tell him she wished to speak to him privately, but they’d reached the dance floor and taken their positions with the other dancers. And to leave would draw attention.
She faced him, and he studied her, seemingly not aware of anyone else there. Although knowing him, he didn’t care about anyone else. He looked rather bored. And she tried not to take that personally.
With the various string instruments striking up their tune, she offered a curtsy, and Lorne bowed. She glided toward him, palms up, and they pressed together. Thank goodness for gloves because even with the thin layer of fabric between them, a spark seemed to ignite where her fingertips touched his. Their eyes met, and she boldly stared into his. She couldn’t run away and hide, so she might as well be herself.
“Why did ye change your mind?” Lorne’s voice was a low caress.
“I wanted to speak with ye about—” but she cut herself off as they exchanged partners for a turn. Back to Lorne, she said, “I needed to speak with ye.”
“I am all ears for the rest of this dance, and then we will no’ be seen again together tonight. That was the whole point of me issuing ye an invitation.”
They parted once more. If he were only going to give her this dance, then she’d best make haste. Returning to him, she said quickly, “’Tis about my sister. I believe she might have run away.”
“Why is that any of my concern?” Though outwardly he feigned indifference, she felt his body tense, and the slight twitch of his fingers on hers.
They drifted to their other partners, but Jaime kept her eyes on him. She found herself distracted by the intensity of his gaze, rather than the muted conversation of her other partner. The way he looked at her as if he could see every secret she tried to keep hidden. Though they danced apart, with their gazes locked, they could have been with each other.
Again, that spark when his hand touched hers.
“I need ye to tell me what happened between the both of ye.” And I need to stop wanting ye to touch my hand.
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“Ye already think ye know,” he said.
“I want to hear it from ye. I need to know why ye abandoned Gordie.”
He passed her off to another dancing partner without an answer, and when she came back to him, he was frowning down at her.
“This is no’ an appropriate place for this conversation,” he murmured.
“It was your choice to have our one conversation tonight on the dance floor.”
“I was mistaken.”
The dance ended, and Lorne took her by the arm, leading her away from the dance floor. “I shall return ye to your aunt, but in a quarter-hour, come to my gymnasium. There will be no one there. We’ll be discreet, and I will tell ye what ye want to know.”
“I can no’ risk being found alone with ye. I could lose everything.”
“Ye want answers?”
Of course, she did, more than anything. That was the reason she’d risked coming to the ball in the first place. But one thing she couldn’t risk was falling under his spell as Shanna had. Risking her company and future. Then again, what other choice did she have? If he promised to be discreet, could she trust him?
“Where is your gymnasium, Your Grace? I will be noticed nosing about.”
“I’ll have Mungo bring ye.”
He handed her back to Aunt Beatrice. Jaime considered him while he attempted to melt into the crowd only to be pulled to the dance floor by an imploring mother and daughter. Even from her spot near the wall, punch now in hand, Lorne seemed to find her, watch her.
“How was it?” Aunt Beatrice asked, sipping her punch.
Jaime was grateful for the interruption, as she’d been finding it harder and harder to look away. “Awkward.”
“I gathered. The both of you looked extremely pained to be in each other’s company.” Beatrice pursed her lips. “So much for showing that our family rift is healed.”
“I most certainly was pained, and the rift is far from healed.”
“A shame what happened between him and Shanna. He does not strike me as such a rogue, and yet he is.”
