More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  “No. You look like a savage who’s been brawling in an inn-yard, but it’s too late to fix you now.” Lachlan glanced back toward the house. Damn it, brother or not, he didn’t care for the idea of confronting the Marquess of Huntington in a crowded ballroom, with every aristocrat in London gaping at him, but they’d come this far, and he wasn’t going to wait any longer. “How the devil will I find him? It looks like a crush, and I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “Like an English lord, I imagine.” Ciaran raised an eyebrow at Lachlan. “Whatever you do, try and scrape together a smile. You won’t get anywhere with your usual black scowl.”

  Lachlan grunted. “I don’t scowl.”

  Both Ciaran and Isla laughed. “Oh, of course not,” Isla said. “You’re not at all scowlish. You’re the very picture of good humor, Lachlan.”

  Despite his denial, Lachlan felt a scowl creep over his face. “Scowlish isn’t even a word.”

  “Well, it bloody well should be. Look, Lach, if you can’t find the lord, look for Lady Huntington. The housekeeper at their country seat said she’s a beautiful blue-eyed blonde—a perfect English rose.”

  “That’s no help,” Lachlan grumbled. “I doubt a man can move a damned inch in a London ballroom without stepping on some fair-haired English rose. There’s bound to be dozens of them in there.”

  “Ah, but not a single raven-haired Scottish lass. Poor Isla. If the English are as enamored of blue-eyed blondes are they’re rumored to be, you’ll end a spinster.”

  Isla only shrugged, but Lachlan frowned at Ciaran. Isla, a spinster? No, he wouldn’t allow that to happen. He’d see to it she got back everything she’d lost, and an English lord into the bargain, if she wanted one. “Isla was the belle of every ball in Scotland. She’ll have her pick of English lords, too.”

  That is, if he got past Lord Huntington’s butler. He dismounted and tossed his reins to Ciaran. “I’ll go in alone first, and then come back for you when I’ve settled things with Lord Huntington.”

  Ciaran nodded. “One Scottish savage at a time? Very wise.”

  Lachlan thought so, too, but Lord Huntington’s butler seemed to think one Scottish savage was one too many, because he stopped Lachlan before he’d taken two steps into the entryway. “How may I help?”

  Lachlan’s scowl deepened at the butler’s lofty tone. “I’m here to see Lord Huntington.”

  “Are you an invited guest of his lordship?”

  Lachlan gave the man a thin smile. “You could say that.”

  The butler cast him a disdainful look, sniffing at Lachlan’s travel-stained clothing, his muddy boots, and most particularly his black eye. “Lord Huntington is not seeing any tradesmen tonight. You may return to speak with the housekeeper tomorrow, and be sure to use the entrance in the mews when you do.”

  The butler swept a hand toward the door, as if he could sweep Lachlan away like the dust from his lordship’s stairs.

  “I’m not a tradesman.” Lachlan took a step toward the butler. “And I’ll see Lord Huntington right now.”

  “Impossible. His lordship is—”

  “Get his lordship, or I’ll do it myself.” Lachlan smiled, but it was feral baring of teeth, and decidedly unfriendly. “I’ve no quarrel going through you to get to him.” He stared down his nose at the man, who was two heads shorter, and not half his width.

  The butler blanched. “I—I’ll fetch him right now, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll wait here.”

  “Yes, sir. I won’t be a moment, sir.” The butler backed away slowly, as if Lachlan were a bull about to charge, and crept down the hallway in the direction of the music and light.

  Well, he’d return either with Lord Huntington or with a pistol—it was anyone’s guess which. Lachlan folded his arms across his chest and strode from one end of the entryway to the other, but when he’d been back and forth several dozen times without any sign of the butler, Lord Huntington, or a pistol, he ran out of patience and stalked down the hallway to have a look for himself.

  He stopped when he reached the double doors leading into the ballroom, his eyebrows shooting up. Good Lord. The room was enormous, and stuffed to the rafters with overdressed English aristocrats. And damned if all the ladies didn’t look alike, just as he’d suspected they would. He’d never seen so much pink silk in his life, and how many variations on the color white were there? He was looking out on a sea of pink and white English roses, every one of them a pale-faced, flaxen-haired version of the others.

  He couldn’t have told one simpering chit from the next if someone had pressed a blade to his throat and demanded it, and the gentlemen weren’t much better. All of them wore the same fitted black breeches and perfectly tailored coats, and each masculine neck sported a spotless white cravat—no blood on that linen—many adorned with fussy jeweled pins.

  A highland sheep among overbred stallions.

  This is what Ciaran meant. Nothing but English blood flowed through Lachlan’s veins, and yet he was as Scottish as a man could be, and these fine lords didn’t need to look too closely to see it. He towered over most of the other gentlemen in the room, and no amount of expensive, elaborate clothing could disguise the uncouth enormity of him, the rough brawn and raw edges that defined him as clearly as if he’d charged into the ballroom with a claymore in his hand, and a kilt around his waist.

  He didn’t belong here.

  He didn’t belong in Scotland anymore, either, and neither did Isla or Ciaran. Their former friends had made that bloody clear enough. There was nothing for them there. Likely as not, there was nothing for them here, either, but at least here they had a chance. It was a damn sight more than they’d had in Scotland.

  He wandered the outskirts of the ballroom, squinting at one elegant aristocrat after another, hoping he’d recognize his own features in one of their faces. It stood to reason he and Huntington would look alike—they were blood brothers, after all—but three turns around the ballroom didn’t reveal a more lordly-looking version of himself, and his eyes were crossing from studying the parade of dark-haired gentlemen.

  None of them looked anything like him.

  Lachlan dragged a hand down his face. This was absurd. He’d never find Huntington. The ballroom was crawling with English lords, and he’d be damned if he could tell a viscount from a marquess.

  He turned and stalked back toward the entryway to wait for the butler, peering at every fair-haired lady he passed, stupidly hoping one of them might leap from the crowd and identify herself as Lady Huntington.

  He’d made it nearly to the entryway when he came to an abrupt halt, his feet frozen to the floor, every thought in his head scattering as his gaze fell on a young lady half-hidden behind a column on the other side of the ballroom, directly across from him.

  He stared, his mouth going as dry as dust. Had it only been a few moments ago he’d thought all English ladies looked alike?

  His first confused thought was she was Lady Huntington, but he’d never met the marchioness, and this lady…

  Hadn’t he seen her before?

  Her face...he couldn’t have said why, but there was something familiar about her face that tugged at him, that drew and held his gaze. The delicate arch of her cheekbones, the swell of her bottom lip, the way she lowered her eyelashes to hide her expression…

  Her eyes were blue. He couldn’t see them, but somehow, he knew they were blue. Not an ordinary blue, and not a bright blue like a sun-filled sky, but a deeper blue, like the darkest sapphire.

  Her hair was gathered into a knot at the back of her head and held in place by a plain blue silk band, but a few loose curls escaped to brush her forehead and the sides of her face. It was simply done—plain even, compared to the other young ladies in the room—but even the modest style couldn’t disguise the lush beauty of that mass of gilded waves.

  A strange sensation wel
led inside him as he stared at her. Had he seen her in a dream? No, that was impossible, but he was certain he’d caught a glimpse of her face before—just a fleeting impression, enough to recognize the shy, wide-set eyes, the curve of her chin.

  Wherever it was he’d seen her before, she hadn’t been smiling.

  Had he already passed by her tonight without noticing her? Is that why she looked so familiar? Now he’d seen her, he couldn’t believe he could have overlooked her, but then she was lingering beside that pillar, almost as if she were trying to disappear behind it.

  Lachlan took in every curve and line of her, from the top of her head to the toes of her slippers, which were peeking out from beneath the hem of her white skirts. Her gown was very fine, but like her hair, it was simple. Aside from a few bits of lace here and there, and a wide silk ribbon around her narrow waist, it was unadorned.

  He watched as she melted back against the column, her white gown disappearing into the curved white marble. She’d found a way to vanish, right here in plain sight. Everything about her, from her hair to her gown, to her hiding place beside the column was calculated to avoid attention.

  That was why he hadn’t noticed her before. She was doing everything she could not to be noticed.

  Yet despite these efforts, she had Lachlan’s attention.

  All of his attention. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Aingeal.

  The pale, fine skin, the golden hair, the sweet curves of her face…

  She looks like an angel.

  Lachlan shook his head to clear it. What the devil? He wasn’t the sort of man to fall into raptures over a pretty face. Romantic fancies were for English lords with nothing better to do. He had no business standing here and gawking at her while his brother and sister waited outside on the street.

  He began to weave through the crowd, his brow lowering with annoyance as the people in his path scurried nervously out of his way. Did they suppose he’d toss them aside with a swipe of his enormous paw if they didn’t move? Christ, he hoped all Englishmen weren’t as timid as these. He couldn’t let his sister marry a coward.

  He was halfway across the ballroom when the murmur rising in his wake caught the young lady’s attention, and she glanced up. Her gaze caught his, and her brow creased with a frown, as if she thought she recognized him, but couldn’t quite place his face.

  He paused, almost certain now they must have met. Remembering Ciaran’s warning about his black scowl, he forced the corners of his lips to curve in an unfamiliar, upward direction.

  He must have done it wrong, because she did not smile back.

  Her mouth dropped open, and she raised one gloved hand to her lips to cover it. Her eyes widened, and the blood drained from her face, leaving her as white as her gown.

  Lachlan’s half-smile faded, and he hesitated in the middle of the ballroom, confused by her reaction. Had he scowled at her, without realizing it? If so, his scowl must be as black as Ciaran claimed, because she looked as if she were about to collapse with terror.

  He tried again, but she went paler still, and reached out a shaking hand to grasp the back of the chair next to her.

  “Hyacinth?” The gray-haired lady who was seated there braced her cane on the floor and half-rose, her own face going pale when she saw the young lady’s expression. “My dear, whatever is the matter? Are you ill?”

  The young lady didn’t answer, but continued to stare at him, her lovely face twisted with horror. She tried to back away from him, her panicked gaze darting everywhere, as if she were planning an escape, but she was hemmed in on all sides by the crowd. She jerked her head back to face him, and raised her hand in front of her as if to keep him back. “Don’t come near me.”

  Lachlan stared at her, astonished. He glanced behind him, certain he’d find an ogre or a monster lurking there, but she dispelled that notion at once by pointing her finger directly at his face. “You.” Her voice was pitched unnaturally high. “I saw you.”

  Lachlan shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve only just arrived in London—”

  He broke off, his body going rigid with dread. Oh, God. Could she mean she knew him from Scotland, from Lochinver? He stared at her, into her angelic face, and saw his family’s future collapsing with a few words from those perfect pink lips. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said, his voice cold. He turned abruptly on his heel, but her shaking voice brought him to a halt.

  “No. I s-s-saw you. I s-saw what you d-did.” Her chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked gasps, and her entire body was trembling.

  What the devil was happening?

  “Hyacinth? Who is this man?” The young lady’s panic had by now spread to the gray-haired lady, whose voice rose with each syllable until she was shrieking. “What did he do?”

  By now the scene had caught the attention of the people nearest them. They crowded around, and the rumble of feet scrambling across the floor echoed in Lachlan’s head as people rushed from every corner of the ballroom, all eager to witness whatever scandal was unfolding.

  “That m-man, at the inn in Aylesbury. Y-you b-beat him, and his f-face…it was covered in b-b-blood.” She dragged her hand down her own face, as if she were trying to wipe away imaginary blood.

  Aylesbury? What—

  Ciaran. The fight at the Horse and Groom, two nights ago.

  Relief flooded through Lachlan, so profound his knees shook. He took a step toward the young lady, his hands held out in front of him. “This is a misunderstanding—”

  “You beat him until h-he fell down, and he di-di-didn’t get up again, and there w-was so much b-blood…”

  She couldn’t catch her breath, and Lachlan froze, afraid if he moved any closer to her, she’d swoon.

  As soon as the word “blood” reached the crowd’s ears, the mood grew instantly darker, and the murmurs grew louder and more ominous. They moved in closer, crowding in on Lachlan.

  “You…you k-killed him. You’re a m-m-murderer.”

  The crowd gasped, but his accuser, the lady who looked so much like an angel she’d nearly stopped his breath in his chest, didn’t hear them. With these damning words still on her lips, she fainted dead away.

  A shocked silence fell, and then…

  Chaos erupted.

  Ladies collapsed, and gentlemen leapt forward to catch them. The whispers began, and before Lachlan could draw a breath, the words “killer” and “murderer” spread like wildfire, from every pair of lips to every ear.

  Just as they had in Scotland.

  Within moments, he’d been tried and convicted. In the middle of a ballroom, in less time than it took to dance a reel.

  A group of men broke free of the crowd and took threatening steps toward Lachlan.

  They aren’t all cowards after all, then.

  This was, oddly, his first thought, but he didn’t move, or make any effort to evade them, because his second thought came with startlingly clarity, and it snapped his spine straight.

  He’d been called a killer and a murderer before, but even as this scene unfolded with sickening familiarity, it wasn’t the same at all.

  This time, it wasn’t true.

  Chapter Three

  Something soft and white was floating around her, tickling her eyelids. Perhaps it was clouds, or something even nicer, like the petals of hundreds of white daisies, or the sweet, fluffy wool of a new spring lamb.

  Goodness, whatever it was, it was lovely. Hyacinth wanted to sink deeper into it, wrap it around herself, curl up in it—

  “Take your bloody hands off me. I’ve told you over and over again, she’s made a mistake!”

  There was a crash, as if a chair had been overturned, the sound of a brief scuffle, and then Finn’s voice, low and breathless. “Good God, he’s stronger than a team of oxen. Dare, help me subdue him.”

 
Hyacinth frowned. For pity’s sake, it wasn’t as if she had a chance to float on a cloud every day, and here they were, ruining it for her with their shouting.

  “Stop thrashing, damn you.” A string of muttered curses followed this command, and then Nick’s voice rose to a bellow. “Now keep still, or we’ll tie your hands, you blackguard! Violet, have Jameson fetch the magistrate.”

  “The magistrate? Christ, this is absurd.”

  There was a shocked gasp. “A murderer and a blasphemer!” It was her grandmother speaking, but there was an odd, fluttery quality to her voice, as if she were about to succumb to a fit of hysteria.

  Something awful had happened. Hyacinth couldn’t quite remember what, but as she drifted back toward wakefulness, dread seeped into the blurry edges of her consciousness.

  “For God’s sake, will you allow me to explain myself? The lady’s mistaken. I didn’t beat a man to death at an inn in Aylesbury!” It was more of an angry growl than a voice, and strangely familiar. Hyacinth’s sluggish brain groped for the memory, but it hovered just out of reach.

  “My sister-in-law says you did. Why should she say it if it’s not true?”

  A brief silence fell, then it was broken by a man’s bitter laugh. “Scores of high-strung chits in that ballroom, and the one who accuses me of murder is Huntington’s sister-in-law. Bloody perfect. Well, wake her up, and make her explain herself.”

  “She explain herself!” It was Finn, and his voice was shaking with fury. “It’s you who owes the explanation, sir. I’ve never laid eyes on you before, and I can’t think of any innocent reason why you’d be skulking about my ballroom uninvited. But you’ll have ample time to explain it when the magistrate arrives.”

  “Finn, wait.” It was Iris’s voice, but it was faint, as if her sister were speaking from a great distance away. “What sort of murderer confronts a witness to his crime in the middle of a crowded ballroom?”

  Nick snorted. “A remarkably foolish one?”