by Meara Platt
Viola rolled her eyes. “The noise and foot-stamping might cause them to shake, but they’re quite secure in their moorings. They won’t fall, no matter how rowdy the revelry, and these Highland clans do know how to revel. Now, answer my question. Why did you leave the ballroom earlier?”
“Yes… well… er…”
“Is that all you have to say? How eloquently put. But you always were an eloquent speaker, particularly about causes that rouse your passion.”
Frances winced.
“Those cursed causes, as your father likes to call them. You do have a tendency to speak your mind.” Viola patted her hand. “But I like that in you. My dear, you and I are similarly cursed with a lively wit and clever aspect. That others don’t appreciate us is their failing, not ours.”
Frances laughed. “You’re wonderful, Vi. I mean it.”
“However, you share a particular fault with the Duke of Kintyre.”
“Vi! Don’t compare me to that odious man! I hope he doesn’t show up tonight. He’ll ruin this lovely evening!”
Viola gazed at her oddly. “But I thought you knew…”
“Knew what?”
She shook her head and regarded Frances with amusement. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters now that I have you safely away from the balcony,” she muttered. “However, there’s something I must tell you about the duke.”
“I know Charles admires him greatly, but that… that fossil, that relic… that blight to progressive thinking is so disdainful of women. Why, he’s positively medieval!”
“He’s just turned thirty. That hardly makes him a fossil or a relic. And the rascal is far too handsome to ever be considered a blight.”
“He’s stern and stodgy, and set in his arrogant ways.”
“You’re not being fair to the man.”
“And was he fair to me? He wouldn’t see me or address my concerns about the new hospital wing—”
“You came into it too late, Fee. The hospital was already about to go under construction and on a tight budget. The decisions were not his alone to make. You know he answers to a board of trustees.”
“A board composed of more stodgy men, which makes no sense since half the patients are to be women. I’ll never sway them without the duke’s backing. Oh, Vi. I never intended to speak of this tonight, not on the night of my engagement. It’s just that… I want to do something important, to help out in some way beyond being a dutiful wife. What good is a lively wit and clever mind if they’re left to shrivel?”
Vi was now studying her so intently she began to squirm. “Oh, Frances. My dear, is that what you fear will happen if you marry Charles?”
Yes. “Not at all! I care for Charles and look forward to becoming his wife.”
“Well, I’m glad someone does,” Charles said, surprising her by coming up behind her and twirling her in his arms. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Cameron? It’s to be your last as an unattached young lady.”
“Of course,” she said with a heartfelt smile. The boisterous reel had ended and the orchestra now played a more sedate quadrille. The music suited Charles, for he was always as pleasant as this lilting tune. Always good-natured, always merry. Always a gleam in his appealing hazel eyes.
Everyone liked Lord Charles MacConnell.
He was the nicest man Frances had ever met and she was certain he’d make an excellent husband.
So why was she dreading the announcement of their engagement?
“A toast to Charles and Frances!”
Frances glanced down the reception line to her parents and siblings, then turned to Charles and his parents, who stood beside her. They all had glasses in hand, raised for the sixth toast of the evening. Or was it the eighth? All she knew was that everyone, herself included, had imbibed too much champagne.
Her head was now spinning, so she leaned against the large potted plant immediately behind her for support as she accepted the good wishes of the elite of Society assembled here tonight.
She knew Scotsmen and spirits did not mix well. For that matter, neither did Englishmen and spirits. For that matter, neither did Scotsmen and Englishmen. So far, the revelers, though deeply in their cups, remained on best behavior.
How much longer would that last?
“Best of luck to you,” Lady Marchmain said, regaining her attention by squeezing her hand too tightly.
Frances forced a smile, the corners of her mouth tight from the strain. “Er, thank you.”
“You’ll marry in London, of course,” Lady Winwood intoned. “Can’t imagine a proper ceremony taking place in Edinburgh. Dear me, no.”
“Of course she’ll marry in London,” Lady Marchmain argued. “Is there anywhere else?”
Frances made the mistake of trying to reason with them. “Well, Charles’ family is from Scotland, and my mother’s family, the Llewellyns—”
Lady Winwood wrinkled her nose. “But your father’s family is from Surrey, and his brother, Lord Bromleigh, has a most exquisite residence in Mayfair. No, you simply must marry in London.”
“But my mother is a Llewellyn from—”
“Or is it your aunt I’m thinking of who’s married to Lord Bromleigh?” Lady Winwood interjected. “Lovely woman. One of the best families in Surrey.”
Goodness! Is this what her life was to be from now on?
“Ye mustn’t listen to those English biddies. Ye’ll marry in Kintyre,” Charles’ aunt and assorted members of the MacConnell clan insisted moments later. “It makes no sense tay marry in London when we’re all up here. Och, London’s no place for a proper Highland wedding.”
Frances forced a smile. “No plans made yet,” she repeated the same words she’d just spoken to her English well-wishers. “Haven’t settled on a place and time.”
“But we will soon,” Charles added jovially.
She turned to Charles.
He grinned sloppily and then hiccupped. “Come on,” he said, slurring his words as he took her hand to draw her closer, “let’s find my reclusive cousin. I want you to meet him.”
She had no wish to seek out the dour Duke of Kintyre, the revered head of the MacConnell clan. He ought to have come to them to bestow his best wishes for a lifetime of happiness even if he didn’t mean a single word of the blessing. “We’ll never find him in this crush, Charles. What are you thinking? Let him find us.”
“Very well, but I won’t let this party end without properly introducing you to each other. And remember your promise to me.”
She sighed. “I’ll be kindness itself.”
“Robbie’s also promised to be on his best behavior. He never breaks a promise.” Suddenly, Charles grabbed her hand. “There he is! Over here, Robbie! Come to the head of the line!”
And then Frances saw him.
He stood before her, tall and proud. It couldn’t be! “You?” The word came out as an accusation aimed at the very gentleman she’d met on the balcony earlier this evening. Why hadn’t Viola warned her? She studied his handsome features now illuminated by candlelight gleaming off the chandeliers.
She noted his thick black hair and piercing gray eyes. Blessed Mother! Did a handsomer man exist? She didn’t think so.
No! No! No! You can’t be my charming stranger!
He mumbled an inane pleasantry, something about being delighted to meet her, which she might have believed if not for his clenched teeth.
He was understandably angry because of the kiss they’d shared.
Blessed Mother!
I kissed him!
She’d never once kissed Charles like that.
She raised her chin in an attempt to muster her dignity, but how much dignity could one muster after imbibing six glasses of champagne. Or was it eight? It wasn’t enough to stifle her humiliation. “You ought to have revealed yourself to me on the balcony, Your Grace.”
“You mean, revealed my identity,” he said, his eyes a smoky, dark gray as he continued to stare at her in anger. “Revealing myself to you would have landed me in
prison. I am not in the habit of exposing myself to strange women.”
She closed her eyes and cringed. So much for her precious dignity. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean it in that sense.”
And I’m a stranger, you insufferable clot. Not a strange woman.
“Charles speaks very highly of you. He believes you’ll make him very happy,” he said, his words more a warning than an expression of joy although he spoke them with a tense smile.
She curled her hands into fists at her sides and returned his cloying smile. “He speaks highly of you as well. He thinks you’re a wonderful man.”
He raised an eyebrow, obviously mocking her.
“Robbie, give her a kiss to welcome her into the family,” Charles insisted. “Don’t be a stuffy old boar. I’ll be heartbroken if the two of you don’t get along.”
Frances groaned inwardly. “He needn’t—”
“Of course, he needs to,” Viola intoned, suddenly appearing by her side. “It’s tradition. Well, what are you waiting for, Robbie? Kiss the girl.”
In the next moment, she felt his warm lips on her cheek. “Welcome to the family, lass,” he reluctantly grumbled, his expression warning that he’d ruin her if she ever hurt Charles.
Frances closed her eyes and inhaled.
Oh, he smelled so nice, a subtle mix of sandalwood and cherry pipe tobacco. But she wasn’t about to let him get away unscathed. “You kissed me,” she said in a whisper, “if you will recall. I had no intention of—”
He abruptly drew away.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said in response to his well wishes, ignoring the rush of heat to her cheeks. He was still staring at her, no doubt debating whether to expose her as a harlot. She’d kissed him back, but he was the one who’d instigated it.
Her mistake was in failing to slap him. She supposed putting her arms around his neck and making no secret of her enjoyment was a mistake, too.
He performed a curt but gentlemanly bow over her hand. “I bid you good evening.”
“No!” Charles grabbed his cousin and gave him a sloppy hug. “You can’t leave yet. The party’s just getting started. You haven’t danced with Fee. You can’t leave until you do.”
Frances stifled another groan. Dance with The MacConnell? “He needn’t. Really, Charles, I’m sure His Grace has more important things to do with his time.”
“He must. It’s tradition.” Charles drew back with a frown. “Why are you both so reluctant? Fee’s lovely, isn’t she Robbie?”
“Aye, she is that.”
There was a wistfulness in his tone that caused Frances to blush once more. Goodness, she was feeling an intense heat and not just in her cheeks. It must be the champagne, she decided. Too much of it had dulled her senses. And the warm room. And Robert MacConnell’s striking gray eyes boring into her.
“Let’s get this over with, Miss Cameron.” He offered his arm to escort her onto the dance floor.
“I’m so sorry. I hope you don’t think I behave—” She gasped as he placed his hand on the small of her back when the music started up. It was a lively waltz.
Startled, she lost her balance.
He steadied her, his light grip on her body kindling more heat inside her.
They twirled in time to the waltz.
He drew her closer.
She began to tingle from the tips of her ears to the curl of her toes.
“Champagne and crowded rooms are never a good mix,” he said, regarding her with some concern. “How much have you had?”
“I’ll be fine in a moment.” She cast him a small, uncertain smile. “In truth, I’ve lost count.”
“Even a few glasses when one is not used to imbibing can be too much.”
“Is that the duke speaking? Or the learned doctor?”
He moved with an easy, flowing grace. “Both. They’re one and the same.”
“Too bad. I think I like the doctor better. The duke’s an arrogant—” She caught herself too late, and hastily apologized for speaking out of turn.
He frowned.
Her stomach began to roil. “I don’t suppose this is easy for you, Your Grace… er, having to dance with me and engage me in polite conversation. Though I haven’t been very polite to you, have I? I’m so sorry I kissed you.” She closed her eyes and shuddered in humiliation. “I’m not in the habit of kissing strangers, I assure you.”
“I know. It was obvious.”
Her eyes flew open. Had he just insulted her? “I’d had too much champagne and this engagement is a big step for me. Oh, I know most young ladies would leap at the chance to be married, but I suddenly felt as though I was losing myself, that I would no longer be Frances, but a purposeless stranger called Lady MacConnell. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous to you.”
He remained silent a long moment, too long. She felt the need to fill the void. “I’m so sorry—”
“Stop apologizing to me, Miss Cameron.” She thought he was angry, then he shook his head and sighed. “We both behaved as we should not have.”
“Quite so. I ought to confess my indiscretion to Charles and—”
“No, you ought to forget it ever happened. Mention it to no one.” There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, revealing there was nothing soft or boyish about the duke. He was all man. Hard, solidly muscled man. “If you feel compelled to apologize, you ought to do so to the board of trustees of the Edinburgh Royal Hospital.”
She gasped. “Those fossils! I will not!”
“Lord Digby in particular. You made a lasting impression on him. Now I can see why.” His frown faded and she thought he almost grinned, but she couldn’t be sure, for while he was twirling her about the ballroom with graceful ease, she was concentrating hard on keeping her feet moving in time to the music.
“I merely grabbed him by the ear when he attempted to toss me out of the last board of trustees meeting. An open meeting, I might add. Open to all.” She stumbled, but he smoothly caught her and kept them moving in a circle along with the other dancers.
“Miss Cameron, you called Digby a shortsighted lackwit who hadn’t the imagination to look beyond his squat nose. I’ve wanted to say that to him a time or two.”
He is grinning!
“You have?” She smiled at him in earnest. “I ought to explain why I did it.”
“You needn’t. I don’t care.”
“I did it because he grabbed me first. I was merely defending myself. Besides, he had no right to throw me out of the board meeting when it was my turn to speak.”
“I just told you that I don’t care.”
Apparently, he was incapable of maintaining his good humor beyond a matter of seconds. How long had his grin lasted? Ten seconds? Less? “Neither does anyone else on the board,” she said, back to disliking him. “However, they might listen if you’d—”
“No.”
She wanted to protest, but she’d already made a wanton fool of herself in front of him, so she snapped her mouth shut and began to count. One. Two. Oh, what’s the use? “You don’t know what I’m about to ask.”
His hand tensed, the one resting on her back and effortlessly guiding her through each spin. “Miss Cameron, this is your engagement party. Must we speak of business now?”
She bit her lip. “Yes, we must. I won’t have another opportunity to claim your attention. You’re a—”
“Is this why you accepted my cousin’s marriage proposal?” His gaze suddenly turned icy. “To gain access to me and the hospital board?”
She stopped dancing, causing the couples behind her to bump into them.
She paid them no heed. “What a despicable thing to say! I’d never use your cousin so abominably.”
“Wouldn’t you?” He arched a dark eyebrow, his expression dangerous.
She was about to deny it, but emitted a humiliating string of hiccups instead.
He took her by the arm and drew her out to the balcony where they’d first met. “You’ve turned green. There now, steady,” he said, p
inching her nose and instructing her to hold her breath. “Count to ten.”
She did, then let it out in a long, angry breath.
He released her nose. “Better now?”
“Not in the least. How can you think I would ever use your cousin so despicably? It’s that stupid kiss we just shared. But I only allowed you to kiss me because of the wishing star. How else was my wish to come true?”
“As I said, this is neither the place nor the time to discuss your failings.”
“My failings?” She raised her hands that were now curled into fists, but after a moment’s struggle, she lowered them to her sides. She needed to compose herself for Charles’ sake, but she wasn’t quite herself—those six glasses of champagne were making her head spin. Drat, was it eight? No matter, she’d had too much and it was loosening her tongue along with her inhibitions, because she desperately wanted to kiss this horrid, and yet incredibly handsome, man again. “You pompous oaf! I assure you, I’m every bit as accomplished as you.”
Indeed, a stupid thing to say when The MacConnell was not only a duke, but a champion swordsman, a renowned horseman, a Greek scholar, and a trained doctor. One of the finest doctors in Scotland. He had studied medicine at Sterling Royal Hospital and now sat on its board of directors as well as that of Edinburgh’s Royal Hospital.
What were her accomplishments in comparison?
She had studied embroidery and painting at Miss Aimsby’s School for Fine Ladies and had excelled at neither. She sewed passably well if one wasn’t too fussy about the stitching. Her cooking skills were nonexistent. Yesterday’s batch of biscuits, the family cook had declared, would make excellent doorstops.
“I’m sure you’re every bit as accomplished as any lady in this room,” he said in a slow, measured tone.
“We’re out here alone,” she pointed out.
He sighed. “As accomplished as any lady now in the ballroom. Which is where we ought to return before Charlie worries about you.”
“But not as any man.”
“What?”
Oh, the words were spilling out of her as fast as milk spilled out of an overturned bucket. “I’m accomplished as any lady, but not as any man? Is that what you think?”
Charles chose that moment to find them.
