How to Entice an Enchantress

by Karen Hawkins

  She patted an errant curl that had loosened from her red wig as she smiled upon her guests. “Welcome! Tonight we celebrate the talents that are among us. Many of you did not know this until now, but you were all carefully invited as guests based on your performance value.”

  Many laughed at this, which made the duchess smile more brightly. She continued to expound upon the performances she expected from her guests, but Dahlia didn’t hear another word, for Dalhousie was now whispering.

  “Good lord, he’s sitting directly behind us.”

  “Who?” Dahlia asked.

  “Kirk. He was sitting beside Lady Hamilton, but he just moved closer.”

  Anne instantly craned her neck, but Dalhousie whispered a harsh “Don’t look!”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered back.

  “I wonder if he’s actually going to perform”—Dalhousie squinted at the program—“a poem, after all.”

  “He must or he wouldn’t be here,” Anne returned. “Dahlia, you know Kirk best. Do you think he’ll—”

  To Dahlia’s relief, their conversation was interrupted by applause as the duchess finished her welcome speech. She curtsied gracefully, took MacDougal’s hand, and stepped off the “stage.”

  With that, the performance was under way. Mrs. Selfridge opened with a sonata that was surprisingly good. That was followed by the reading of a passage by a solemn Viscount Dundee.

  His chosen text was obviously a favorite of Lady Charlotte’s, for as the final word faded she leapt from her chair, clapping furiously. “Excellent! Excellent! That’s exactly how I heard it in my own mind!”

  Several more guests offered renditions of various poems and readings, and then Dahlia played her two pieces. She was aware the entire time of Kirk’s dark gaze upon her. Feeling flustered, and aware that she’d rushed through the last song until it sounded more like a Scottish reel than the graceful, elegant piece it should have been, Dahlia returned to her seat.

  Next, Lady Mary sang her assigned song, often looking toward Miss Stewart for guidance during the more difficult portions. Though her face was damp and flushed, Miss Stewart rewarded her friend with the largest of smiles at the finish of the song.

  It was really quite sweet, and put Dahlia back in charity with both of them.

  Lord Dalhousie was next, reading the “improving text” selected by her grace. It was long winded, stilted, and totally without merit, especially when Dalhousie himself yawned in the midst of it. Finally finished, he took his seat to tepid applause.

  Next was a reading of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, performed by Mr. and Mrs. MacLind, who did so with such exaggerated expressions that Dalhousie and Anne convulsed with laughter. Dahlia, aware of the glances sent their way, shushed them.

  Finally, they came to the last performance of the evening: Lord Kirk’s. A collective rustle passed over the crowd as he went to the front of the room, and Dahlia realized that the others were just as curious as she about his performance. It was hard to imagine such a usually taciturn and abrupt man reading a poem.

  He conferred for a moment with Lady Charlotte, his dark head bent near hers. Her eyes widened as he spoke, and she looked at the duchess. At a nod from her grace, Lady Charlotte broke into a smile, and then nodded vigorously. To everyone’s surprise, she ordered a footman to douse half of the lights. And as the room gradually fell into semidarkness, the crowd’s murmur increased in excitement.

  A footman went to stir the fire, but Kirk halted him with an upraised hand. “No. Pray leave it.” At the surprised look from the footman, Kirk added, “For ambience.”

  “Ah, setting the stage, are you?” Lady Hamilton called out, looking amused.

  “Indeed, madam.” He blew out a candle on a table near Miss Stewart. As he did so, their eyes met and she flushed an instant and deep red, and looked away, coughing into her kerchief.

  Beside her, Lady Mary tsked, though she seemed amused. “Lud, Alayne, it’s just a poem.”

  “But which poem?” Kirk asked. He held a candle before him and moved to the hearth as a hush fell over the crowd.

  Dahlia found herself leaning forward, waiting for his first word.

  He put his hand upon the mantel and turned slightly, his eyes meeting hers.

  Instantly, her heart pounded against her throat.

  “ ‘Sonnet to Genevra.’ ”

  “Byron,” Anne said breathlessly.

  “ ‘Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe.’ ” His deep voice was hushed, barely loud enough to be heard, yet it rolled as rich and deep as the ocean. “ ‘And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow.’ ” His soft, deep voice seemed to stroke each word. “ ‘And dazzle not thy gray-blue eyes—but oh! While gazing on them, sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother’s weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round Heaven’s airy bow.’ ”

  “Oh my,” Anne breathed.

  Dahlia was not only leaning forward to catch each word, but also holding her breath, as if afraid to break the spell being woven around her. And a spell it was, for she could no more look away than she could stop living.

  Kirk kept her gaze locked with his, as if each word were for her alone. “ ‘For, though thy long, dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy gentleness gleams like a seraph from the sky descending.’ ”

  The fire flickered over his face while the shadow hid his scars, and for a moment every person in the room was treated to how Kirk must have looked before the accident; a raw and pure masculine beauty. His eye and cheek unblemished, his mouth so sensual, so powerful, so—

  “ ‘Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; at once such majesty with sweetness blending.’ ” He stepped forward away from the firelight, his lone candle’s light racing over his scar, a strike of lightning over his perfect face.

  And his gaze never wavered from Dahlia’s as he finished, “ ‘I worship more, but cannot love thee less.’ ”

  As the last word faded into the silent room, only the hiss of the fire could be heard.

  Dahlia couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Never had she heard a poem so beautifully read. Had there been no one else here, she would have thrown herself into his arms, demanding the kiss she’d been yearning for during the last few days with such desperate anticipation. Her body ached with desire.

  The spell was broken as someone stood and clapped, and like a wave, it spread over the audience. Soon everyone was on their feet, clapping and calling, “Hear, hear!” “Bravo!” and “More! Read more!”

  And still, Kirk stared into Dahlia’s eyes.

  She could almost feel him tugging her closer with each word, each—

  Lady Charlotte suddenly stood before Kirk, her hands held up to ask for quiet as the footmen began to relight the lamps and candles. “I’m certain Lord Kirk will read us another poem.” She looked over her shoulder at him hopefully.

  “No. I cannot.” He walked from the stage and was instantly swarmed.

  Dahlia noted the expressions of those all around him, how they now saw Kirk differently. They see him now as I’ve always seen him: capable, strong, and beautiful.

  An odd light entered her heart and she smiled, proud of him, though as enthralled and surprised as the others. He’d quoted a few lines of Byron the other day, but she’d never imagined he could recite with such deep understanding and emotion. Her mind buzzed with the words, the emotion, and the feelings he’d caused.

  And during the reading, he’d looked directly at her as if he’d been talking to her alone. Over and over, she heard his voice caress the phrase, I worship thee more, but cannot love thee less. She pressed a hand to her thudding heart. He loves me. Her soul leapt with blinding joy, shocking her so much that she sat back down.

  “Dahlia?”

  She looked up to find Anne watching her with concern. Dahlia forced her trembling lips to smile. “I’m sorry, I was just lost in that p
oem. I love Byron.”

  Anna sighed. “So do I.”

  Dalhousie, who’d been talking to Mr. Ballanoch in the row in front of them about hunting tomorrow, made a face. “All women love Byron, but for the life of me, I don’t know why.”

  “That’s because men have no soul,” Anne told him in a sprightly manner.

  He looked injured. “I have plenty of soul. I’m just not a maudlin sort.”

  “Ha! You are a fribble, and care only for the polish of your boots. You told me so the other day.”

  “I didn’t say ‘only,’ ” he protested. “I said boot blacking was important, but not the most important thing in a person’s life.”

  “Oh? What else is there?”

  He grinned. “There’s also the starch of one’s cravat.”

  “Ha! Fribble. I knew it.”

  As they continued to banter, Dahlia lost herself in wonder. I’m happy. My entire body feels as light as a feather, my soul is singing, my heart tripping— She suddenly stood, too happy to sit still.

  Anne and Dalhousie looked at her with surprise.

  She didn’t know what her feelings meant, but she had to speak to Kirk. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to—” Fly to Kirk’s side. But a quick glance in his direction told her how impossible that was. Even more people surrounded him, and he was beginning to look irritated. This wasn’t the best time to speak to him. But she couldn’t wait until tomorrow—she simply couldn’t.

  She smiled at her friends. “I was going to retire, but there are too many people crowding the door. I’ll just wait.”

  It took almost thirty minutes before Kirk broke away from those around him. Looking grim, he limped toward her, his cane loosely held in his hand. “Miss Balfour?”

  She’d been rehearsing her greeting in case he managed to approach her, but now that he was here, she could only stare up at him.

  He held out his hand.

  It was a preemptory gesture, but Dahlia didn’t care. She placed her hand in his, a shiver traveling through her as his fingers closed over hers.

  “Kirk! Just the man I wanted to see,” Dalhousie said. “I believe you made an error in your recitation.”

  Anne murmured her disapproval, but Kirk merely raised a brow.

  Undeterred, Dalhousie continued. “It’s not ‘gray-blue’ eyes, but deep blue. The Earl of Perth read it at his wedding two months ago, and went on and on about how his wife’s eyes were exactly like the ones in the poem—deep blue.”

  “Did I say gray-blue?” Kirk’s gaze flickered to Dahlia. “I wonder how I came to make such a mistake.”

  Her cheeks warmed.

  Kirk continued, “Pardon us, but I’m parched and must find the refreshment table.”

  “Of course.” The viscount turned to Anne. “Next time, I shall memorize a poem. It’s much better received than a sermon.”

  “As if you’ve ever memorized a poem in your life.”

  Kirk pulled Dahlia away from the arguing couple, murmuring in her ear, “I believe we’re no longer needed here.”

  He walked down the length of the room, bowing to this person, nodding to that. Dahlia was intensely aware of the warmth of his hand over hers, and found herself reliving his kiss. And caress. And each tantalizing touch.

  He paused by the double doors leading to the foyer and then glanced about. Everyone was crowding toward the refreshment table. “No one is looking. Come.” He pulled her through the double doors and soon they were alone in the foyer.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “We can’t talk in there.”

  The noisy salon behind them, Kirk led her through the foyer and down a long hallway, and soon the soft thump of his cane was the only sound.

  Dahlia’s mind was too full of thoughts to converse. She didn’t know where they were going, or why, but she didn’t care. His words still warmed her, his gaze still held her in its spell. It was as if she were wrapped in his performance, mesmerized still.

  Halfway down the hallway, Kirk stopped by a pair of ornate doors.

  Dahlia glanced around curiously. “I’ve never been here before.”

  “This set of rooms is only in use when the duke is in residence.”

  “Would Roxburghe mind we are here?”

  “I don’t plan on informing him. Do you?”

  She had to smile in spite of herself. “No.”

  “Good.” Kirk flashed her a smile that made her feel both naughty and desirable, then opened the door. “After you.”

  Dahlia looked at his hand where it rested on the brass knob, and instantly a hard knot of desire tightened in her stomach. With hands that trembled ever so slightly, she gathered her skirts and walked through the doorway.

  Fifteen

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

  All of the women are thoroughly agog over Lord Kirk. I never thought I’d see a man so transformed by a poem, but then again, I never heard a man read a poem with such feeling. Even I felt a bit flushed afterward.

  There is something to be said for a man’s voice when it caresses a word. Nothing is as pleasurable.

  * * *

  Dahlia’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light of the fire, which had been reduced to embers. At one end of the room she saw a cluster of leather chairs near an overstuffed settee, and at the other end a billiards table.

  Kirk crossed the room to light a lamp that stood on a side table. The warm glow turned the heavy velvet and fringed curtains to waterfalls of molten gold, adding a luxurious air to the room. He then went to the fireplace to stir the embers back to life, adding several pieces of wood from the brass holder beside the hearth.

  Dahlia watched him from under her lashes, noting the strong masculine beauty of his hands as he stacked the wood over the embers. She regarded him from head to toe, marveling at the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, and the powerful ripple of his thighs as he hefted more wood onto the fire.

  When she’d known him before, she’d thought him attractive, but not as deliciously so as she did now. It was as if she’d suddenly seen another side of him, another facet that made him gleam more. And as he’d recited the lovely poem directly to her tonight, saying all of the things she’d always wanted him to say, he’d become the personification of everything romantic. Her heart swelled with happiness.

  There was something different about Kirk since he’d come under the duchess’s care, something beyond his clothes and improved manner. It was something more . . . physical. For one thing, he was moving more easily. Just now, on entering the room, he’d set aside the cane without any thought. Although he still limped, he didn’t seem to need it as much.

  Unaware of her regard, he stirred the fire into flames, his handsome profile outlined as he returned the poker to its stand.

  She’d always felt an affinity for this man, as if they were part of the same book. But that hadn’t been enough. She needed to feel as if they were on the same page, too—as if their connection was due to more than common interests, or coming from the same village. She’d wanted to feel connected to his soul. And tonight, when he’d recited the poem to her, she’d felt exactly that.

  “There.” He dusted his hands. “It will be warmer in a moment.”

  She tugged her shawl up over her shoulders. “Thank you. It is a bit cold.” The cool air raised goose bumps, yet in spite of the chill she felt flushed, her heart thudding with anticipation.

  They were alone, and the memory of their previous kiss warmed her thoughts. Now, stirred by his words, she wanted more. I want him. The thought sent a shiver through her, powerful and pleasurable in its own right.

  He frowned. “There’s a lap blanket on the back of the settee. I’ll—”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He turned to light a lamp near the billiards table.

  She bit her lip and waited, sighing a little when he seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to adjust the wick. Perhaps she should proceed.

&nb
sp; The thought tantalized her and she found herself smiling. How does one begin a seduction? Hmmm . . . I think we need to be closer.

  She crossed to the billiards table, which was closer to him. “Do you play?”

  Done adjusting the lamp, Kirk turned in time to see Dahlia’s slender fingers slide along the polished wood rail. His mouth went dry. “Ah, yes. I play.” MacCreedy thought it a good way to develop flexibility, as one had to twist oneself into a variety of positions.

  “Ah.” She traced the curve around one of the netted pockets.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s an excellent table. Apparently Roxburghe had it sent from Italy.”

  “Only the best for the duke.” She reached into one of the webbed pockets and pulled out a ball. “Ivory. They are quite lovely.”

  He found himself watching breathlessly as she cupped the ball in her palm. He couldn’t help imagining what that would feel like, to have her warm fingers cupped about him. His body stiffened at the thought, and he fought back a groan.

  He had to clear this throat before he could ask, “Do you play?”

  “Oh yes. Father has a table, although it’s not as large as this.” She shot him a look from under her lashes. “Would you care to play a game?”

  “Perhaps.” What he wanted was to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, slide his hands over her full breasts and hips, mold her soft body to his, and take her— Stop that. You won’t be able to talk at all, and this battle is far from won.

  He turned to the side table, where a decanter glistened. He poured some into a glass and then slanted her a glance. “I wish there was some sherry for you, but there’s only whiskey.”

  “I like whiskey.”

  His surprise must have shown, for she smiled and added, “My father has a glass after dinner each night, and sometimes I join him. I actually prefer it to sherry.” She pulled more balls from the pockets and placed them on the table.

  “Then by all means, have some whiskey.” He poured a small amount into a glass for her, and then carried it to her.