by Tarah Scott
“Easy, lass.” Mr. MacAlister stepped so close she could feel his heat. “Did I frighten you?”
She heard the amusement in his voice. “You will not talk me out of this night, sir.”
He gave a low laugh. “Perish the thought.”
He winged an elbow. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they started down the alley.
When they reached the street, he said, “I feared your mistress would prevent you from coming.”
Sophie shook her head. “Nothing would stop me from this night, least of all Miss Shaw.”
“Is she really so harsh a mistress?” Adam asked.
Something in his tone caught her attention. His voice sounded measured, almost as if his interest was…personal?
Here was her chance to get word to the marquess how difficult a wife Miss Shaw could be. “Indeed, she is. She’s flighty and suffers from headaches. At times, she reminds me of a panicked hen.”
“Typical female,” he said in a near whisper.
“I beg your pardon. Not all women are the same, sir.”
“A woman such as you, perhaps?” he asked.
“Not just me. I know plenty of women who are hearty and quite sensible.”
He laughed. “Indeed? I should like to meet these ladies.”
The idea of him wanting to meet other women pricked her pride. “Enough of me and Miss Shaw.” And other ladies, she mentally added. “What of your master? Does he give you as much freedom as you wish?”
“Ah, the marquess.” They stepped from the alley onto the sidewalk. “His lordship will soon bow out from gentle society and employ no one in the forthcoming weeks. I have all the freedom in the world.”
Sophie halted. “Bow out of society? But why?”
“Have you not heard? The marquess’s father lost all his money in a card game.”
“And he expects to buy himself a wife?” Sophie couldn’t disguise her shock.
“A title is a commodity, my dear.”
“I do not think it is a fair trade, at all.”
“Is that so?” he asked in a silky voice.
She looked up and met his gaze square. “I suppose you believe a woman should hand her money over to a stranger?”
“It is her father’s money, if I understand correctly,” he said.
She tried to pull her hand from his arm, but he held firm. She wanted to punch him.
“Her dowry,” she said.
“A dowry her father is paying for.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “Oh, but you are rude.”
He regarded her. “I have angered you.”
The words were clearly meant to convey surprise, but she didn’t believe he was surprised one little bit.
“You meant to anger me.”
He turned his attention forward and released a breath. “You are right. I am rude. Forgive me.”
Sophie hesitated. He didn’t sound sincere, not exactly, at any rate. He sounded…sad. Had she done something to upset him? He’d said that once his master retired to the county that Adam would no longer be employed. That had to be the source of his upset.
“What will you do? Have you found employment?” she asked.
He steered her around another couple on the sidewalk. “I have yet to decide.”
The melancholic undertone in his voice tugged at her heart. “Perhaps you can convince his lordship to keep you on. What will the marquess do when he withdraws from society?”
His attention remained forward. “Spend his wife’s money, of course.”
“Spend his wife’s money?” Her heart began to pound. She’d been right. The marquess was nothing more than a fortune hunter sanctioned by society. “So, he does intend to marry? Miss Shaw will not marry him.”
“You are so certain?”
“You said the marquess was not in favor of the match.”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “That does not mean he will not marry her.”
“If he plans to marry—anyone—why retire to the country? Does he expect his wife to languish in the country?” she asked.
“Is Miss Shaw not from the country?” Adam asked.
“That does not mean she wishes to live there forever.”
She did, in fact, plan on living at her home in the country forever, but that didn’t mean she wanted a husband who would abandon her. She suspected this notion of living in the country was a ruse on the marquess’s part to make her think he wanted a country life when, what he truly intended was to install her in the country so that he could go on just as he always had in the city.
“Is the marquess so cruel as to force his wife to live in the country?” she demanded.
“Cruel?” He said the word as if tasting it. “He has been called many things, but never cruel.”
“He’s been called many things? Such as?” She winced inwardly at the obvious curiosity in her voice.
He looked down at her. “Why? Has your mistress sent you to spy on him?”
A beam of moonlight caught his face and for a moment, she stared at the beauty of his face. Glittering eyes, a square jaw…full lips. Masculine perfection.
He lifted a brow.
She blinked. It took her a moment to recall his question. “Spy?” Hadn’t she asked him a similar question? “Hardly,” she said. “Miss Shaw scarcely spares the man a thought. She’s obligated only to meet him at the ball and dance two dances. Beyond that, she doesn’t care to think of him. Why should she? She will not marry him.”
“Has she ever met him?” he asked.
“She does not have to meet him. He is a fortune hunter.”
To her surprise, he laughed, deep and rich. The sound caused her stomach to do a somersault.
“Perhaps Miss Shaw has a brain after all,” he said. She started to reply that Miss Shaw had more of a brain than did the marquess, but he gently squeezed her hand, and said, “But why are we speaking of them? Is not this night ours?”
She’d never heard a man speak with such a…smoky quality to his voice. The weakness in her knees caught her off guard and she stumbled. He caught her to his side. She snapped her head up and met his gaze.
He frowned. “Are you well?”
She nodded, unable to speak. Laughter danced in his eyes. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. He was laughing at her.
Sophie pushed away, and he released her. “A crack in the sidewalk,” she said.
“What?”
“The sidewalk.” She motioned to the sidewalk. “I stumbled on a crack.”
He glanced at the walkway, then looked back at her. “How fortunate for me.”
The man was a rogue! She turned her attention forward and they began walking again. A carriage drove past, its interior lit with twinkling lanterns that illuminated its singing occupants.
“Do you think they’re headed to the oyster party?” she asked. Her voiced sounded breathless and she hoped he attributed her tone to the excitement of attending the party. “I wonder who will be there.”
“Who they are remains a mystery at Luckie’s, lass,” he said. “That is the beauty of the oyster cellars. Edinburgh’s fashionable lay down their titles at the door.” He grasped her hand. “Let’s take a shortcut, shall we?”
Sophie nodded and tried to ignore the warmth of his long fingers gripping hers. He pulled her through a cobbled square and down several narrow, twisting lanes. Laughter and song echoed from the alleys as they passed. Within minutes, they emerged onto the street where Luckie’s tavern lay directly ahead. As they arrived, three more carriages trundled down the street to join the line forming in front of the building. A small crowd of partygoers chatted in front of the tavern, men dressed in elegantly cut coats topped off with intricately tied cravats, and women wearing fine evening gowns of taffeta and shimmering silk. Lords and ladies, all of them.
Sophie couldn’t hide the bounce of excitement in her step. “I cannot believe I am here.”
“You are, indeed, here,” he said with a wink.
He placed his hand a
gainst the small of her back and guided her through the crowd. Once or twice, she thought someone called his name, but his gaze remained straight ahead. They ducked inside the tavern.
Smoke hung heavy in the air as they continued deeper into the tavern's gloomy interior. Men and women sat around rough-hewn tables and drank from pewter mugs while muffled music emanated from somewhere below. Adam hurried her through the taproom where the music and the din of conversation grew louder. At the back, in front of a door, a young man with a full brown beard sat on a barrel. When Adam and Sophie stopped, the man held out his hand. Adam dropped a coin into the man’s hand, and he waved them through.
“After you.” Adam stood aside and motioned her to precede him. “Have a care. The steps are steep.”
Sophie peered through the opening at a dimly lit flight of stairs that descended into the cellar. She gathered her skirts in one hand and began down the stairs, with Adam close behind.
Halfway down, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of oysters and damp earth. The music and drone of people talking and laughing grew louder. She stepped from the last stair onto the dirt floor and glanced around. Men and women chatted around a long table that ran down the center of the room. Brass candlesticks, platters of oysters, and mugs of porter lay scattered over its rough-hewn surface. Several musicians sat in the corner and played a lively tune.
Adam lightly touched her back, guiding her forward. She took her seat on a simple chair near the far end of the table, and Adam sat to her right. A woman dressed in a dark blue gown took the set next to her.
A woman with long blonde hair swept into a soft chignon darted over to join them. “Adam? Why, Adam, it is you,” she said in a loud voice. “It’s been far too long.”
“Ah, Ann.” Adam stood and swept a low bow. “It is a pleasure to see you again.” He stepped aside. “Beatrice, this is Ann.”
Sophie began to dip into a curtsey, but Adam smoothly captured her arm and lifted her up. “There is no rank here, my dear. Such is the beauty of the oyster cellars.”
Ann’s laughter sounded like the tinkling of silver bells. “Indeed, here we may be as rude as we wish. Have you tried the Whiskered Pandores, Beatrice?” Ann scooped up one of the oysters still in its shell from the table and offered it to Sophie. “Edinburgh’s finest.”
Sophie accepted the shell and tipped it to her mouth. The oyster slipped between her lips, and she bit into it. Salt and a taste of the sea burst across her tongue. She swallowed then looked up at Adam in surprise.
“It is delicious,” she said.
He stared down at her with eyes that glittered in the candlelight.
Is something wrong?” She nearly had to shout the words to be heard over the din, yet her voice still managed to sound breathy.
He shook his head. “Not a thing.”
The musicians struck up a Scottish reel. Sophie glanced at the musicians, then turned to Adam. “Oh, we must dance.”
“We must?” he repeated in mock seriousness.
Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Indeed.”
He closed his hand over hers, warm and oddly comforting, and he tugged her to her feet and toward the dancefloor. They reached the other dancers, and Adam swung her into his arms and stepped into the music as if a highborn gentleman.
Sophie startled at the hard body pressed so intimately close to hers. She’d danced reels, but a gentleman always held a lady at a respectable distance. How many times had she told Beatrice that she was no lady?
Watch what you ask for, a voice whispered. You might just get it.
Air whipped across her face, and her dress flared when Adam turned them in a tight twirl that made her dizzy. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. When Adam brought the turn to a halt and backed her up several paces, she opened her eyes to find him watching her as he executed another quick turn.
He skillfully dodged another couple, then pressed his mouth to her ear. “Does this evening live up to your expectations?”
She shivered at the warmth of his mouth against the sensitive flesh of her ear and nodded. “Even more so than I expected.”
And the night had only just begun.
He whirled her close again. This time, she clung to him, for it felt as if they were twirling so fast, she would fly out of his arms. He tightened his hold on her, and she became aware of her breasts pressed against his chest. Her heart thundered. Here, at the oyster cellars, it mattered not if they danced more than two dances together—or if a man held a woman scandalously close. Did that mean no one would be aware of the warmth that spread through her? The music ended, and Adam slid his arm around her waist and led her back to their seats. Oysters were laid out before them, along with porter. Sophie ate and drank until she thought she would burst.
When Adam finally escorted her back to their table after their third dance, he asked if she thought it might be time to return home. In the dim recesses of her mind, she knew she’d danced the night away, but she didn’t care.
Sophie shook her head. “Nae. I have never had so grand a time. Why would I want to leave?”
He smiled, clearly pleased with her answer. They sat down and, for the third time that night, a man stopped beside Sophie and asked her to dance. As Adam had the previous two times, he met the man’s gaze with the lift of one brow, sending him away without another word. A thrill raced through Sophie. She had ever had a man act so possessively toward her. This truly was the most thrilling night of her life.
A tall, dark and very elegant woman—a lady, Sophie felt certain—halted where they sat, and faced Adam, her back to Sophie as she bent to whisper something in his ear. Sophie froze in lifting her glass of porter to her mouth. There was no mistaking the woman’s slight toward Sophie. Had Adam been wrong when he said the partygoers left their titles at the door? They may have left their titles at the door, but the ladies wore fine gowns that bespoke of their place in society.
Embarrassment washed over Sophie. Her modest dress must have given her away as someone of the lower class. Oh, how she wished she had worn her fine sky-blue muslin. That dress would have put the rude woman in her place. Guilt stabbed. Since when had she cared about society? And when had she forgotten that it mattered not what dress she wore. She would always be the daughter of a man in trade.
The woman straightened and sauntered away without so much as a glance in Sophie’s direction. How did a common man like Adam know such a fine lady? The answer came before the thought had fully formed. He was a handsome man—the most dashing man at the party. Handsome men were always in demand, no matter their class.
“Beatrice.”
Sophie started from her thoughts at hearing Adam’s voice.
He leaned close and still had to almost shout to be heard. “Are you all right?”
Her cheeks warmed, and she prayed any flush that might have appeared on her cheeks he would mistake as a reaction to the warm room.
“I am fine,” she said.
He hesitated, as if uncertain, then motioned to the maid for more oysters and refills on their porter. Sophie ate and drank more, though her taste for the party had suddenly soured. She didn’t ask him to dance again, and neither did he ask her. Were his thoughts on the fine lady? Had they made an assignation for later, after he rid himself of Sophie? She suddenly wanted to go home but couldn’t think of how to tell him without arousing suspicion.
Suspicion of what? She didn’t care if he met the woman. He could meet with a dozen women. Sophie opened her mouth to tell him she was ready to leave when a cheerful female voice cut through the air.
“There you are.” Ann plopped down into a chair next to Sophie and leaned back with a sigh. “I fear I shall collapse from exhaustion.” She groaned. “I shall have to be carried home. Already my feet protest at the mere thought of standing.”
“Then I shall carry you to your coach,” Adam said.
The stab of jealousy that seemed to pierce clear to Sophie’s soul surprised her.
Ann laughed. “I wouldn’t dream
of taking you from your Beatrice’s side, my dear lad.” She nodded at a group of men clustered at the end of the near-empty oyster table. “That lot over there are wagering which one of them can win my attention for the evening.” She leaned closer to Sophie. “I believe the lad to the far right is smitten with you. He is a fine male specimen. Do you not agree?”
Sophie coughed.
Adam shot Ann a narrow-eyed glance, then stood. “The hour is far too late. We should be going.”
“Then carry me to my carriage, and I will give you a ride.” Ann fanned her cheeks. “But you’ll have to carry me, chair and all. I fear I cannot move.”
“I shall see you safely to your coach, but Beatrice and I shall walk in the moonlight,” Adam politely said.
“Walk?” Ann shuddered. “Have you no fear of Major Weir?”
Adam snorted. “I have nothing to fear of your ghost tales.”
Ghosts? Sophie glanced around the room. “Major Weir?”
“I heard the racket myself, on a night such as this,” she said, clearly warming to her tale. “Nigh on a month ago. Before Hogmanay. I left the party before my husband and in only the company of my maid. We had not yet walked a dozen paces from the door when a great howling filled the air. Rumor has it, footpads set upon Major Weir and stabbed him to death. He mourns for he left behind a wife who was to bear him their first child.”
“Utter nonsense,” Adam said.
“You don’t believe me?” Ann asked, a challenge in her voice.
“That sounds thrilling,” Sophie said in breathless wonder.
“I quite like you, Beatrice.” Ann patted her hand. “Perhaps I will meet you at the theater? It’s not London, but it’s better than nothing. Now, I must be going.” With a laugh, she sprang to her feet and skipped across the dance floor with no difficulty at all.
“Who is she?” Sophie asked. “She’s such a delightful soul.”
“Remember, here we leave rank behind,” Adam said.
Sophie’s heart sank. The partygoers might leave their titles at the door, but they still had them.
Adam grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet, then led her across the room. They had nearly reached the stairs when a woman halted directly in their path. The woman was everything Sophie wasn’t. Tall and fair with a willowy figure to make the angels cry, and a grace she must have inherited from Aphrodite herself. Sophie suddenly felt like a twelve-year-old girl pretending to be a woman. Adam met the woman’s gaze, and all the warmth in his expression vanished.
