by Lucy Monroe
The Scottish laird most likely would not come. For the past two weeks, he had singled her out for attention whenever they attended the same affair and on one such occasion, he had told her that he no more cared for this bastion of the ton’s doings than she did. Since her first Season when she had been labeled the Ordinary, Annabelle had detested the midweek soirees.
The unimposing building and less than stellar décor served as a backdrop to the ton’s most initiated hunt—that for the advantageous marriage. Her aunt insisted they come each week. Although the rest of the ton considered Annabelle, at the age of four and twenty, to be firmly on the shelf, Lady Beauford would not give up hope of seeing her niece wed. Annabelle could have refused to attend the season at all, but that would have curbed her own plans.
Stifling an unladylike urge to yawn, she tried to pay attention to her current companion’s meandering. A young buck enjoying his first season, Mr. Green still had the spotty complexion of youth. Experience had taught her that dancing with him required vigilance on her part to protect her tender toes. Safer to sit, sipping tepid lemonade and listening to his monologue. Unfortunately, it was not more enjoyable.
Annabelle’s mind drifted. So did her eyes, back to the entrance. Her heart skipped a beat. Laird MacKay stood in the doorway, surveying the room as if he was looking for someone. She could not tamp down hope that the person he sought was herself.
His gaze locked on her and their eyes met. His firm lips, lips that she had spent entirely too much time daydreaming about, tipped at the corners. It took all her self-discipline not to return his smile across the crowded room in a most unladylike manner.
He began moving toward her. He ignored bids for attention by lovely young debutants and their fond mammas.
Unbelievable as it seemed, Ian found her company more fascinating than the loveliest creatures of the ton.
It was extraordinary, but then so was Ian. He towered above his peers and walked with an air of authority that would have done Wellington proud. Annabelle no longer even made a pretense of listening to Mr. Green. She simply waited for Ian to arrive and stop the boredom threatening to overwhelm her.
Would he ask her to dance? She experienced the most extraordinary feeling whenever he touched her, as if her corsets were laced too tight. Although she lectured herself severely on being a modern woman of the nineteenth century who did not need a gentleman in her life, he invaded her dreams and the thoughts of her waking hours.
However, Ian never called on her. He did not send her posies and notes. He did none of the things a gentleman falling in love was supposed to do. She chastised herself for being a ninny and wanting him to. She had given up finding a love like her late parents had enjoyed. Hadn’t she?
Mr. Green’s monologue stopped abruptly. “I say. Do you know this gentleman?” Annabelle forced herself back to the present. Ian stood in front of her, a sardonic smile on his face. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Green. Lord Graenfrae and I have been introduced.
Do you know him?”
“We have not had the pleasure.” Ian’s voice filled her being and Annabelle wanted nothing more than to find a secluded spot and continue their latest debate on Greek antiquities.
Mr. Green looked pained. Ian had that effect on people. He could be quite overwhelming. Annabelle smiled at Mr. Green reassuringly and introduced the two gentlemen.
Mr. Green stood and bowed toward Ian. “Pleasure.” Ian inclined his head. “Same.”
Annabelle offered her hand to Ian and he bowed over it. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again, Lady Annabelle.”
Without releasing her hand, he turned to Mr. Green. “I believe the music for this set has ended.” Under Ian’s gimlet stare, Mr. Green hastily made his excuses to depart. Ian turned back to Annabelle as she vainly attempted to remove her hand from his powerful grip.
“My lord, if you will permit me.” The breathless sound of her voice shocked her.
He looked down at their joined hands and let hers go. “Sorry, lass.” Annabelle opened her fan and brushed it gently before her face. “You seem a bit preoccupied.”
He nodded absently. “Finchley was right. You are perfect. ’Tis an advantage so early in my hunt, don’t you see?”
No, she didn’t see. Her cheeks heated. She fanned herself more vigorously. His hunt for a wife? Feeling lightheaded, she watched the whirl of dancers forming the next set.
Ladies in high-waisted silk gowns danced with gentlemen in breeches and black coats.
The lights reflected garishly off the jewels adorning the beau monde.
Annabelle’s attention shifted back to Ian. Eyes the color of chocolate sauce bore into hers and she could not form a thought in her head. She had an inexplicable urge to touch the silky blackness of Ian’s hair. Grateful that he could not read her mind, she dropped her eyes to his waistcoat. Something about this man filled her with desires that had not plagued her before.
“May I have the pleasure?” Ian’s voice intruded on her thoughts.
She nodded her assent before she realized that the orchestra had begun a waltz.
Dancing with Ian never failed to set her pulse racing. Waltzing with his hard, muscled body so close to her own devastated her senses.
She had to swallow a sigh of pleasure as he pulled her into his arms. She tilted her head to maintain eye contact.
He asked, “This isn’t your first season then?” Disappointment coursed through her. Annabelle had grown addicted to the stimulating conversation she usually shared with Ian. Discussing banalities like this were a far cry from it. “No. It’s my fifth, but it should be my sixth.”
“Why is that, lass?” The thick Scottish burr of his voice caressed her.
“My parents died of the flu the year I planned to attend my first season.” His eyes filled with understanding and he nodded. “I’m sorry.” He whirled her around the room, his dancing as pleasing as the rest of him. “I suppose your first season would have been when you were seventeen?”
Understanding dawned. “If you are fishing to find out my age, I will gladly tell you. I am four and twenty.” Well past her first blush of youth as her aunt would gladly have told him.
“’Tis just as I thought.”
“Surely you could have asked Ceddy my age. We’ve known each other since we were in leading strings.”
“Aye. I wanted to hear your answer, though.” He winked at her and she winked back, surprised by her own audacity.
“Did you think I might lie about my age?”
“Nay.”
She almost asked him to explain, but there was something else she wanted to know more. “It’s your turn to answer a question from me.” Her knees went weak at his smile and she felt gratitude that his arms held her so firmly as he led her in the seductive steps of the waltz.
He said, “’Tis only fair, that.”
“What did you mean when you said I was perfect earlier?” The brown velvet depths of his eyes took on a deeper intensity. “’Tis quite simple. I am in need of a wife and you are perfect.”
Chapter Two
She must have misunderstood. “Did you just say I would make a perfect wife?” Her voice squeaked on the word wife.
“Aye.”
Air whooshed from her lungs. “Why, please?”
He smiled. “You fit my requirements.”
“Requirements?” She must stop squeaking.
“Your looks are not too grand and you are well past the age for marrying. You do not wear expensive jewels or gowns, which bodes well for future demands on my purse.” Annabelle’s elation vanished. She stared at him, her cheeks growing hotter with each sentence he uttered. He listed her particulars as if he were buying a horse at Tattersall’s.
Although the Marriage Mart was in many ways mercenary, she had never known any gentleman to be quite so blunt about it.
Her eyes smarted and she blinked at the tears, unwilling to make a spectacle of herself. She had finally met a man that stirred passion in her and he looked at her as nothing more than a dowdy
spinster conveniently on hand when he decided to find a wife.
Ian gently squeezed her, the troubled concern in his eyes small comfort in the face of his words. “Dinna be distressed. You have all the qualities I’m looking for in a wife.”
“You already said that and it’s not a compliment.” Thoughts kaleidoscoped in her brain like bits of glass crushed and tossed in the air, left to fall where they may. Just like the rest of the ton, Ian saw only her plain looks. He did not see the heart that beat beneath her breast, the mind that longed to share thoughts and ideas with a kindred spirit.
“I’m not looking for a long engagement. Would you be ready to take up residence in Scotland in a month or so?”
The words stung her bruised heart like a thousand embroidery needles pricking the message that he did not love her, would never love her. He found her so unremarkable that Ian had no doubt of his success. Resolve beat against her bleeding heart. Ian would soon learn that not all things were as they seemed. Not all bluestocking spinsters longed for wedlock, especially those who had read Wollstonecraft.
She straightened, pulling as far away as his restraining arms would allow. “I am not interested in marriage. If I were, it would not be to an arrogant Scotsman who believes my lack of face and fortune make me willing to marry on such short acquaintance.”
“I dinna need a long acquaintance to determine that you are all that I could wish for in a wife. I will make you a proper husband.” He gave her an engaging smile. “We will deal well together.”
So angry she could not speak, she glared at him.
“Surely you can see the benefits of marriage to me,” he cajoled her.
She felt an unladylike urge to box his ears. “On the contrary. I am a modern woman and I do not see the benefits of marriage at all, particularly to you.” Ian’s grasp on her waist tightened. His eyes darkened. “’Tis no my intention to upset you.”
She felt the tension in his body and it was matched by an unwelcome sensation in her own. She wanted to melt into his embrace. The feeling infuriated her. She struggled to be released from his hold, not caring now if she caused a scene. “Let me go.”
“Nay, the music has not ended.” His reasonable tone enraged her all the more.
She was desperate to break his hold on her before her body betrayed itself. How unfair to experience her first taste of desire with a man who believed her too ordinary to court. “Do you really think I wish to dance with you after your insult?”
“’Twas no an insult, lass. ’Twas a proposal.”
“My name is not ‘lass’. It is Lady Annabelle, as Ceddy told you these many days past. Are you hard of hearing? Perhaps you need an ear trumpet.”
“Nay, ’tis no an ear trumpet I need, but a wife. You’re neither too beautiful, too rich, nor too young to pass on the proposal I’m giving you.” She almost choked on her anger. “Must I be subjected to your list of slurs again?
You may need a wife, but I do not need a husband.” Ian danced toward an unoccupied corner and pulled her into it. “Do not be so foolish as to label virtues insults.”
“They are only virtues because you believe that by possessing these traits, or rather lack of traits, a woman would willingly marry you without even rudimentary courtship.” She tried to step around Ian. He blocked her path like a marble column. She glared at him. “That, my lord, is not a list of virtues, but an insulting recipe concocted by you to gain a wife without the customary work or effort.” At Ian’s look of consternation, she was convinced that she had guessed correctly.
“I’m right. You are too indolent to properly court a woman. I can only assume some catastrophe has generated the need for you to take a wife.”
“’Tis no indolence that causes me to avoid the playacting of courtship, but aversion to the games ladies play.”
The genuine emotion she heard in his voice confused her. He stood so close she could feel the heat of his body. It did strange things to her insides. Drat. Now was not the time to become a simpering twit. He would not win this argument.
“I may not be a beauty, but I do expect to be courted and I will only marry the man that convinces me I cannot live without him.” Her voice vibrated with emotion she wanted to suppress.
She had to leave before she turned into a watering pot and completely disgraced herself. She could not stand the strain much longer. When she tried to sidestep him again, he placed his hand on her arm. He squeezed gently. Against her will, she found comfort in the gesture.
Her breath started to come in short gasps as the nearness of his body continued to affect her equilibrium. He looked into her eyes as if searching them for the answer to some question.
Finally he sighed. “If it’s courting you want, lass, it’s courting you shall get. I’ll give you until the end of the season to reconcile yourself to the idea of our marriage.” The man was mad. “Courtship is wooing, not giving me a set time to reconcile myself to your arrogant plans.”
“If it ’tis wooing you need, then wooing you will have. I’ll call on you tomorrow.” She couldn’t believe his denseness. “You may call on me until I’m old and gray, but I will never marry a man I do not love and respect.” It would have been a wonderful last word had he still not blocked her path. “Please, let me by. The set has ended.” She could not prevent her voice from trembling.
Thankfully, she was promised for the next set. She watched her partner approach with relief. “I must go.”
“We are no finished with our discussion.”
“Please.” She hated that she begged him, but she needed to get away before her devastated emotions slipped her control.
Mr. Green’s voice came as welcome relief. “Lady Annabelle, I believe our set is forming.”
Ian turned and gave the younger gentleman an arrogant glance. “’Tis our dance, I believe.”
Fury overcame Annabelle’s pain. “It most certainly is not.” She wanted to throttle the man.
Ian just stared at Mr. Green who mumbled an excuse and retreated. He had deserted her. The coward.
Yanking her arm from Ian’s, she said, “Regardless, I did not promise this dance to you.” She turned to hurry away.
“’Twas an oversight, I’m sure.”
In her haste to get away from Ian, she bumped into another gentleman. “Pray excuse me. I did not realize you were there.”
The gentleman placed a monocle in his eye and gave her a condescending stare. “It was nothing, I’m sure.”
Annabelle’s skin grew unbearably warm. Twisting her head, she hissed at Ian, “Do you see what you made me do?”
His rich laughter stoked her fury. “Dinna let that popinjay upset you, lass. ’Tis of no account.” He took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm.
“Release me.”
He sighed. “Would it no be easier to finish our talk?”
“It is finished.”
He shrugged.
“Your arrogance is only exceeded by your stubbornness.” Conceding defeat, but only for the moment, she said, “Fine.”
She would convince him to leave off this ridiculous courtship. “Wouldn’t you do better to search among ladies more amenable to marriage for the sake of marriage than myself?”
Rather than answer her question, he posed one of his own. “Marriage for the sake of marriage? What do you mean, lass?”
She twisted her fan with her free hand. “There are many ladies of the ton whose greatest desire in life is to be wed.”
“Yours isn’t?” The words held a hint of mockery.
“No, it is not.” She spoke forcefully, willing him to believe her.
“Why come to the season if you dinna wish to be married?” If only he knew. She was tempted to tell him and see how quickly he would go looking elsewhere for a wife. She would not betray her secret in a fit of temper, however.
“I would gladly marry if I knew I would share a union like that of my parents.” The emotion she felt when she thought of her parents’ love spilled over into her
words.
“And what was so grand about your parents’ marriage?”
“They loved each other.”
“You canna expect a love match?” Ian sounded horrified.
“Yes, that is exactly what I do expect.” For the first time, Annabelle felt she had succeeded in piercing Ian’s complacent assumption that she would marry him. Giving him a full-blown smile, she nodded her head for emphasis.
“Ye’ll get over that soon enough. Love is no basis for a marriage.” In his agitation, Ian’s burr was more pronounced.
Her smile died on her lips as indignation filled her. “I will not get over it. Marriage for me will have a great deal to do with love or I will not get married at all.”
“Finchley said your head was no filled with romantic drivel.” Incensed, she frowned at him. “Love is not drivel.” He put his finger under her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. “You will marry me.”
“Never.”
He shrugged and stepped aside. “I’ll call on you tomorrow.” Catching Annabelle’s hand, he bowed over it, never taking his eyes from hers. When he let go, she felt she had been branded by his touch.
She stood dazed for several moments after Ian left. She noticed that he left after speaking to her without dancing with anyone else. Why should he? He had found what he was looking for, an aging spinster to marry.
* * *
The rest of the evening was a trial. When she was not dancing, Annabelle fielded questions from young ladies and their mothers regarding the handsome laird. This had become a normal pastime since Ian had singled her out. Never before had it been such a chore. By the time she and her aunt retired to their carriage to travel home, Annabelle had a pounding headache. Removing her gloves, she massaged her aching temples.
“Annabelle, are you quite all right?” Lady Beauford’s voice registered concern.
“I am simply tired.”
The other woman’s smile alerted Annabelle to the fact that she should not have been so quick to dissuade her aunt’s concern. “Ah, then you won’t mind telling me what you and the Lord Graenfrae discussed quite privately in the corner?” Annabelle groaned. The inquisition had arrived. “I’d rather not.”
