by Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Elizabeth Essex, Anthea Lawson
“But—” Elspeth fought against the instinct—or rather the twenty-odd years of being taught not to call attention to herself—to stay at home, and muted her protest before it reached her lips. Because she had always stayed at home when others had gone to the few local assemblies the neighborhood had afforded. She had always sat quietly on visits, never putting herself forward. She had always hidden her disappointments behind duty. And just this once, she wanted to put herself forward.
To wear silk and be transformed.
She wanted to go to a ball. Even if she couldn’t dance a step.
Aunt Augusta took the excuses from her. “Don’t think you can stand against me, my darling lass, for I always get my way. It might take twenty-odd years to get, but here you are at last, and I mean to make up for lost time.” She laid a warm hand upon Elspeth’s cold fingers. “You need not worry, my dear, that I mean to make you over into someone else—you are perfectly lovely just as you are. But you will be something more than lovely once we can pry off all the fusty layers of middle-aged morality Molly and Isla have buried you under. Somewhere beneath the weight of all those scruples and self-doubt is your mother’s beauty just waiting to shine.”
“But I don’t know how to act—I’ve never been to a ball like—”
“There is nothing to it, my darling,” Aunt Augusta assured her. “You have only to be yourself.”
Elspeth’s relief was as profound as her worry—she had never been allowed, much less encouraged, to be herself. She hardly knew where to begin.
But it seemed she was to begin at a ball at the Countess of Inverness’ stately mansion on the Canongate High Street. If Elspeth had found the gracious elegance of her aunt’s townhouse a wonder, the gilded, candlelit opulence of Inverness House was a sight beyond compare. She had never imagined such a profusion of candelabra, glinting gold against the stuccoed, painted walls, nor such a press of richly dressed people.
Elspeth bobbed along in her aunt’s wake, feeling like a gawky gosling paddling after a swan. Aunt Augusta was a vision in palest French lilac and white powder, and even though Elspeth knew she herself had never looked so lovely in all her life, she had nothing of her aunt’s ease and grace.
Still, she could learn. She could follow her aunt’s elegant example, and nod and smile and bow her head graciously. She could pretend that this was how she had always lived, in luxury and light, and always would.
“There you are, dear Letty.” Aunt Augusta kissed their hostess on the cheek. “Let me introduce my dear niece and protégée, Miss Elspeth Otis. Elspeth, I give you the Countess of Inverness, my dear friend Letty.”
“Welcome, my dear.” The Countess was all gracious delight. “A pleasure to have you with us, Miss Otis.”
Elspeth sank into a deeply reverential curtsey. “My lady.”
“Such graceful manners, Augusta. We must have her dancing. The gentlemen will be all agog to have a chance with her.”
“We shall be selective, Letty. Only the best will do for my girl.”
“The Marquess of Cairn is here, just up from London.”
“Ah.” Those mischievous dimples appeared deep in her aunt’s cheeks. “Perfection.”
***
And that, clearly, was Hamish’s cue. Elspeth Otis was his discovery, his diamond in the rough, and under no circumstance could he would stand to lose her to his charming brother Rory’s even more charming crony, Alasdair Strathcairn, Marquess of Cairn. Because in the hours between leaving Lady Ivers’ house and arriving at the ball, Hamish had been unable to think of anything or anyone but Elspeth.
“My ladies.” He swept in and took the hands the ladies instinctively and automatically proffered when he bowed before them. “Countess Inverness, Lady Ivers. And Miss Otis.” He bowed particularly reverentially before the object of his increasingly devoted attention, who looked like a breath of sweet summer sky in a blue silk gown the deep color of the ocean. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Lady Ivers didn’t look in the least bit surprised. “Mr. Cathcart. Your timing is impeccable, as always.”
Hamish took the backhanded compliment in the spirit it was intended—as a challenge. Time was of the essence. “My dear Miss Otis, might I beg the honor of this dance?”
The darling lass looked halfway between horrified and delighted. “Of course you may beg, much good it will do either of us. You see, I’m afraid I cannot—”
“Of course you can.” Lady Ivers looked from Elspeth to Hamish in shrewd assessment, before she decided to voice her full consent. “Mr. Cathcart is harmless enough, Elspeth. I see no reason why you should not dance with him, provided he behaves himself. And I shall watch quite closely to make sure that he does.”
Hamish bowed deeply to acknowledge the warning. “As you wish, my lady.” He offered Elspeth his hand. Which she did not take. In fact, she looked at his proffered palm the way a wee mousie might eye a rat.
So he set himself to charm her. “Tis only a country dance, my dear Miss Otis, not the end of the world.”
“Not yet, anyway.” But she let him lead her toward the dance floor. Toward, but not to.
“Forgive me if I notice some hesitation on your part, Miss Otis. If the trouble is not with me—and what trouble could there be with a fellow of my charming sort—then it must be you. You do know how to dance, do you not, Miss Otis? Surely there are dances even in whatever wee benighted village you come from?”
His tease had at least a little of desired effect—she crushed her lips between her teeth in an effort not to smile. “Well, I do know how to dance, Mr. Cathcart. Assemblies are held in the public rooms of the village inn, and while it might not be exactly benighted, I will acknowledge that it is a trifle dark. And they are held a very grand sum of four times a year—”
“Four times? So many as that?” His pleasure was all in her arch sweetness. “I begin to see your trouble. Not exactly a whirlwind social calendar.”
“No,” she agreed. “And I must admit”—she lowered her voice, as if imparting the greatest of confidences— “we often have to invite the whole of the hedgerows, including the badgers, in order to have enough couples for a proper set. So I ought to be well used to dancing with your sort.” She took a deep breath, and peeped up at him from the corner of her eye. “But the real truth of the matter, Mr. Cathcart, is that while I have danced imaginary dances with real badgers, and real dances with imaginary people, I have never danced a real dance with a real, live handsome gentleman or your sort, or any other.”
He could not help but smile at such sweetly charming flattery. “I think you’ll find gentlemen differ from blacksmiths and farmers only in the cut of their clothes and not in their appreciation of the dance. Or of their partners.”
A lovely flush swept across her cheeks. “You are very kind to misunderstand me, Mr. Cathcart. But let me be more plainspoken.” She stood on tiptoe to impart the whispered confidence. “I have never danced.”
“What do you mean?” Hamish was beyond astonished—it was one thing not to have been kissed, but never to dance as well? “Not once?”
She put a finger to her lips, as if imploring him to keep the fact a secret. “Not ever.”
Something strange and fine and indignant stirred to life within his chest—a sort of inchoate rage that anyone might ever have slighted this creature by not asking her to dance. “Why the hell not?”
Chapter 12
At that oath, other couples forming the set turned to look at the pair of them, poised so precariously on the edge of the dance floor. Hamish damned his outburst, and quickly led Elspeth away before the fiddlers scraped up their bows.
He steered her in the opposite direction of her eagle-eyed aunt. “There is a garden at the back. I’m sure you’ll find it refreshing.”
“Yes. Thank you. Aunt Augusta said the ball would not be a mad crush, but …”
Indeed, there were people everywhere in the cavernous old mansion—ladies coming and going from the withdrawing room, gentlemen f
illing the card room with smoke, couples tucking themselves away into every nook and niche intent upon more than private conversation.
It was all clearly a bit much for Elspeth, whose eyes were growing as big as tea saucers from staring at all the carryings-on with a sort of curious wonder he was coming to recognize as particular to her character. “I think I just saw a young lady cut the buttons from a man’s coat,” she reported.
He wouldn’t in the least be surprised. “Welcome to Edinburgh.”
Elspeth followed him out the door to the lamp-lit back garden with palpable relief. “Oh, thank you. This is so much better.” The garden was sheltered from the worst of the changeable Scottish weather by a high brick wall crowded with vines and Scotch roses just budding into flower. “It smells heavenly.”
“And much less like the rest of this reeking auld city?” Hamish led her farther along the fine stone path, holding to his side of the walkway, and keeping his hands well to himself. Not thinking about the pale swath of flesh above the wide scooped neckline of her gown.
In short—very gentlemanly. Because she was, indeed, a wee, fey, innocent country mousie, and not the arch, knowing creature he had wished her to be.
Nor, it seemed, she wished to be. “I am sorry to be such a wet hen. I fear my lack of social experience is rather gauche.” She sighed again, the sound laced with equal parts frustration and embarrassment. “I don’t suppose you’d care to add lessons in dancing to your lessons in kissing?”
Ye gods, yes.
Hamish had to close his eyes against the anticipatory rush of pleasure her words set loose inside him—experienced she might not be, but spirited, she certainly was. “My dear Elspeth, I will give you lessons in anything you like.”
And to prove it to her, and because he was an unsteady, rash, ramshackle third son who most often did as he liked, he kissed her.
He kissed her with all the impatience that had brewed in his gut since the moment his lips had touched her cheek that afternoon. He kissed her with all the pent-up joy and passion and hope and attraction roiling within him. He kissed her because he was a lad and she was a lass, and she was sweet and willing and eager for exactly what he wanted—more.
More of the sweet taste of her. More of the smooth touch of her skin. More of the heavenly bliss that obliterated every other thought.
At his impetuous touch, she froze, her arms held wide and her eyes open even wider. But she tasted sweet, and she felt alive, and she did not push him away.
So he gentled his approach, murmuring easy words of pleasure. “Elspeth. So soft. So sweet.” Enticing without overwhelming. Inviting her to kiss him back. Asking her gently, carefully, giving her time to accustom herself.
And slowly, surely, breath by longer breath, she began to soften, thawing by degrees until her lids fluttered shut, and she melted against his chest. “Oh, aye.”
She tasted like apples and clean fresh water. She tasted like ease and simplicity and everything perfect and right. She tasted like a summer evening’s soft breeze and a night full of dancing stars. And she was holding on to him—her hands fisted in the lapels of his coat—just as tenaciously as he was holding on to her, that he didn’t care about innocence or experience. He only cared about deepening the kiss. About tracing the lush curve of her back, and wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her flush into his chest. About cupping the back of her head to angle her jaw just enough to deepen the kiss and sweep his tongue into her mouth to slake his thirst for the tart taste of her.
“I knew it,” he breathed as he moved to kiss the sensitive tendon at the sweet slide of her neck. “I knew the lass who had written those words and thought those thoughts would kiss like a dream. I knew under that guarded, innocent exterior would beat the wild, daring heart of a poet. I knew.”
He brought his mouth back to her soft lips, already missing her, already hungry for another taste of her lips, another drink of her shyly questing tongue. Wanting to discover just what it was that made him hold her like he never meant to let her go.
And not even that particularly dangerous thought could keep him from sliding his fingers into her artfully arranged hair, disrupting pins that pattered like raindrops onto the path as he let the smooth strands slide through his hands. “Elspeth.” Her name was like a gift he gave himself, an incantation that transported him to places unknown. Places of lush wonder and graceful, careless ease—a garden of “Elspeth”.
“Hamish?” Her answering whisper was filled with wonder and a little bewilderment, as if she had not yet decided if this were really happening. If they really were kissing like experienced lovers trysting in the dark of the garden.
They were.
He drew her hard against his chest, wishing she were wearing less, cursing that he was wearing more. He wanted to peel off his cravat and waistcoat, and tear off his linen shirt so he could feel the febrile heat of her body flush against his skin, and taste more than just the flesh of her lips.
He skated his mouth down the long slide of her swanlike neck to the hollow of her collarbone, and she tipped her head away, tacitly granting him access. His hands followed where his lips led, rounding over her shoulders, pushing aside the whispering silk of her sleeves, brushing aside the fall of lace that edged her bodice.
The lovely curve of her breasts filled his palm, and he wanted more, wanted to feel the weight of her in his hands. Wanted to see and taste the pink tips hidden beneath soft chemise and tight-laced stays.
He put his mouth to her sweet, satin-smooth skin just above the upper edge of her chemise, and she gasped with the same wonder and delight and joy that he felt to be with her, and alone. His own body responded to hers in the most primitive, savagely pleasurable way, and it was everything he could do to keep himself from backing her against the ivy-covered wall. To keep himself from taking down the rest of her bodice, and hiking up her skirts to give them both a greater taste of paradise.
But he could not.
Because she was not only sweet Elspeth Otis, the adored niece of Lady Augusta Ivers, and deserved better, but he was Mr. Hamish Cathcart, of a long and mostly-noble lineage and a moral code of his own. One he meant to keep.
Chapter 13
“Darling Elspeth, we have to stop.” Hamish’s lips pressed against her forehead in gentle warning. “Before I give in to the unholy urge to take you against the bloody wall.”
His words only half-penetrated the fog of pleasure permeating Elspeth’s brain. But when he disentangled himself from her arms, and set her as far away as the low privet hedge bordering the path would allow, Elspeth began to understand—she could hear his breath sawing in and out of his chest.
Her own breath was just as unruly—she was as winded as if she had run all the way round the orchard. Twice. But his kisses were well worth the trip—her lips still throbbed and her cheeks still tingled with the sensation of his rougher skin against hers.
“Devil take it. Someone’s coming.” Hamish immediately began to scoop hairpins off the ground.
“Elspeth?” Aunt Augusta’s voice floated up the path. “Is that you?”
Elspeth’s hands flew to her hair, trying to twist and jab pins back into some semblance of order, but it was too late.
“Well.” Aunt Augusta took in the two of them at a glance. “No need to ask what you two darling children have been up to.”
“We were just—”
“Talking,” Hamish finished.
“Of the book,” Elspeth clarified.
“Books,” Hamish corrected. “Miss Otis and I were discussing some of the difficulties she anticipates having with the revision.”
“Does she?” Aunt Augusta’s tone was as dry as it was amused. “From what I saw there didn’t look to be any difficulties at all.”
“Michty me.” Elspeth couldn’t possibly maintain her composure. Not with her aunt’s clear-eyed gaze taking in each detail of her mussed hair and clothing. Elspeth tugged her gown back into place upon her shoulder. “Please forgive me. I do
n’t know what came over me.”
“Mr. Cathcart, one can only suppose, came over you,” was Aunt Augusta’s wry response. “And your own natural human nature. You’ve proved yourself to be a faster learner than I would have given you credit for, dear child.” Her aunt mercifully turned her keen gaze upon Hamish. “And you, Hamish Cathcart. Letting no grass grow, I see. Well, my dears, what a pretty pickle you seem to have gotten yourselves into.”
“Your ladyship.” For the first time in their—albeit short—acquaintance, Hamish Cathcart’s face was flushed with riddy color. “My apologies.”
“I am not the one to whom you should apologize. You young men today—always in such a rush.” Aunt Augusta shook her head as she took the hairpins from his hand. “My niece has been acquainted with you less than a day, Cathcart. To attempt seduction on her first night.” She gave the two of them such an exasperated sigh, Elspeth began to feel ashamed of her own enthusiasm.
“It wasn’t entirely Mr. Cathcart’s fault, Aunt Augusta.” Her first true kiss, with her first true beau, and she had abandoned all the principles she had been brought up with. One moonlit ball, and she had thrown herself at the first man to offer her any attention.
If the Aunts could see her they would be horrified. Even without their censure, she was heartily ashamed of herself.
“Nay.” Hamish quickly contradicted her. “Your aunt is right. But Elspeth, you must know I meant no disrespect. Quite the opposite. My feelings quite carried me away.”
“Yes. They seem to do that to you, don’t they?” Aunt Augusta would not make it easy for him. “Well, let them carry you off for the remainder of the evening, so we’ll have no more public displays of over-affection. I must speak to my niece.”
