He handed over his invitation to the footman at the door and strode up the stairs to the first-floor ballroom behind a couple in the guises of Pan and a shepherdess. The man’s large backside stretched his tights to the limit in a most unsettling way and the lady kept dropping her lamb, requiring her escort to bend over to retrieve it. Jaimie averted his gaze. Finally, they made it to the top and Jaimie eased his way through the crowd of masked and colourfully clothed guests, many of whom were sweating profusely in their heavy costumes and the sweltering room.
Those costumes ranged from angels to gladiators and most took one look at him and either moved aside or peered into the cowl, trying to make out his features only to discover it useless because of his mask.
He scanned the room for his objective. Artemis, according to Growler’s information.
An interesting choice. A goddess who protected young women. Artemis was also known as Diana the huntress to the Romans. Should he read anything into her choice?
It had taken Growler and his team little effort to learn about Jaimie’s morning visitor. An unremarkable daughter of a deceased earl who had been placed under the protection of the new title holder. She was now in her second Season on the marriage mart. The question of whom she might be seeking remained unknown. Not his concern. Something else entirely had brought him here this evening.
And...there she was: Artemis, standing among a group of costumed ladies and gentlemen, watching the dancing. The lushness of her figure took his breath away. The expression on her round pretty face was one of complete innocence, despite the wanton tumble of chestnut locks falling down her back to her waist. If her costume had not been described to him in intricate detail, he would never have recognised her as the dumpy female who had stood toe to toe with Growler’s menacing presence earlier in the day.
This morning, he had thought her short and a little squat in her enveloping black carriage dress. The funereal clothing she’d worn had hidden every one of her charms. Apart from her voice. And her scent. Tonight, the artfully draped, white Greek robe arranged to leave one creamy dimpled shoulder bare also revealed a gloriously curvaceous figure in perfect proportion for her diminutive size. The bow and quiver slung diagonally across her body divided her breasts in a most mouthwatering fashion.
While her mask obscured the top half of her face, her lips were lush and full, and beneath them her chin came to an obstinate jut. At his approach, her gaze wandered over him for a brief second and came back, her eyes widening, not in recognition but in shock.
He sprang the trap.
‘I didn’t think you would recognise me, my lady.’ He kept his voice to a low whisper.
‘I do not,’ she said, turning that delicious shoulder to exactly the right angle for discouragement. ‘Have we been introduced?’
‘Sadly, no.’ At their meeting she had known his name, but he had not known hers. Now he took delight at putting her at the same disadvantage. She glanced at him again, clearly trying to see into the shadows of his hood.
‘Would you care to dance, my lady?’
Beside her, Lady Rowan eyed him up and down. ‘Lady Rowan,’ he murmured. ‘How regal you look tonight as Queen Elizabeth. Might you give your permission? I promise I will bring the Lady Theresa back to you safe and sound.’
The older woman relaxed at his polite tone and clear knowledge of who they were. ‘Certainly, sir. One set only, mind, Theresa.’
A tiny pursing of the Lady Theresa’s lips was the only sign of irritation at the admonition. He admired her forbearance. It must be galling for such an independent lady to be treated like a child.
‘Who are you?’ she asked with laughter in her voice as he led her into a set. ‘I didn’t think I knew you at all, but the way you bamboozled my cousin...’ She shook her head. ‘You must be an acquaintance to know she loves that costume.’
‘I admit I have seen it before.’
They moved up the set and the figures of the dance did not allow for conversation until they were standing out, waiting to join the neighbouring couples when the round of steps were complete.
‘I give up,’ she said. ‘You are going to have to tell me your name.’
‘The Grim Reaper.’
She raised her brows. ‘Very well, keep your identity hidden. It matters not to me.’
There was more than a little defiance in the declaration. For a moment, Jaimie considered revealing his identity. But that did not suit him at all. Not yet, at least. Having seen her, he now wanted to discover the reason this young lady had risked her reputation so precipitously by seeking him out. Perhaps her heart had been stolen away and it was the thief she was seeking?
Something he would not encourage.
‘Is not the whole idea of a masked ball to be someone else for an hour or two?’ he murmured in teasing tones.
‘Death?’ She made a scoffing sound. ‘Is that not a strange choice? Most men like to play some sort of heroic figure. You prefer to remind us of something unpleasant, yet something we must all face at some future time. I wonder what that says about you as a person?’
Her light clear voice held amusement and her brown eyes twinkled gold. She released his hand and moved into the next figure of the dance.
What did his choice of costume say about him? He pushed the thought aside. It was a disguise, that was all. A way of remaining anonymous. Of ensuring no tongues would start wagging about his first appearance at a ball in years, or his invitation to her to dance.
He found himself wishing it was a waltz he’d secured rather than a country dance. Only because it would have afforded more opportunity for conversation, not because he wanted that lovely, lithe, deliciously curved body floating along beside his and responding to his touch.
‘Am I to understand you dislike masquerades?’ he asked as he walked her down the set. ‘That you find them beneath you, perhaps?’
The fulminating look she gave him took him by surprise. ‘Masquerades are very well in their way. It is—’
‘It is?’
Another glance came his way. This one puzzled. Then she smiled and he felt as if something had struck him behind the ribs. ‘I think if one could attend under the right circumstances, it might be fun. If one could really do as one wished for once.’ She glanced over to where her cousin stood chatting and fanning her face. ‘One cannot have everything one wishes, can one?’
‘One cannot,’ he agreed.
Instinct told him that, despite her calm demeanour, there was an underlying worry behind the light words. The anxiety he’d sensed in his office seemed to have increased.
He’d deliberately led her into a set with an uneven number of couples and when once more they were standing out, he bowed. ‘It is uncommonly hot in here, my lady, may I offer you some refreshment before I return you to Queen Elizabeth’s side?’
‘As long as you don’t suggest we go bag a rabbit or two in the garden, I would like that.’
He laughed. Couldn’t help it. ‘Really? That was the best one of your swains could do?’
‘I should have known better than to have explained my costume to him or to have expected him to behave like anything but a fool.’
Startled by her vehemence, he led her out of the set.
‘A gentleman you know, I presume?’ he enquired.
‘Indeed. He thought he was being amusing. He actually suggested that the costume would serve me better without the bow. Fat lot he knows about Artemis,’ she muttered.
Jaimie took two glasses of the non-alcoholic punch which he knew without a doubt would be horrible. While the champagne would have been more fun, self-defence prevented him from being the cause of anything untoward. It is a gentleman’s duty to protect a lady, his father’s voice reminded. On that occasion, he had guided his mother around a puddle. Sort of. Only a little bit of her hem had trailed through it. It was one of the few mental images he had of his parents.
He guided Lady Tess towards the French doors. ‘Let us avail ourselves of the terrace. There
are tables out there and waiters.’
For a moment he thought she might baulk. Again, she glanced over at her cousin, who was not looking their way. ‘We can ask her permission,’ he suggested. He was after all a wolf in sheep’s clothing and seeking permission was what a sheep would do.
She squared her shoulders. ‘No. I was out there once already. My cousin did not object.’
Her voice sounded grim. Who was the idiot who had annoyed her? Whoever he was, Jaimie could only thank him for sparking her spirit.
He ushered her to one of the tables on the terrace, seating her where the light from the nearby lantern would fall on her face while leaving him in shadow. He set her drink in front of her before sitting down.
‘Warm enough?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Too bad. He’d had a notion to put his cape around her shoulders and let it absorb some of her perfume. The scent of lavender had lingered in his office all day. Serenity, grace and calmness in the language of flowers, along with that disturbing underlying meaning of distrust. All but the last seemed too milk and water for this spirited lady, though she had certainly shown calmness when she visited his office. Dianthus, for boldness, would suit her better. Though she had been veiled, so perhaps lemon flowers should be in the mix... His mother had made a great study of the language of flowers and her notes were one of the few items he treasured.
She sipped at the punch and made a face.
‘Terrible as usual?’ he asked, amused.
‘Awful.’ A smile curved those full lush lips. ‘It is all right at first and then...’ She gave a little shudder.
The movement did something to his blood. Made it run faster. Hotter. Not something he wanted in regard to this particular female. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Putting her at her ease so he could extract the information he wanted.
‘How are you enjoying the Season?’ A safe topic when it came to young ladies on the town. He sat back and waited to hear about all her conquests and gowns.
‘It is as bad as the previous one,’ she said with a small laugh.
How devastatingly honest. The hairs on his nape stood up. It was the same feeling he got when he started to get close to a criminal he was chasing. A sense of anticipation. It didn’t make any sense that he should feel it now, with her. ‘Why is that?’
‘I beg your pardon. You will think I am an ungrateful wretch after my cousin’s kindness in giving me this opportunity.’
‘Speaking the truth is not always a bad thing.’
She chuckled, a small rather painful sound. ‘It is if you are seeking a husband. Men expect a woman to be biddable and modest and not speak out of turn.’
‘I see.’
She twisted the stem of her glass, gazing down into the liquid. ‘My father encouraged me to offer my opinion, but to some I am ill-schooled.’ She pursed her lips thoughtfully and he experienced an urgent need to see if they tasted as exotic as they looked. ‘And here I am doing it again. If I’m not careful I’ll find myself packed off to Yorkshire.’
‘Why Yorkshire?’
‘My cousin has an aunt who lives there. She’s a—’ She stopped and leaned back in her chair with a sigh. ‘Why on earth am I telling you this?’
‘Because I’m a good listener? She is a...?’
‘She is an unhappy elderly lady who has already worked three companions into the ground.’
She had modified what she intended to say, but the meaning was clear. ‘You see yourself as number four.’
‘I will be if—’
He waited in silence. She would either tell him or she would not. For some strange reason, he really hoped she would.
The notion of hoping anything in regard to this forward young woman took him aback. Her worries were nothing to him. He was here for quite another purpose. The sooner he remembered that the better.
She glanced up at his face briefly, or at least into the darkness of his hood, yet somehow he sensed that she could see him when logic said she could not. Finally she dropped her gaze, staring down at her gloved hands. ‘This Season is my last chance to oblige my family.’
Was it not every well-bred girl’s duty to oblige her family? And yet she sounded so weary, so defeated, his skin tightened with the urge to rush to her defence. As infuriating as she had been at his office, this hopelessness was far worse.
Really? What nonsense. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He sipped at his drink and almost gagged when it hit the back of his throat. ‘Why so?’
She put her glass down with a little click. ‘It is not something I should be discussing with a stranger or anyone else for that matter.’ There was a forlorn note to her voice, though she tried to hide it with a smile.
‘Is there no one in whom you can confide?’ Now why had he asked that question? Of course, he knew why. He knew how alone he had felt growing up without his family. With only servants for company and a gruff guardian who came once a month to check on his progress. A surprising and unwanted flash of memory recalled a cousin who would now be around this young woman’s age, were she alive. Had she survived, she also would have been alone growing up. Because of him.
A pang squeezed the breath from his lungs. Regret for what might have been. For the loss. He forced it back where it belonged. Nothing could be gained by such maudlin thoughts. The cases were not at all similar. This girl clearly had a caring family who gave her everything she could possibly need. Young women loved their drama. It was likely all a storm in a teacup.
She shook her head. ‘There was someone,’ she said, with a small sad smile. ‘Not any more. He—’
He? A twinge of something unpleasant tightened his gut. Interesting. He would never have imagined feeling anything that hinted of jealousy. He waited. And waited. Would she say more? Reveal her innermost dreams and wishes. God, he hoped not. And yet clearly she had aroused his curiosity.
‘A...a childhood friend I haven’t seen for quite some time.’
A friend. The relief was out of all proportion to the information imparted. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He went away.’ She waved vaguely into the dark.
Why the hell did he have the feeling there was a great deal more to the story? Was this the person she’d wanted him to find?
Copyright © 2018 by Michèle Ann Young
Keep reading for an excerpt from DEVIL IN TARTAN by Julia London.
Devil in Tartan
by Julia London
CHAPTER ONE
Lismore Island, The Highlands, Scotland, 1752
THE CAMPBELL MEN landed on the north shore of the small Scottish island of Lismore in the light of the setting sun, fanning out along the narrow strip of sand and stepping between the rocks and the rabbits that had infested the island.
They were looking for stills.
They also were looking for a ship, perhaps tucked away in some hidden cove they’d not yet found. The stills and the ship were here, and they would find them.
Duncan Campbell, the new laird of Lismore, knew that his tenants—some two-hundred odd Livingstones—were gathered to celebrate Sankt Hans, or Midsummer’s Eve, a custom that harkened back to their Danish ancestors who had settled this small island.
The Livingstones, to the Campbell way of thinking, were laggards and generally far too idle...until recently, that was, when it had come to Duncan’s attention that this hapless clan had begun to distill whisky spirits without license. He’d heard it said in a roundabout way, in Oban, and in Port Appin. Livingstones were boastful, too, it would seem. Rumor had it that an old Danish ship had been outfitted to hold several casks and a few men.
Where the Livingstones lacked godly ambition, the Campbells fancied themselves a clan of superior moral character. They were Leaders of Scotland, Pillars of the Highlands, Ministers of Social Justice and they distilled whisky with a license and sold it for a tidy profit all very legally. They did not take kindly to illicit whisky that undercut their legitimate business. They were downright
offended when someone traded cheap spirits against their superior brew. They disliked illegal competition so much that they took great pains to find it and destroy it by all means possible. Fire was a preferred method.
The Campbell men creeping along the beach could hear the Livingstone voices raised in song and laughter, the strains of a fiddle. When night fell, those heathens would be well into their cups and would light a bonfire and dance around it. Bloody drunkards. But alas, the Campbells did not make it more than a few dozen steps into their search when they heard the warning horn. It sounded so shrilly that it scattered rabbits here and there and, frankly, made Duncan’s heart leap. He hardly had a moment to collect himself before buckshot whizzed overhead.
Duncan sighed skyward. He looked at his escort, Mr. Edwin MacColl, whose clan inhabited the south end of Lismore, and who was diligent in paying his rents and not distilling whisky. Duncan had pressed the very reluctant Scotsman into service by threatening to raise his rents if he didn’t lend a hand. “That’s it, then, is it no’?” he asked MacColl as another shot rang out and sent up a spray of sand when it hit the bit of beach. “They’ve seen us and warned the others.”
“Aye,” MacColl agreed. “They keep a close eye on what is theirs. As any Scot would,” he added meaningfully.
Campbell recognized the subtle needling, but there was no opportunity to remind MacColl that illegal whisky was bad, very bad, because four riders appeared on the hill above them with long guns pointed at their chests. Naturally, Miss Lottie Livingstone, who, as daughter of the chief here, ran wild on this island, led them. If she were his daughter, Campbell would have taken her in hand and ended her feral behavior tout de suite.
“Laird Campbell!” she called cheerfully, and nudged her horse to walk down the grassy slope to the beach. “You’ve come again!”
From Governess to Countess (Matches Made in Scandal) Page 24
