Maddie gave her a skeptical look. “Did he tell you this?”
“No. Lady Jersey did. Nicholas is going to do her portrait too and, I think, the other patronesses’ as well.”
“If he so well known, how much is he going to charge?” Maddie asked and then bit her lip when Mari looked hurt. She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp.
“Nicholas told me it would be a gift.”
“Why would—I mean, do you think your aunt will let you accept something worth a considerable amount?” Maddie asked. “A portrait is quite personal. You would have to sit for hours.”
Mari giggled. “I know. Just Nicholas and me—”
“Marissa Barclay. You know very well you would have to be chaperoned.” Maddie glanced out the window to see Jamie crossing the yard to the stables. “I do not think Mr. MacLeod will be pleased with the idea either.”
“Phooey. What does he have to do with anything?”
“He told Jillian he would protect you. Remember how upset he was with you last night when you went out on the veranda?”
“I was just taking the air.”
“With Mr. Algernon.”
Mari frowned. “We were doing nothing wrong. You were with us. Jamie had no right to come stomping over like that. He practically pushed me back into the room.”
“I just think he wants to prevent you from being scandalized again.” Maddie hoped she kept the wistful tone out of her voice. She would not have minded if Mr. MacLeod had taken her arm and guided her back to the party. She rather liked the way he took charge of things.
“Jamie MacLeod is an arrogant, bossy, over-bearing and annoying man. At least Nicholas had the insight not to provoke him to fisticuffs.”
“I do not think Jamie—Mr. MacLeod—would be uncivilized enough to brawl in Lady Jersey’s home.”
Mari stared at her. “I do not think Jamie would even have hesitated had Nicholas put up any resistance to my returning to the party. Luckily for all of us, Nicholas is a gentleman and obviously well-bred.”
“Mr. MacLeod comes from a good family too. His brother is an earl, after all—and Ian did marry your sister. She seems happy.”
Mari drew her brows together. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I think you should give Jamie—Mr. MacLeod—a chance, that is all.” There. Maddie had said it. She might be infatuated with the Highlander, but she sensed he was attracted to Mari and not just as her guardian.
“A chance for what? The man delights in getting me to lose my temper.”
“I think he teases you because he likes you.”
“He teases me because he wants to torment me. I pity his poor sisters once he goes home.” Mari shook her head. “I want someone courtly and genteel, not someone who constantly wants to spar. What I really liked about Nicholas is that he is charming.”
“Nicholas is French. They are born that way.”
Mari laughed. “Perhaps so, but I find I quite like his cultivated attention.” She tilted her head to study Maddie. “Are you interested in Jamie?”
Maddie hoped no tell-tale blush was creeping over her cheeks, although she felt her face warm. “Of course not. I am simply saying you should remember Mr. MacLeod has his good points too.”
“I suppose he does, but I would be grateful if you could distract him at the next party so I can spend more time with Nicholas. Would you do that?”
Slowly, Maddie nodded and then wondered if Mari really knew what she was asking.
Jamie scowled as Givens appeared in the doorway to the breakfast room carrying a vase of pink roses. Across the table from him, Mari clasped her hands in delight.
“Are those for me?”
“Indeed.” Givens gave her a brief smile—or what passed for a smile from a butler—did the English have to be so damn proper? “From a Mr. Algernon. Shall I put them in the parlor, Miss Barclay?”
Christ. That lace-wearing dandy was sending Mari flowers?
“Oooh!” she exclaimed and jumped up, nearly upsetting her tea. “No. Place them right here where I can see them while I eat.” Mari leaned down to inhale their fragrance and took the card Givens handed her, blushing when she read its contents. “How kind of Mr. Algernon,” was all she said as she sat back and turned shining eyes to Jamie. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Jamie found the smell overwhelmingly sweet, but the happy expression on her face stayed him from making the comment. Instead, he pushed his half-eaten bowl of porridge away. The cloying scent diminished his appetite. “I suppose they are, if ye like flowers.”
“Every girl likes flowers. Do you Scots not give them to your ladies?”
A sudden memory of his father presenting his stepmother with handpicked heather and primroses flashed through his mind. She had looked at the wildflowers in disgust, asking where his father expected her to put those and suggested they build a hothouse to grow…roses. Jamie had found the bouquet in the trash later. He had hated the smell of roses ever since.
“Aye, lass,” he said quietly, “some do.”
Mari gave him a quizzical look. “But you do not?”
He shrugged. “I ne’re had a special lass.”
She looked back at the flowers, a pleased expression on her face. “Flowers do make a girl feel special. I have a feeling I will be seeing more of Mr. Algernon.”
Something akin to a dirk pierced Jamie’s stomach at the thought. He did not like the man. The Frenchman had said naught to him, but Jamie had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts.
“Ye need to take care, lass. The mon is a stranger.”
Mari smiled. “You sound just like Maddie.”
He lifted a brow. “And what did yer friend tell ye?”
“That I had just met Nicholas—Mr. Algernon—and not to fall too hard for him.”
“Those are wise words.”
“Perhaps, but the purpose of the Little Season and the regular one is to find a suitable husband.”
The dirk twisted. Jamie knew what all these ridiculous parties were for, but the idea of Mari actually marrying one of the dandies was not appealing—and especially not the Frenchman with his long-fingered pale hands.
“Mr. Algernon is a refined, cultured gentleman,” Mari said. “He may not be titled, but he is quite well known in France for his paintings. Lady Jersey vouched for him. I daresay a lot of debutantes’ fathers would consider Mr. Algernon quite the catch.”
As if that mattered. A woman with as much fire in her soul as Mari had—his groin tightened at the thought of igniting that flame—would be bored silly with a milksop gentleman. Jamie had tupped enough wenches to recognize sexually fervent passion even if it lurked behind the mask of propriety. Mari had it—he was sure of it—but he could hardly tell her in words.
Somehow, he would draw those feelings out until she recognized them herself. And when she did, he would take her to heights no gentleman would think to climb.
“From the smirk on your face, I assume your introduction to the ton went well?” Wesley asked Nicholas the next evening as he poured a generous amount of French cognac into a chipped cup from his sparsely furnished flat. The one good point to Napoleon’s defeat was having French liquor flowing freely across the channel again. Not that Wesley could walk into whisky shop to purchase such niceties, but Nicholas could.
“Perhaps next time you could bring a proper snifter?”
Nicholas’s lip curled. “I will think about it.” He gave the worn sofa a dubious look before sitting on its edge. “Must you stay in such a sordid place?”
Wesley restrained himself from backhanding the whelp. Did the boy think he had a choice? “Better out of sight than caught. Tell me how the meeting with Lady Jersey went.”
Nicholas waved a hand nonchalantly. “I played le cavalier to perfection. After I presented her with a quick charcoal sketch, she was mine to manipulate as I please.”
“Do not get too cocky. Lady Jersey is much more shrewd than she looks. She would not be able to preside ove
r that nest of venomous vipers from Almack’s if she were not.”
“Perhaps I should take her to bed then. Most women are quite willing to talk afterwards. I could gather information.”
Wesley laughed and took a swig of brandy. “I would not wager a pence on that. The woman has meticulously cultivated propriety since her mother-in-law was not especially given to faithfulness.”
Nicholas shrugged. “I could plough a few other matrons’ rows. I already had offers the other night.”
Wesley put his cup down and leaned forward across the scarred coffee table, well away from the splintered edge that poked out. “Forget about married women. We do not need to fend off angry, cuckolded husbands at the moment. Slatterns and hussies abound if you must slake your need. Concentrate on the little Barclay bitch. How did you fare with her?”
“The chit is naïve. A little flattery went a long way. I sent roses the next day just to be sure. I dare say, she is smitten.”
“And the Highlander? Was he at the rout?”
Nicholas frowned. “Like a bloodhound. I no sooner had maneuvered the girl outside—and had not had the opportunity to persuade her friend to leave—when he loomed in the doorway, ordering her to go inside.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I could hardly challenge the man and create a disturbance. The wealthy matrons think I am a charming, suave Frenchman, and it serves my purposes to let them think that. Besides, the chit made it quite clear she favors brains over brawn. I saw no reason to damage my hands.”
Wesley looked at the boy’s slender hands. “Do you even know how to fight?”
“I am quite skilled with both a rapier and a pistol.” Nicholas’s eyes turned glacial blue. “There were times my mother’s friends needed to be persuaded to leave.”
“She still sluts then?”
A mask slipped in place. “She entertains gentleman callers.”
Wesley nearly laughed and reached for his brandy. The woman must be near forty. How attractive could she still be? He managed to keep a straight face. “I can imagine old men would take a while to satisfy.”
Nicholas frowned. “Vous ne comprenez pas. Maman does not receive the callers herself. She employs la bellas for that. She is quite content with her spécial amie, Gabrielle.”
Wesley choked, the amber liquid spilling over his chin. The whore mother preferred a woman? Briefly, he recalled she had never asked him to stay over. At the time, he’d felt relieved she demanded no more than coin. That had changed once Nicholas entered the picture, but the bitch had only wanted more money. Not once had she ever asked him to visit. Not that he wanted to, even though he was living in France.
“How long has she had this amie?”
“Always.”
“Always?”
Nicholas shrugged. “Since as long as I can remember.”
Wesley narrowed his eyes as revulsion shot through him. How could the whore have made him feel like such a stud if she preferred women? The bitch could not have been acting, could she? No woman bested him.
Perhaps he would have a score to settle once he was safely back in France.
Chapter Nine
“I wish for ye to show me this place called Hyde Park,” Jamie announced after lunch as he entered the sitting room where Mari was working on a piece of embroidery near the fireplace.
“Ouch! Drat.” Mari missed a stitch, piercing her finger instead. She wasn’t any better at needlecraft now than she had been as a child. She licked the tiny drop of blood off and looked up at Jamie who appeared fixated on her offended finger. Slowly, she lowered it from her mouth. His golden eyes followed her movement.
“Why do you want to see Hyde Park?”
Jamie came in and sat down on the sofa, bypassing several of the ivory satin-brocaded chairs the women callers favored. Mari had told him once, despite the chairs looking fragile with their ornately carved legs and arms, they were sturdy enough to hold him. Jamie had looked skeptical, not that she could take him to account for that. His large frame did fill nearly a third of the chaise.
He shrugged as he stretched his long legs out, bumping a glass-topped table set with china figurines that rattled dangerously. “A lass asked if I’d been to the park yet,” he replied, shifting his boots away from the delicate arrangement. “She offered to show me the place.”
“Who asked? Violetta or Amelia?” Mari could just imagine either of those two being so bold.
“Neither. Well, at least not the first offer. I think the lass’s name was Olivia.”
Mari hid her surprise. Olivia Ashley was a quiet girl, almost even more timid than Abigail. How in the world did she ever work up the courage to ask Jamie to accompany her to Hyde Park? Mari gave Jamie a sideways look. The man probably gave the poor thing his dimpled smile, flirt that he was, and she fancied him taken with her.
“Why did you not go with her?”
“I have nae intentions of courting the lass. I suspect a carriage ride would make her think I did.”
Well, Mari had to admit, at least Jamie was not leading Olivia on. Then she frowned. “If you took a carriage ride with me, people would think the same.” That simply would not do now that she had met Nicholas.
“Who said anything about a carriage ride? I thought to take the saddle horses. They need riding.”
Mari shook her head. “I do not ride well.” She remembered how uncomfortable the horse had felt the night Jillian and she escaped from Wesley. Besides, the beasts were huge.
Jamie grinned. “I remember, lass. ’Tis a reason why ye should get on one. There’s a wee gentle mare in the stable that would do ye no harm.”
Mari put her embroidery aside. “Do you think I am afraid of horses?”
He tilted his head to one side, studying her. “I think mayhap ye are.”
She hoped he didn’t realize how close to truth he spoke. She never had really trusted the brutes could be controlled by just small straps of reins. Never mind that Jillian rode both sidesaddle and astride as though she’d been born to it. “I certainly am not afraid. I just prefer not to sit on one’s back.”
“Ye just need to get the feel of it,” Jamie answered. “’Tis a pity ye have those magnificent Andalusians at Newburn and ye are scared to ride.”
Mari glared at him. “I am not afraid.”
“Nae? Then prove it, lass.”
“I do not have to prove anything to you, sirrah. Ladies pursue more delicate activities.”
He raised one of his brows as he regarded the uneven stitches on her embroidery loop. “Ye have skills such as running a household then? Keeping the larders stocked, the accounts in order and the servants well trained?”
Mari hesitated. “Well, no. Jillian took care of that.”
“Jillian also sat a horse well.”
“That does not signify. What I meant was young ladies pursue full social calendars. I dance quite well.”
“A fine skill indeed.”
He was making fun of her. Mari felt her temper rising. “Do you dance, sirrah?”
“Nae. I see little need for a mon to prance about.”
Of course he didn’t. Dancing was much too refined for someone who wanted to carry a huge sword slung to his back, to say nothing about knives strung to him. As if… Mari gave Jamie a calculating look. She had the perfect solution to stop him from badgering her about riding. She smiled. “I have an offer for you.”
He grinned, his dimple showing. “I like the sound of that.”
The strange, tingling sensation washed over her again. Only Jamie could turn an innocent statement into something more…more…well, she didn’t know what exactly, but something resonated deep in her belly. She took a deep breath to gather her wits. Jamie would never agree to her idea.
“I will learn to ride if you will learn to dance.”
His eyes widened, and then the golden color turned molten as he widened his grin.
“Done,” he said.
How had she let herself get inveigled into doin
g this? Mari looked at the animal who stood patiently waiting by the stoop near the stable door the next morning. The mare might look docile, but looks could be deceiving.
Jamie led a sorrel gelding out of the small barn, and Mari looked at him in surprise. “I thought you wanted to exercise Nero,” she said, referring to the Andalusian Jamie had ridden to London.
“Nero is a green colt. I’ll nae have him spook yer bonny mare.”
Mari looked back at the dapple-grey horse whose soulful brown eyes watched her. “So you are admitting this animal can act up?”
“All horses can, lass. ’Tis up to the rider to see they behave.” Jamie looped his reins over the hitching post and approached Mari with a glint in his eyes. “Much like ’tis up to me to see that ye behave.”
“What? Of all the—” The air whooshed out of her lungs as Jamie lifted her easily and settled her on the mare. His hand slipped up the split riding skirt, cupping Mari’s calf and lifting it over the horn of the saddle. She swatted at his hand. “What do you think you are doing?”
Jamie gave her a patient look he might have directed at a dim-witted child and tucked her leg down. “I am positioning ye so ye dinnae fall off the other side.” He smoothed the velvet skirt over her half-boot and stepped back. “There. Now ye should be secure.”
Mari felt anything but secure, and it was not all due to her precarious seat on top of the horse. Jamie had touched her leg—her bare leg—as nonchalantly as if there were nothing untoward about the act at all. He truly was a rogue from those wild isles of his. And yet…the warmth from his large, calloused palm had sent heat shooting the entire length of her leg, culminating in a slow pulsing at the juncture of her thighs. Mari squirmed in the saddle only to find the pulsation increased rather pleasantly against the added friction of leather. Her face warmed, and she was grateful Jamie had turned toward his own mount.
He vaulted onto the back of the sorrel and glanced over at her. “Are ye all right? Yer face is a bit red. Ye truly have nothing to fear.”
Merciful heavens. She did not know which she feared most—the horse or Jamie. They were both dangerous. If the man knew what kind of reaction she had just had… Well. He would not find out. Mari shifted somewhat gingerly, glad the sensation was subsiding. “I am fine.”
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