“I know it is horribly selfish of me,” Nicholas said as he reluctantly let go of her hand and straightened, “but I wish to claim every dance with you.”
“You may have one dance per set,” Aunt Agnes cut in before Jamie could. “My niece needs to make the acquaintance of other gentlemen as well.”
Nicholas put a hand over his heart. “Of course, as much as it pains me to part from her company. I should like to claim the last dance then.”
“The last dance is mine,” Jamie said as he picked up Mari’s hand, the dance card dangling from her wrist. He saw a flash of anger flare in Nicholas’s eyes and hoped the cur would call him out. He itched to give the Frenchman a good thrashing, but the man hesitated only briefly, then signed Mari’s card on the appropriate lines.
“I dinnae see why ye allowed me only one dance,” Jamie grumbled after Nicholas had departed.
“I told you balls are for mingling,” Mari answered. “Do you not have a full schedule? I can get Maddie—”
“’Tis nae the point.” He didn’t even want to look at the list he held. Those two trollops, Violetta and Amelia, had led the bevy of giggling, silly lasses that besieged him moments after he entered the room, all vying for his signature on their cards. He had made sure to ask Olivia for a dance to make up for not accepting her invitation to the park, which only made other girls gape at him. Under other circumstances, he might have appreciated the attention, but with all the rules that had to be followed, he’d not dare do more than smile lest one of the hawk-eyed mamas try to put the parson’s noose around his neck. Thank God, Maddie and her mother had intervened, the baroness efficiently dispatching the disappointed girls with one dance each. Even so, he doubted he’d have time to find his way to the game room where the husbands enjoyed cheroots and brandy.
At least there were no waltzes on the evening’s program. As wife to the Russian ambassador, Countess Lieven probably did not want the scandal of that particular dance at her ball. It was just as well, since Jamie only had one dance with Mari. He had no wish to see any man holding Mari that close. His own memories from Miss Berry’s studio were still vivid in his mind—the slimness of her waist flaring into delectably soft, rounded hips and the lush fullness of her breasts pressed against him…
Jamie groaned. It was going to be a long night.
Mari helped herself to some punch, delighted with the way the evening was progressing. She had enlisted Maddie’s mother’s help in making sure Jamie had a full slate of dances this evening so she would be free, for once, to pursue her own interests. From the dazed look on Olivia’s face, Mari assumed she had been included and smiled. The ton was not always kind, as she well knew.
At first, she had been disappointed when Aunt Agnes restricted Nicholas’s allowed dances to one per set, but as Mari switched partners during the reels and quadrilles, she began to see the wisdom in her aunt’s reasoning. The London bachelors were complimentary and even entertaining when time allowed for conversation. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Nicholas observing these interactions, which only caused her to laugh merrily at whatever halfway humorous thing some young swain said. It certainly would not hurt Nicholas to think other gentlemen found her interesting.
If only Jamie would quit glowering.
Since he had done well at the dance lessons, Mari had truly thought Jamie would enjoy himself, but the only time he appeared relaxed was when Maddie was his partner. With the other girls, he seemed aloof and formal. Perhaps he was not as confident as he looked. Maddie was an excellent dancer who had no trouble following even an oaf’s lead, so Jamie could afford to relax.
Yet every time he caught Mari’s gaze, he frowned and his eyes turned dark.
“Alas, this is the last dance I can claim this evening,” Nicholas said, coming up to her as the five-piece orchestra began a lengthy cotillion. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”
Was he jealous? She couldn’t tell. “The evening has gone by so quickly,” Mari replied as he led her onto the floor, and then there was no time for talk as the couples formed their squares, beginning the elaborate footwork that demanded concentration.
By the time they finished, Mari was a bit breathless.
“Would you like to take some air?” Nicholas asked as he indicated the open French doors leading to the veranda.
With so many people also heading in the same direction, it surely would be acceptable. Mari sent a furtive look across the room for Jamie and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him talking to the Duke of Argyll, George Campbell. His Grace was married to the sister-in-law of Lady Jersey, although the two did not seem to be close. The men were probably discussing Scottish politics or some such thing.
“That would be lovely,” Mari murmured.
The fresh air was crisp after the heat so many dancers had generated in the ballroom. Mari inhaled appreciatively as Nicholas led her to a somewhat secluded corner, although well within the light spilling through the doors. “I would be remiss if I did not thank you again for the lovely roses,” she said.
Nicolas smiled. “I am glad you liked them, although their beauty wanes besides yours.”
Mari’s cheeks warmed and she was glad the veranda was only dimly lit. She knew the words were courtly flattery, but she felt like a princess hearing them anyway. “It is kind of you to say that.”
“It is true,” Nicholas insisted. “Vous sont très belle. The pitiful rose is a poor comparison.”
“Well, the buds have begun to open.”
“Oui. I chose the buds specifically for you, chère. They remind me of your innocence. The full blossoms will be your journey to womanhood. I hope you will allow me to be a part of that journey?”
Oh, my. Was Nicholas asking to court her? She felt herself blush again. That would be beyond her wildest expectations. “Yes, I would quite like that.”
He reached for her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “Then consider it an offre and a promesse to which I look forward, chère, if you will accept?”
She wasn’t quite sure of the translation, but it seemed Nicholas was implying that he planned to pay her court. This was going to be the best Season. The other girls would be so jealous that Nicholas had sought her out for his attentions. “I would like that.”
A shadow fell across the weak beam of light and Mari looked up, knowing who it would be.
Jamie stood stone-faced in the doorway. “I have come to claim my dance, lass.”
Could it be so late already? Mari realized the crowd on the veranda had thinned considerably. The air was noticeably colder as well, although she wasn’t too sure that wasn’t due to Jamie’s hostile look. “Certainly,” she said quickly, not wanting to hear a lecture, and laid her hand lightly on his forearm, feeling the muscle tense as she did. She hoped Jamie was not getting ready to brawl. It would simply ruin a wonderful evening. “Shall we go in?”
“Aye,” he said, turning toward the door as the music began.
Mari gasped. The band was playing a waltz. She had a sneaking suspicion Jamie had bribed the band to play it.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes as he watched MacLeod escort Mari inside. Wesley—he saw no reason to refer to the man as his father—was right. The damned Highlander was an impediment to his goal of wedding the chit and gaining control of her family’s money.
But for now, he would let it go. For now.
Chapter Twelve
“I cannot believe Mr. MacLeod did not accompany us today,” Maddie said as she and Mari stepped down from the carriage in front of Wittnower’s Book Emporium the next afternoon. “He always escorts us—I mean, you.”
“He received a post from Ian this morning,” Mari replied. “His brother is at Cantford and expects to be in London in a few days. I think there was some question about the ledgers. Jamie was going to contact Ian’s solicitor here so whatever it was would be cleared. Anyhow,” Mari continued as she gestured to the footmen who stood not far away, “Robin and Joseph are now armed to the teeth with
all sorts of weapons I assume Jamie thinks they know how to use.” She shook her head. “Not that there is likely to be danger lurking about a bookstore in the middle of the day.”
Mari pushed open the door and entered the rather musty-smelling shop. A few dust mites floated in the dim shafts of clouded sunshine filtering through narrow windows. She coughed. “I will be ready for an ice once we get your book.”
“I still think it is romantic how protective Mr. MacLeod is.” Maddie clung to her original subject as she followed Mari inside.
“More like controlling,” Mari answered. “Jamie has to be in charge of everything—and everyone, whether we like it or not.” She gestured to Robin and Joseph standing diligently by the outside door. “Case in point.”
“Neither of them seems to mind playing guard,” Maddie said mildly. “If fact, I think they rather like it. I overheard Papa’s footmen grousing the other day that they were not being trained in weaponry.”
“Oh, twiddlepoop. What do house servants need to know about fighting anyway? Just yesterday, Jamie showed them how to slip out of ropes if they are ever bound. Now why would they need to know that? Does Jamie think someone would actually invade our premises and rob us? Mayfair is hardly on the outskirts of any barbarian battlefield. England is not even at war at present.” Mari sighed. “If it were left to Jamie, he would have all the servants—above stairs and below—wielding weapons to defend the women and children. It seems to be something that is instilled in Highland boys.”
Maddie smiled. “I would take no issue with that.”
Mari smiled back. “You are a hopeless romantic. You do know that?”
“Perhaps—”
“Marissa. Madeline. What brings you two here?” Abigail asked as she emerged from between two tall shelves of books.
Mari turned, not surprised to see the Earl of Sherrington’s daughter with an armload of books. Everyone knew she was a bluestocking.
“I came to get the new book by the author of Sense and Sensibility.” Maddie said.
“Oh. I think you will find it over there.” Abigail tilted her head toward a table not far away. “I have already read it.”
That was surprising. Mari had never imagined Abigail to have any romantic inklings at all. She always dressed in drab colors, the gowns high-necked and long-sleeved, and wore her hair pulled severely back—although that might have been her mother’s doing, rest her tainted soul. Jillian had mentioned once that Abigail’s mother, Delia, could not abide competition, not even from her daughter.
Mari tilted her head to study Abigail as she launched into an animated conversation with Maddie about the mysterious author’s works. That the works excited her was obvious. Abigail’s brown eyes sparkled behind her spectacles, her voice well modulated and expressive as she described details of a particular scene having to do with Mr. Darcy. Strange that Mari had never noticed how musical her voice sounded. But then, how often had she heard Abigail speak? At the soirees and routs, she tended to shy away from conversation. Even last night, she had remained on the sidelines, save for the one dance Mari had insisted Jamie request.
Hmmm. Perhaps something could be done to improve the odds for dances with other men. Abigail’s hair was a warm, nutmeg brown. If she curled it…
“I have a splendid idea, Abigail,” Mari said, interrupting the conversation. “Once Maddie has finished the novel, why don’t the two of you come for tea and discuss it? I am expecting a copy of La Belle Assemblèe to arrive any day now. We can look over the latest fashions together.”
“That would be fun,” Maddie said.
Abigail shook her head. “I know very little about fashion—”
“All the more reason to look at the magazine,” Mari answered. “We can make an afternoon of deciding our gowns for the Almack’s ball.”
“I do not think I will be going to that.”
“Nonsense. The patronesses would never cut you like that, and your father will certainly insist on it.”
Abigail’s expression fell. “I suppose he will. I just am not comfortable with all the tedious, proper conversation about mundane things.”
“I dare say the conversation will not be mundane once the gentlemen see you with your hair down wearing a beautiful gown cut low enough to be enticing.”
Abigail gasped, one of her books sliding off the pile and landing on the floor. “I do not think Papa would allow something like that.”
So maybe it was her father who was keeping her from looking attractive, Mari thought as she bent down to pick up the fallen book. That would make sense, given it was a known fact his wife had cuckolded him. Surely there was some mid-ground between fading into the wallpaper and looking like a hoyden from Covent Garden.
The book had splayed open, upside down, and Mari glanced at the binding. A History of Greek Art. No wonder Abigail had difficulty with conversation. Who in the world would want to discuss Greek history? Mari turned the book over, intending to close it, and felt her eyes widen in shock.
The book contained pages of sculpted male statues—all of whom were naked.
“Are you sure I am ready for a different horse?” Mari asked as she eyed the large roan gelding the groom led from the stable. “The little mare and I were getting along just fine on the last two rides.”
“Aye, ye were. Ye may just make a fine horsewoman yet.”
“I will never ride like Jillian.”
“Ye dinnae have to, lass. From what Ian says, horses are second nature to yer sister. Still, ’tis good for ye to be able to handle the wee beastie should ye need to.”
“Wee? There is nothing small about any horse, but this one is huge.”
“Have nae fear. He’s a docile mount.” Jamie put his hands around Mari’s waist, lifting her up to the saddle before she could issue a protest. The horse shifted his weight, causing her to grasp his mane with both hands.
“Easy,” Jamie said.
Mari was not sure if he was speaking to her or the horse, and then the thought was lost as he slid his hand up her calf, lifting her right leg to fit over the horn of the side-saddle like he had the last time. Jamie smoothed her riding habit down to cover her half-boots as though it was the most natural gesture in the world. That mere brush sent heat racing up her thigh to that little tingly spot that she hadn’t even known could tingle until recently. The familiarities the man took. She could see the groomsman was smiling, even though he was walking away. “Really. This is most improper—”
“Ye have an odd idea of what is improper, Mari.” Jamie grinned up at her, his dimple showing. “Would ye like me to show ye the difference?”
“You are incorrigible, sirrah.” The gelding shifted again, this time pawing the ground and distracting her. “Are you sure this horse is gentle?”
“He will be fine. Dinnae show fear.” Jamie vaulted on to Nero’s back and gave her another grin. “Beggin’ yer delicate ears from improper talk, ’tis nae a good idea to take the mare out when I am riding a stallion. If ye understand what I am saying.”
“I believe I do. Apparently male horses are not that different from their human counterparts. Picking on a sweet, little mare—”
“The mare wouldna mind, if she were inclined to accept him.”
For a moment, Mari stared at Jamie. “Are we discussing…breeding? In the middle of the day in a courtyard? This is hardly acceptable conversation.”
Jamie remained affably unaffected by her admonishment. “’Tis nae wrong to discuss what comes naturally to man and beast. ’Tis nae wrong to do what comes—”
“Stop!” Mari covered her ears and then quickly grabbed for the reins as the roan moved forward. “Will you maintain a civil tongue in your head, please?”
“For now.” Jamie winked and turned Nero toward the front road. Mari was left to view his broad shoulders, well-defined under the close fit of his riding coat, the tails of which did little to hide the way his posterior fit his saddle—or how all those muscles in his back moved in rhythm with the horse’
s gait.
Jamie’s breeches fit tightly too, Mari noticed as the gelding caught up with Nero. A thought from nowhere struck her. Where did his male appendage fit when he was in the saddle?
Lud! Mari felt her face flame. Why was she thinking about Jamie’s private parts? First, a totally inappropriate conversation with him, and now—completely on her own without any risqué comments from Jamie—a totally indecent thought. Where had it come from anyway?
It must have been the pictures in that book Abigail had dropped.
On the short ride over to Hyde Park, Jamie had to admit Mari was handling her mount better than he expected. The gelding was a good hand-and-a-half taller than the mare had been and his gait much looser.
“Ye are doing fine,” Jamie said as they ambled along Serpentine Road around the small lake.
Mari smiled tentatively. “I think I am beginning to see why Jillian likes riding so much—not that I will ever be that good.”
“Ye might. It takes practice and being familiar with your horse.” Jamie ran a hand along Nero’s silken neck and the stallion nickered softly. “Ye need to think of the animal as yer friend. He depends on ye for food and care, and ye can depend on him for the good sense God gave horses.”
“Good sense?”
“Aye. When a mon is travelling in the Highlands, he trusts the surefootedness of the steed, as well as its ability to seek shelter in times of need.”
“What kind of need?”
“Storms mostly. They rise swiftly in the mountains. The wind can howl like a demon through the passes and the rain comes hard and fast, turning a safe path to a slippery, muddy slope before ye can even wrap yer plaid around ye to stay dry. Nature does nae take kindly to those who get caught out. ’Tis the time to trust the horse to find its way.”
“Well, we do not have to worry about such in London,” Mari replied.
“Nae,” Jamie agreed as they reined in to watch two yellow barouches align themselves nearby on Rotten Row. Both teams of horses were bays with silver-mounted harnesses. The young men holding the reins were dressed identically in drab coats offset by huge mother-of-pearl buttons and yellow-striped blue waistcoats.
Rogue of the Isles Page 11
