The Scotsman and the Spinster

by Joan Overfield

  "Oh!" Addy's cheeks fired with indignation. The remark skated the edge of what was acceptable; a fact she was quick to point out to his lordship.

  "Gentlemen do not speak of such things to young ladies," she told him tartly. "Mind you don't do so again."

  "As you say," he agreed. "And now that you've done dressing me down, tell me why you have gone into hiding." The emerald-green of his eyes grew hard. "Has some man offered you insult? If so, you must point him out to me that I might have words with him. I'll not have you treated so poorly by the likes of them."

  He sounded so dangerous, so untamed, Addy took a step closer. "Of course not," she assured him, laying a restraining hand on his arm. Then, lest he take her for some silly milk-and-water miss, she added, "But if one had, I should be the one to deal with him. Is that understood?"

  He stared down at her for a long moment before his lips lifted in a reluctant smile. "Aye," he said at last, and then shocked her by lifting a hand to gently touch her cheek. "You're a fierce one, to be sure, but for all of that you're still a woman. Any man who harms or insults you will pay dearly for it."

  Addy hadn't the words for the emotions rioting through her. On one level, she was indignant he should think she either wanted or needed his protection, but on another level, she felt a thrill of relief to know someone cared. That he cared. She moved away, turning from her own weakness as much as from him.

  "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I was about to take a breath of fresh air," she said, striving for her usual sense of cool command. "It is rather close in here, and I am beginning to feel unwell."

  She knew from the flare of awareness in his eyes that he didn't believe her. A gentleman would have taken the hint and departed, but her pupil was no gentleman.

  "If you're unwell, then I shall be pleased to act as your escort," he said, stepping toward her with obvious purpose.

  Knowing a struggle would bring unwanted attention down upon them, Addy could only glare at him. But she still had her pride, and it was she who led the way out onto the small stone balcony located just off the crowded ballroom.

  The night was misty and cool, the brisk air washing over her heated cheeks with the softest of touches. The French doors were standing slightly open, and the murmur of music and voices flowed out into the night. Addy stood in silence, her chilled arms wrapped lightly about her. She would remain here for a few more minutes, she decided, and then they would go back inside. But one minute slid easily into another, and still Addy remained where she was; loath to leave the coolness and the peace she had found.

  "Are you feeling better?" The viscount was standing beside her, studying her in the soft light streaming through the doors.

  "Yes," Addy said, turning to him with a half smile. "You do know I was trying to be rid of you?" she asked ruefully, her anger having long since faded.

  His grin flashed. "A bit thickheaded I may be, but not so thickheaded as that," he said, chuckling. "And a word of warning to you, Miss Terrington, if I might. If you're truly intent upon having a man gone, never let him suspect it. A man has his pride, you know, and we can none of us resist a challenge."

  Addy considered that, and then nodded. "I suppose not," she agreed, thinking what perverse creatures men were. "But it seems highly unfair to me. What is a female to do? If we ask you to stay, we are a flirt, if we tell you to go, we are a challenge." She sighed again, and then slid a thoughtful glance at the viscount's moonlit countenance. "How are you?" she asked softly. "Is it going well?"

  To her relief, he took her meaning at once. "Aye," he said, leaning against the stone balustrade and staring out into the darkness. "The general has many friends, and they are all of them eager to help. But he has his enemies as well. I was interested to see that his lordship has both in equal number here tonight."

  Addy smiled at the observation. "That was the idea," she reminded him. "How can you be expected to change their minds if you don't meet them?"

  He gave a soft laugh. "That's sensible, then."

  "And did you?" she asked curiously.

  "Did I what?"

  "Did you change any minds?"

  He was a moment in answering. "Perhaps. The Earl of Carnforth seemed interested enough when I spoke with him. He asked a dozen questions, but listened closely to the answers I gave. He asked me to join him at his country house for some weekend, and I said that I would." He sent her a sharp glance. "Is that all right?"

  "Certainly," she assured him, pleased at how well it was all going. "Who else did you speak with?"

  He dutifully rattled off a list that had Addy beaming. For a start it was most impressive, and they spent the next quarter-hour discussing how best to proceed. She was about to suggest they return to the ballroom when he suddenly paused, his head titled to one side as he listened to the soft music flowing into the night.

  "What song is that they are playing?" he asked curiously. "'Tis lovely."

  Addy listened to the delicate sounds of violin and pianoforte blending together in absolute harmony. "I'm not certain," she admitted, feeling slightly apologetic. "I fear I'm not at all musical, but I believe it's a quadrille."

  They listened for a few more notes, and then he turned to her, his hands held out in silent command. "Dance with me," he ordered softly.

  Addy gaped at him, appalled at the way her pulse was racing wildly out of control at the very thought. "Dance with you?" she echoed, struggling to gather her scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. "Don't be absurd, sir," she scoffed, her voice sounded breathless and too soft even to her ears. "It would be most improper to do so."

  "Who is to see?" he asked, his hand steady as his gaze met hers. "Dance with me, Adalaide. Please."

  Whether it was the sound of her name or the soft plea in his voice, Addy could not say. She found herself moving forward, her fingers curling around his as he drew her against him. Their palms touched, and then with only the moon to witness, they circled about each other in time to the lilting music.

  Six

  The next fortnight flew past for Ross. The ball at the duke's home was but the first in a dizzying whirl of such frivolous activities, and each night found him at some foolish ball or fete. He hated the endless bowing and scraping, the way people who normally would have turned their noses up at him now fell over their well-shod feet to gain his approval. Not because of who he was, he thought bitterly, but rather because of what he was. A viscount, and a man rich enough to have the matchmaking mamas rubbing their hands together in greedy glee.

  But disgusted as he was, even he had to admit the situation was not without its benefits. With Nevil's assistance he was able to help several cashiered soldiers find employment, and others he aided with money and a kind word. It was little enough, but it was something, and he felt better for being of some good to the men. He also took a grim satisfaction in knowing how his uncle would have howled to see his gold put to such use.

  He'd made friends as well. Despite the disparity in the ages and situations, he and Lord Hixworth had become fast friends, and he admired the younger man for his horse sense and kind heart. Both Lord Falconer and the Earl of Denbury became frequent visitors at his house, and he at theirs. He'd never thought to be at such ease with men of rank and wealth, and yet somehow he was. Denbury was loquacious and bright as sunshine, Falconer cool and distant as a storm in the mountains, and yet Ross trusted and liked them both.

  At the moment they were in his study, enjoying a comfortable glass of the Spanish brandy the earl had brought with him. They'd spent the day going over the news from Spain, and debating when and how to use the information.

  "The victories are small, but frequent enough to show Wellington's plans are working," Falconer said, leaning back in his chair and looking thoughtful. "A decisive victory is what's needed; one convincing enough to silence his critics for all time."

  Ross remained silent. He agreed with Falconer's assessment, but as a soldier he knew the price such a victory would demand. The dead piled upon the
dead, like at Badajoz, a scene so horrific it was burned deep into his very soul. "We have the French on the run," he said, the brandy burning his throat as he took a deep sip. "With the mountains in front of them and the British Army in back of them, they'll have no choice but to make a stand. When they do you'll have your victory, my lords, I promise you."

  "Where do you think the stand will occur?"

  Ross's gaze flicked to the map of Spain spread out on the table. "Here," he said, indicating a narrow gap in the mountains. "The French will gather there to prepare for their retreat. They'll need to mount a rear-guard action to cover them, and that's where they'll fight."

  "When?" This from Denbury, who was leaning forward and looking as grim as Ross felt.

  Did they think him a faidhean, then, to know the future? Ross wondered, thrusting an impatient hand through his hair. He rose to his feet and prowled over to stand before the window. May was half gone, and the wee garden was in gentle bloom. In Spain the heat would be building, and the soldiers would be suffering from the sun as they'd suffered from the wind and the cold. The French would be suffering too, and this time they would be the ones in full flight.

  "Soon," he said at last, turning back to face the others. "With each day we grow greater in numbers and better armed. Napoleon is too wise a campaigner to let us grow too strong, and I'm guessing he'll order Jourdan to turn and attack."

  "Then if we can hold off a call for a vote, we could win," Falconer said, stroking a finger across his chin. "That shouldn't be too difficult. We've only to open up the matter for another debate, and they'll talk themselves hoarse until summer's come and gone."

  "Speaking of debates, my lord, your maiden speech is set for next week," the earl reminded Ross. "How is it coming? I should be happy to help you with it, if need be. I've always had a way with words."

  "Too much of a way," Falconer retorted, the gleam in his eyes softening the criticism. "We don't want St. Jerome boring our foes into submission."

  "So long as do they submit, what does it matter?" Denbury asked with a shrug. "But my offer stands, Sergeant. You've but to say the word."

  Ross sent him a grateful look. "Thank you, my lord," he said, meaning every word. "I may well take you up on your offer. For all of her instructions, Miss Terrington has yet to teach me the proper way to stand and address Parliament."

  "Give her time, old fellow," Denbury said with a warm chuckle. "She will. Remember Letham?" he asked in an aside to Falconer. "Lad couldn't string two words together without swooning before The Terror got her hands on him. Now he can jaw with the best of them."

  "The Terror?" Ross echoed, wondering if he'd hear aright.

  "Miss Terrington," Denbury elaborated. "It's what she's called, don't you see. 'The Terror of the Terringtons.' And one must say the name is rather fitting. Heaven only knows she terrifies me." And he laughed as if he thought it the merriest joke he had ever heard.

  Ross's contentment was swamped by a wave of icy fury. Even knowing the earl was jesting did little to ease his anger, and it was a moment before he could speak.

  "I do not believe I care to have Miss Terrington addressed in so slighting a manner," he said, his voice harsh. "You will oblige me by not doing so again."

  For all he was as affable a man as Ross had ever met, Denbury was no one's fool. He studied Ross for several seconds before slowly inclining his head. "As you wish, my lord," he replied, his tone matching Ross's for coolness. "I beg pardon if I have given offense."

  Ross felt an uncomfortable prick of remorse at the earl's stilted apology. "Now 'tis I who am obliged to beg your pardon," he said, offering the other man a rueful smile. "I'm not offended, Denbury, I'm . . . nervous, I suppose you would say," he admitted, seizing on the first emotion he could find. "I've fought my way out of ambushes outnumbered three to one and not been half so terrified. The thought of speaking in front of others has me quaking like a virgin facing her first man."

  "An interesting comparison, St. Jerome," Falconer observed with a low drawl. "Would you not say so, Denbury?"

  "And an accurate one." Denbury's easy grin made it plain he bore Ross no ill will. "Politics is near as complicated as lovemaking, and not nearly so pleasurable. But never fear, sir. You mastered the one, you'll master the other."

  The talk turned general, and a short while later Denbury took his leave. Ross wasn't surprised when Falconer chose to remain behind. The viscount had had his ears pinned back too many times not to recognize the determined set of the marquess's jaw, and the moment they were alone he turned to face him.

  "Before you say another word, sir, I know I was in the wrong," Ross said, standing rigidly at attention. "Lord Denbury was but making an observation, and I had no right to take his nose off for him."

  Falconer remained silent, his expression enigmatic as he studied Ross. "Indeed?" he said quietly. "It is good of you to tell me so, for I was about to apologize for Denbury. I am glad to have been spared the effort."

  "You were about to apologize to me? " Ross's tone was incredulous. "Good God, why?"

  "Because for all she has a viper's tongue and a shrew's disposition, Miss Terrington is a very admirable female, and one I do not care to be slighted."

  The simple explanation left Ross feeling even more confused, and he collapsed on his chair with an angry scowl. "Then why the devil didn't you say so?" he demanded indignantly. "'Twould have sounded better coming from you than from me."

  "Why should that be?" Falconer asked. "You're better acquainted with the lady than am I. You are her natural champion. Who better to defend her?"

  Ross wasn't certain what to make of that. "You're an odd one, my lord," he said, leaning back his head and studying the marquess with narrowed eyes. "Sometimes I wonder what there is to you."

  Falconer's lips curved in a cool smile. "Perhaps that is the way I prefer it."

  "And perhaps that says more about you than you may know," Ross said. "I will tell you this much, 'tis glad I am to have you standing with me, rather than against me. You would make a deadly opponent."

  Falconer's gold-colored eyes flared with pleasure. "You do me credit, sir. Coming from a warrior such as yourself, that is a compliment of the first order. I will return it by saying I am equally relieved to have you with us. And you would honor me by calling me by my given name. 'Tis Adam," he added at Ross's blank look.

  "And I am Ross," Ross said, smiling. "Now that that is done, is there anything else you would care to discuss? I've another blasted ball to attend tonight, and my valet will be after me to be getting ready."

  "Valets are the cross we gentlemen must bear," Adam agreed. "Mine is a terror. But there is something I would discuss with you. It concerns Miss Terrington."

  Ross tensed as if for a blow. "What is it?"

  "Your lessons, do they continue?"

  "Some," Ross replied, wondering what Adam was about. "I spend an hour or so each day with her and Lady Fareham, and there are usually lessons to be had. Yesterday she wanted Hixworth and me to practice with quizzing glasses," he added, his brow darkening in indignation, "but I told her I'd be cursed before I would resort to such dandified nonsense."

  "And knowing Miss Terrington, I daresay she said she would be cursed if you did not," Adam said, then laughed at Ross's mutinous expression. "Don't look so black, my lord. It's not so bad as all that. Even I have been known to resort to such theatrics, and I've not the advantage of Miss Terrington's instruction."

  "She told me later it was more for Hixworth's benefit than my own," he grumbled, smiling at the memory of the way she'd glowered at him like a furious sprite. "She said he needs it for confidence, and that it would do me no harm to use it as well."

  "It sounds like her," Adam said, chuckling. "But the reason I mention lessons is because I think it would be best if you discontinue with them; for the moment, at least."

  Ross jerked his head back in surprise. He could not explain why, but for some reason the notion of not seeing Adalaide—Miss Terrington, he corr
ected himself—was oddly troubling. She'd been the first person he'd come to know in his new life. She was a constant, always there to hector and peck at him. Not to see her for days on end . . .

  "May I ask why?" he demanded, suspicion having his hands clenching into angry fists. "If someone's dared to speak a word against her, I'll cut the tongues from their heads."

  "An admirable if slightly gruesome sentiment," Falconer agreed, "but as it happens, there isn't any talk. Or at least," he added, "not any more than should be expected. This is the Marriage Mart, after all, and matches are an endless source of speculation and entertainment for us all."

  "Then why should I avoid Miss Terrington?"

  "I haven't said you should avoid her," Adam said carefully. "It's merely that it would be best for all concerned if the lessons were to be temporarily suspended. Once it's seen you're a gentleman in your own right and not some male version of Pygmalion, the tattle will die down—"

  Ross was on his feet in a flash, his eyes bright with fury as he faced Falconer. "I thought you said there was no talk about Adalaide!" he said, her Christian name slipping from his lips in his distress.

  "There's not," Falconer responded, rising cautiously to his feet. "The talk is all of you."

  "Me?" Ross was stunned.

  "Aye," the marquess said coolly. "You. It is being put about that when you arrived in London you were one step removed from a barbarian. Filthy, half-wild, and the farthest thing from a gentleman that one may imagine. Miss Terrington is well known for her ability to work miracles, and it is said she has worked her biggest one with you."

  Ross's pride took the blow, and he shrugged it off. "Well, 'tis true enough when you think of it," he said, remembering the way he'd collapsed on Adalaide's doorstep. "Let them say what they will. I care not."

  "But we must care," Adam corrected with a cool look. "Your sudden appearance is the object of a great deal of speculation. We knew it would be, and we'd planned to use that speculation to our own advantage. The ton is like a bored child forever in search of a new toy to amuse them—"