The Smithfield Bargain: A Regency Romance (The Wolfe Family Book 1)

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  The cook came with a quick report that all was as it should be in the kitchen. She was followed by the housekeeper with a bevy of questions. Calming her, Romayne answered each one.

  “Where is your husband?” demanded Grange when Romayne finished checking the wine that Clayson had had brought from the cellar. The abigail wore her best, but the gown was of the dull gray she preferred. “He should be tending to these details. You have enough other tasks. The guests will be arriving soon. Dora is here. His Grace is here. Even Ellen is ready.”

  Romayne looked across the room to where her grandfather and Dora were prattling like bosom bows. That surprised her, for she had never seen them do more than nod a good day to each other while passing in the hall. Mayhap even her grandfather was ready to put on a good show tonight for their guests.

  “I am sure James has a good reason for being late,” she said to her abigail, wishing she could share the truth—and the worry—with someone.

  “Probably because he hates wearing his formal clothes,” grumbled Grange. “If he had his way, he would show up in those hideous things he wore about Struthcoille.”

  Romayne fired a scowl at her abigail. The antipathy between Grange and James was more than she needed tonight. “He shall be welcome in whatever he chooses to wear.” She walked away, not wanting to hear her abigail’s next comment.

  Crossing the room, she offered Ellen a smile. “Do not look so nervous. You shall be the center of attention this evening.”

  “Is James back yet?”

  “He won’t miss your party,” she said with much more assurance than she could feel.

  “Romayne, now—just one last time—explain to me how to greet an earl and his wife.”

  “I think you’ve learned well, but …”

  Within the hour, Romayne was able to discover just how well Ellen had absorbed her lessons. The young woman stood on one side of Romayne and the Duke of Westhampton on the other as they welcomed their guests. Ellen exuded a poise that suggested she had been studying such protocol for years instead of weeks. Only an occasional grasp of Romayne’s hand spoke of her nervousness.

  “I shall need to visit my dear Philomena more often, so I may enjoy the lovely sights of the square,” said Mr. Boumphrey as he bowed over Romayne’s hand. He lifted Ellen’s to his lips. “My dear Miss Dunbar, you shall set the other young ladies’ hearts to quivering with dismay when they see your beauty.”

  “You are so kind, Mr. Boumphrey,” she answered.

  “May I be so bold as to ask that you grant me a dance this evening?”

  Ellen glanced at Romayne, who said, “I am sure that can be arranged, Mr. Boumphrey.”

  As he wandered off to speak with the other guests, Ellen whispered, “Let me dance with him for the first dance.”

  “James should escort you to the floor for that dance,” Romayne said firmly.

  “Need I remind you that he isn’t here?” Hurt sharpened Ellen’s voice.

  “If James is not here, my grandfather would be glad to dance your first dance of your first Season with you.” She patted Ellen’s arm. “Do not look so disconsolate. There will be dozens of dances for you tonight.”

  Romayne had no chance to add more because another wave of guests were washing up the stairs. Kept busy greeting each one and introducing them to Ellen, she was surprised that no one mentioned her husband’s absence. From the curious glances aimed back at her as the guests drifted into the ballroom, she suspected it was, however, much the talk of the evening.

  When Lady Philomena arrived on Lord Kimmel’s arm, she bent to kiss Romayne’s cheek. “My dear Romayne, we must speak soon. There is much to be healed between us, for we have, I fear, been wounded by the same inconsiderate man.”

  “I would like that.” Romayne smiled as Ellen greeted Philomena prettily. The evening was going as well as could be expected, though James was not here to see his cousin receiving the admiration of the gentlemen who might soon be calling upon her.

  Putting her hand on the arm her grandfather offered, she walked with Ellen following into the ballroom. He said in a low rumble, “I had not guessed your husband would beat hoof before collecting the money I offered him.”

  “James would not let you buy him.”

  “Money has bought others.”

  “He is not like others.”

  “Apparently not.” Turning away, he said, “Miss Dunbar, I would be honored to be your partner for your first dance.”

  Romayne stared after them in confusion. Having Grandfather agree with her about James, even so slightly, astounded her.

  She accepted Mr. Boumphrey’s offer to stand up with him and next to Ellen in the line for the first quadrille, but she quickly saw that Ellen wished they could trade places. As soon as the first dance was over, Romayne stepped back and smiled. She would not make the same mistake her grandfather had and forbid Ellen to have anything to do with a man she should not consider marrying. A flirtation with Mr. Boumphrey would do Ellen no harm.

  Her smile wavered and threatened to disappear when her hand was grasped. She spun to see Bradley Montcrief’s satisfied smile.

  “How beautiful you look, my sweet,” he murmured.

  “What are you doing here?” She could not believe her grandfather would have had an invitation sent to him.

  “Romayne, you cannot believe that I would miss your country hob cousin’s come-out.” He refused to relinquish her hand.

  “You need not insult Ellen.”

  “Why not? The little chit insulted you at my house.”

  “Her heart was broken by what she saw as my inconstancy to her cousin.” With a sharp tug, she freed her fingers. “As you had hoped, no doubt.”

  Bradley scanned the room. “Where is the dashing Scotsman tonight?”

  “He is—” She was interrupted by a rumble that raced through the room, gaining strength as each voice was added.

  When she saw the guests looking at the doorway behind her, Romayne turned and gasped as she stared at her husband, but a James totally different from the man she had known before. Instead of the rough clothes he had worn in Scotland or the elegant drapings of the ton, he was dressed in his homeland’s native costume. He stood in silent pride as the guests whispered behind their hands.

  How could he don such a bizarre thing for his cousin’s party?

  Her irritation evaporated when she noticed how the red pleated kilt with its broad green and narrow white plaid accented the strength of his stride as he walked into the room. Across his black silk waistcoat and green velvet coat, the plaid cloth stretched to his shoulder where it was held in place by a large gold brooch before falling over his back where the fullness rippled to the rhythm of his steps. The buckles on his shoes glittered as brightly as his eyes, but not as dangerously.

  She heard twittering and struggled to restrain her fury when Bradley said, loud enough so that his voice carried across the room, “Look! He’s wearing some dead beast at his waist.”

  “It is a sporran,” Romayne retorted. “A purse made of sealskin.”

  “A sporran?” He smiled as he added, “My sweet, you have become quite the expert on Scotland, haven’t you? Of course, you had lessons in such things during your sojourn there.”

  She said icily, “’Tis a shame that you did not use that same time to learn a scrap or two of manners. Good evening, Mr. Montcrief.”

  His hand reached for her but was halted when a broader hand gripped his wrist. When he locked eyes with James, Romayne stepped between them. James said nothing as he released Bradley and held out his hand. She remained as silent when she placed her fingers on his palm and let him lead her away from Bradley, who sputtered curses at their backs.

  “I thought we should dance with my cousin,” James said quietly.

  She saw the glitter of amusement in his eyes. When she realized that he was enjoying the hubbub he had created, she struggled not to grin. That would be a mistake. “If you wish, we can dance.”

  “Something
not too wild. I fear I don’t wear as many smallclothes as you do, and I would reveal a bit more than a hint of lace if my kilt rises in a reel.”

  Romayne almost smiled again but halted herself. She could not allow his charm to seduce her as swiftly as his kisses did. His eyes were bright with strong emotions. As he walked with her to the center of the room, his chin was high. He clearly was daring anyone to question the strange raiment he wore.

  Ellen flung her arms around his neck when they reached where Lord Culver, who had been about to dance with her, was staring in open-mouthed amazement. “Jamie, you look so wonderful! You make me long for home!”

  “I thought you would be pleased,” he said as he smiled at the viscount, then offered Romayne another challenging glance. “Good evening, Lord Culver.”

  “MacKinnon.” The viscount glanced at Romayne as if for assistance.

  The quartet supplied it with the first few notes of a waltz. James held out his arms, and Romayne let him draw her into the music and the magic they had first shared in the empty ballroom of Westhampton Hall.

  Pressing his cheek against hers, he asked, “Nothing untoward has happened here yet?”

  “Other than your arrival?”

  He growled in her ear, “Romayne, this is no jest.”

  She faltered on the next step, but he brought her back into the pattern of the dance. “Do you think the traitor is in this room?” she asked worriedly.

  “I am certain of it.”

  “But who?”

  “That I am far less certain of.” A smile raced across his lips and settled in the warmth of his eyes. “What kind of husband am I to speak of business when I should be telling my wife how exceptionally exquisite she looks tonight?”

  “James, what did you find out today?”

  He chuckled. “I should have known I could not distract you with compliments, honest though they may be. There must be other ways to distract you.”

  A shiver of fiery delight raced through her as his tongue traveled along the whorls of her ear. She clung to him, not wanting to let anything, not even her own fears, come between them and the rapture.

  “What a delightful way to silence you, dearie,” he whispered as she gazed up at his smile.

  “You are a rogue, James MacKinnon.”

  “And you love every moment of it, Romayne MacKinnon.”

  The music stopped, and she had no time to savor the sound of the name she had hated only a month before. Sensing the tension along James’s arm, she watched his eyes search the room, although he knew as she did that the traitor would be well-disguised.

  Ellen threw her arms around both of them and giggled. “I am having such a grand time. Aren’t you glad you didn’t miss this, Jamie?”

  “I hope the evening turns out exactly as you want.” James tweaked her nose, then looked past her to Boumphrey. The tall man was watching them with a patronizing expression.

  Glancing at Romayne, he saw a flash of disquiet in her eyes. She must not be pleased with Boumphrey’s notice of Ellen. On the question of whether the man might be a good match for his cousin, James knew she was the expert.

  He interrupted Boumphrey as the man was about to ask Ellen to dance again. “A glass of something cool, Boumphrey? We must give the ladies some time to prattle about us.”

  Although James thought the taller man would demur, Boumphrey nodded and smiled. “Not much time, however, Miss Dunbar. I do not want to let the evening pass without enjoying another chance to dance with you.”

  Hours later, when in the hours just before dawn the last guests took their leave, James was not surprised that Romayne had prevented Mr. Boumphrey from fulfilling his pledge to Ellen. Not that Ellen seemed distressed, because she chattered like a magpie as her mother led her up the stairs to her room.

  When James bent to pick up a glass that had been left on the floor, a slender hand settled on his arm. He smiled at Romayne.

  “Leave it there,” she said quietly. “The servants will tend to it.”

  “I have become accustomed to cleaning up after myself.”

  “James, please. I need to talk with you.”

  Hearing the fear in her voice, he nodded, setting the glass back on the floor. He drew her hand into his arm and led her up the stairs. She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked along the hall. He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing until he had closed the bedchamber door behind them.

  “Why did you decide to wear that outfit tonight?” she asked.

  “I have reason to believe that the traitor knows the person pursuing him is a Scotsman.” He sat in the overstuffed chair. “What better way to remind him that I am a Scot than to appear in my family’s plaid?”

  Romayne dropped to the window bench. “You risked us all tonight!”

  He stood and pulled her to her feet. Whipping the drapes closed, he snapped, “Stay away from the window!”

  “What are you pattering about?”

  “Any man with one of these,” he drew his pistol from under his plaid, “and a good eye could have hit you from the street. Just think how much needless grief that would have caused your beloved Montcrief.”

  Her eyes widened as terror sank through her, its leaden weight threatening to buckle her knees. She leaned her face on his muslin shirt and shivered. As his arms slowly closed around her, she raised her mouth to meet his. Emotions she could not control erupted into life. Smothering her fury, the longings swirled through her with a frightening power. Slowly her hand rose to curve along his nape. Touching him fired every inch of her until she was sure she would be scorched wherever her body brushed his.

  When he started to lift his lips away, she murmured a protest before she steered his mouth to hers again. The gentleness that had lured her to him tingled along her lips as he grazed them with his tongue. When his breath mixed with hers to burn within her, she softened against him.

  “I don’t want to marry Bradley or Colonel Newman or anyone else,” she whispered. “I love you, James.”

  “You are a sawney.”

  “Am I foolish to love the man who has invaded my every thought until he found a place in my heart?”

  His fingers loosened her curls to tumble along her shoulders. “Aye, you are a sawney. Dearie, don’t you know that I am the last man you should love?”

  “I hope you are, for I vow I shall love you until my last breath.”

  “Romayne, you should know—”

  She silenced him with her mouth against his. Sweeping her arms up beneath his plaid, she stroked the hard muscles of his back. His moan coursed into her mouth, fanning the yearnings into a need she could not govern. She did not want to halt. Not now, not when she knew how easily she could lose him for all time.

  When he lifted her into his arms, she laughed and kicked her slippers off, sending them flying across the room. She did not see where they landed as he placed her on the bed. Her arms brought him to lean over her. The strong angles of his body pressed her deeper into the soft mattress.

  Tantalizing her with a fevered shower of kisses, he let his fingers course along her as he dared her to surrender to the thrill spiraling through her. His plaid dropped forward to brush her bare skin with the wool which was no smoother than his skin.

  He drew her to her knees as he slowly unhooked the back of her gown. It drooped across her breasts, and she raised her hands to hold it in place.

  With a smile, he lifted one hand away, then the other. “Let me see you, dearie, as I have seen you in my dreams.”

  “You have dreamed of this, too?”

  He laughed in a husky tone that swirled through her, making her so excruciatingly aware of the emptiness inside her that she needed for him to fill. “Dearie, I have dreamed of this since the moment you first slept in my arms.”

  His mouth took hers, every bit of patience gone from his demanding caress. Slipping her dress down to leave it pooled around her on the covers, he slid his hands along her, loosening all her clothes until they lay in a cr
umpled pile on the bed. She quivered as his bold hands traced an alluring path along her. Grasping his shoulders, she moaned when his palm cupped her breast and a single finger brushed its very tip.

  She leaned back into the bed and pulled him to lie beside her. When she started to undo the pin holding his plaid in place, her fingers froze as she was overmastered by the scintillating sensation of his tongue along her breast. His sharp intake of breath coursed across her skin as she tasted the rough skin of his neck and nibbled lightly on his earlobe.

  He orchestrated her emotions, driving her to a frenzied yearning with his touch and bold kisses, then teasing her with a tenderness that made her want more. When he moved away from her, she whispered a protest. Too often, he had left her yearning for his touch. Tonight she would not be denied again.

  She reached out a lazy finger to tangle in the matting across his chest as with a few, swift motions, he removed his clothes. When she stared at his virile, masculine body, which soon would be part of her, she was sure she had never seen anything so beautiful or that she wanted more.

  Holding up her arms, she whispered, “My love, come love me.”

  “I can imagine nothing I would as lief do.” He sat beside her and swept aside her clothes.

  His touch was devastating as he rolled her stockings along her legs. He did not hurry, although she heard his breath growing as rapid as hers. He wanted her. She wanted him. Nothing could be more perfect.

  She discovered how wrong she was when he reclined next to her and pulled her atop him. Every breath brushed her against the unyielding wall of his body, which was hardest where she was most fragile. She could not still the motions of her body, each touch an agonizing enchantment. Feeling the throb of his heart against hers, she lured his mouth to hers, because she wanted no part of her unconnected to him.

  With a groan, he rolled her into the mattress and drew her beneath him. He joined them together as her hands splayed across his back. A tempest overpowered her, and she clung to him, not wanting to be separate from him ever again. Furious winds seared her, sweeping her closer to him with every motion. His mouth found hers, and ecstasy consumed her in its fierce firestorm at the very moment she knew that every dream she had feared was lost forever had now come true.