Highlander in Disguise

by Julia London

Her less-than-enthusiastic acceptance into society was something of a mystery to her, but not one that she dwelled upon now—she had far more important things to think about, such as her dogs and the course of training them for the hunt. And at the moment, as the carriage inched forward, moment by interminable moment, she was thinking about Lockhart, the only bright spot to her otherwise exceedingly dull existence.

  At long last the carriage rolled to a stop outside the main gates of the Darlington mansion, and the four of them spilled out.

  Lucy and Anna fell in behind their parents and stood patiently as they waited to be announced. Lucy took the opportunity to give Anna’s gown a bit of critical study and opined, “You should have worn the pearl necklace. It would go well with your gown.”

  Anna shot a look at her. “Do you mean the pearl necklace you’re wearing? My necklace? The one you said you simply had to have or you’d not attend tonight’s ball?”

  “Did I really say so?” Lucy asked with a pert toss of her head. “Well I—Oh! Who is that?” she asked, going up on her toes to peer over her father’s shoulder.

  Anna looked to where Lucy indicated and caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered man’s back as he turned the corner and walked into the gentlemen’s gaming room just as the Darlington butler intoned, “Lord and Lady Whittington…Miss Anna Addison…Miss Lucy Addison.”

  Their father offered his arm to their mother, and the four of them glided into the ballroom.

  Several young dandies instantly flocked to Lucy, who was, to her great delight, already rumored to be this Season’s most desirable debutante. Anna stood patiently by with a smile pasted on her face, just as she had done all her life next to one sister or the other, alternating between feeling quite self-conscious and rather insignificant as Lucy received the young men’s warm salutations.

  She was thinking she’d just as soon find a quiet corner than stand there when she felt two gloved fingers on her elbow.

  She glanced over her shoulder, felt her body’s heat surge into her neck and face, for the hand on her elbow belonged to none other than him—tall with golden brown hair, a charming smile, and mysterious brown eyes. “Why, Mr. Lockhart,” she exclaimed with a sly smile. “Fancy meeting you here, at a tedious ball.”

  “Tedious?” he asked, cocking a brow. “I cannot imagine what you mean, Miss Addison, for nothing could keep me from the pleasure of viewing the loveliest ladies London has to offer.” His gaze flicked the length of her. “And might I add that seeing such a radiant image of femininity and good health is most sublime.”

  The warmth in her neck was rapidly spreading down her body, and Anna laughed low, flicked open her fan and looked covertly about the room over the top of it. “Have you come alone, Mr. Lockhart? Or will we have the pleasure of meeting your brother and Miss Lockhart, too?”

  “Naturally, my sister has come in the company of my parents,” he said, smiling as if he knew what heat he caused in her. “Unfortunately, my brother, Nigel, is in Bath this Season, taking the waters there.”

  Sobering up was more like it, and everyone knew it. It was no secret among the Mayfair drawing rooms that Mr. Nigel Lockhart was fonder of drink than food or women or sleep. Anna had heard from Bette (who knew everything about everyone) that when Drake had arrived home from the Continent, he had instantly sent his younger brother to Bath in the company of an elderly uncle until he could free himself of the demon drink.

  “What of you, ma petite Anna Addison?” Drake asked, stepping closer, so close that he was almost touching her. “Have you come in the company of your parents? Is there perhaps a chance that a gentleman might have the pleasure of your company for a walkabout in the gardens when the moon is full? Or would the gentleman be forced to endure the presence of her venerable papa, too?”

  Anna laughed. “I assure you, sir, if a gentleman were to escort me on a moonlit walk about the gardens, my father would be the last to hear of it, directly after the vicar.”

  Lockhart grinned. “Oh my, Miss Addison, how terribly wicked of you. I shall certainly have to seek you out and request the favor, shan’t I?”

  It was all Anna could do to keep from nodding eagerly, but she slanted him another look over the top of her fan. “Perhaps,” she said with a slight, noncommittal shrug.

  “Until the moon, then, Miss Addison,” Lockhart said, and with a sly wink he stepped around her and walked to where Lucy was standing, still in the midst of several young gentlemen.

  Anna watched him surreptitiously, hoping feverishly that he would greet Lucy and walk on. But when he spoke to her, Lucy’s face erupted into a lovely wreath of smiles, her amber eyes sparkling, and Lockhart was caught in her perfect little web. Lucy had an enviable way with men, an innate quality that Anna could not explain.

  Nevertheless, she told herself that Lockhart did not care for Lucy’s attention, but was simply being polite, and then she tried hard to believe it. Yet watching it— the charming tilt of his head, the broad smile—was so painful that she felt the urge to march into their midst and break up the happy little reunion.

  It was her sister, Lady Featherstone, who stopped her by suddenly appearing at her side.

  “At whom are you staring so intently?” Bette asked after kissing her on the cheek.

  “What?” Anna asked, feigning surprise. “Why should you think I am staring? There’s hardly anything or anyone who captures my attention.”

  “There’s someone who might,” Bette said, and slipped her hand into the crook of Anna’s arm, forcing her to walk along the edge of the dance floor. She leaned in, whispered conspiratorially, “You shall never guess who is in attendance tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “No, no… guess,” Bette said, poking her in the side.

  “Bette!” Anna exclaimed. “I can’t possibly guess! Who, then?”

  “Oh, all right,” Bette said, frowning at Anna’s incompetence at playing her game. “The Scot.”

  Anna instantly perked up at the mention of the Scot. She had been intrigued from the first mention a month or so ago, when reports of a Scottish earl with business in London began to make the rounds of drawing rooms. He was making quite a splash, all told—it was said he was quite entertaining, quite wealthy, quite handsome, and quite in need of a wife—the latter being pure speculation, of course, but the fact that he was a Scot added an air of intrigue to the usual game.

  As it happened, Anna had met a Scot once before— last Season, when Captain Lockhart had come into the ton’s midst for all too brief a time.

  On that occasion, she had been at the Lockhart ball, and as Drake had not yet returned from the Continent, she had been quite bored. Until Barbara Lockhart, insufferable Philistine that she was, had introduced Anna to her Scottish cousin, and instantly Anna had been captivated by his accent, the air of impatience, and the scar across his cheek. That evening she had made a game of following him about, and when she’d found him, alone, poking about the Lockharts’ small study, she had been highly titillated.

  Her reward had been a very passionate kiss that had left her breathless and weak-kneed and dying to know more. Unfortunately, that ruggedly handsome Scot had disappeared without a trace just a few days after that… at the same time the reclusive Ellen Farnsworth had disappeared.

  That extraordinary coincidence, coupled with that extraordinary kiss, had fascinated Anna.

  Some speculated that Miss Farnsworth went willingly with the captain—after all, she had something of a reputation in that regard. Others said the captain had kidnapped her, and that old Farnsworth was too much the penny-pincher to pay the ransom. And even wiser heads argued that there was no connection between the two disappearances whatsoever, very tiresomely insisting that the Scot had simply returned to Scotland and Miss Farnsworth had returned to Cornwall.

  Whatever the truth, Anna had built it up to a great romantic adventure in her mind, and the story had so deeply ingrained itself in her imagination that she had, over the last year, devoured all things Scottis
h, from historical accounts, to travel volumes, to old maps. Scotland sounded magical, a land where time did not march so ploddingly along as it did here, in the Mayfair district of London.

  Therefore, the mention of a new Scot excited Anna, and she very much wanted an introduction.

  “There he is,” Bette said, tapping her arm with her fan as they strolled along the southern wall of the ballroom.

  Anna looked to where her sister indicated and saw a group of men conversing. She recognized one strong back as belonging to the same gentleman she and Lucy had glimpsed as they waited to be announced. That surprised her; she had assumed the earl was an older man. The Scot was tall, like the captain, but not as thick. His hair, almost black, was slicked back and was longer than most, but nonetheless coiffed in the current fashion. His shoulders were perfectly square, his waist trim, and not fish-bellied like so many gentlemen of the ton seemed to be.

  “Introduce me?” Anna whispered. “Come on, say you will!”

  Bette laughed. “He is pleasing, is he not? But I haven’t been properly introduced, either.” At Anna’s imploring look, she laughed. “All right, then, I’ll see what I can do.” With a wink and a tap of her fan against Anna’s shoulder, she went sailing off to find someone to introduce them, leaving Anna standing alone against the thick brocade drapes.

  Anna flicked open her fan, held it up so that she could scan the room. The Scot and the other gentlemen remained deeply entrenched in conversation, and much to her dismay, Drake was still in the company of Lucy. From where she stood, she could see Lucy coyly laughing.

  Unable to watch the flirtation between her sister and the man she so admired, Anna turned away—at which point she happened to see Miss Crabtree, alone, perched on the edge of her seat, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The poor dear—she had the dual misfortune of being quite plain and rather soft-spoken. The combination of the two always kept her apart from the rest of the crowd, and even on those rare occasions a kind soul would take pity and attempt to draw her in, no one could hear a word the girl said.

  Anna could hardly abide it—the ton could be so cruel at times—and began walking purposefully in Miss Crabtree’s direction, intent on speaking with her. But as she moved toward Miss Crabtree, she noticed that the Scottish earl and Mr. Fynster-Allen were likewise walking toward Miss Crabtree, and it became plainly evident that they meant to speak with her.

  Poor Miss Crabtree had noticed them, too, and white as a sheet, she tried to sit a little straighter.

  Mr. Fynster-Allen was the first to reach her, and bent over to speak. Miss Crabtree was instantly nodding, allowing Mr. Fynster-Allen to help her to her feet, and glancing uneasily at the Scottish earl, who at that moment stepped from behind Mr. Fynster-Allen and bowed deeply.

  A breath caught in Anna’s throat as he stopped fully in her view. Dear heaven, but he was extraordinarily handsome, with a square jaw, an angular nose, and deep-set, gorgeously green eyes. And when he smiled—a frighteningly charming smile—it was so bright and warm that she could feel her belly flutter as Miss Crabtree dipped a terribly awkward curtsey, from which the earl rescued her by reaching for her hand and lifting her up.

  Miss Crabtree (all right, and Anna, too) almost swooned; she looked up at the earl, tipping her head all the way back to see him, her mouth agape.

  Much to Anna’s considerable amazement, the earl extended his arm, onto which Miss Crabtree laid a trembling hand, and he led her onto the dance floor.

  The parting of the Red Sea could not possibly have been more dramatic, for not one person in the ballroom missed his exceptional act of kindness.

  He moved Miss Crabtree effortlessly and gracefully about the dance floor, and tiny talons of envy pricked at Anna’s insides. The couple swirled past the small orchestra, beneath the six circles of beeswax candles hanging from the ceiling, and past the floor-to-ceiling French doors that led out into the gardens— but then something else caught her eye, and Anna nearly dropped her fan.

  Just behind the beaming Miss Crabtree, Drake and her sister stepped out into the night.

  Her heart sank; she instantly started in that direction, moving against the crowd, navigating her way through the chairs and people and the ridiculous number of decorative plants until she found her way out onto the veranda—but Lockhart and Lucy were nowhere to be seen.

  Oblivious to the couples standing around her, Anna stood there for several minutes, debating whether she should walk into the gardens and confront them or simply hope it was not as it seemed and return to the ballroom. But as she believed her heart could not bear the sight of them locked in some moonlit embrace, she finally lowered her head, turned, and walked back through the French doors— and almost collided with Miss Crabtree, who, with a sheen of perspiration on her brow, was grinning wildly. “Miss Addison!” she cried buoyantly and very plainly. “I didn’t know you had come this evening!”

  Anna gathered her wits. “I shouldn’t miss it,” she said, lifting a smile to Miss Crabtree. And oh!—the Scottish earl was standing behind her. Her gaze traveled up to his dark brows, one cocked in amusement above his green eyes.

  “Have you had the pleasure of making Lord Ardencaple’s acquaintance?” Miss Crabtree asked, and Anna could only shake her head as her gaze fell to his lips.

  “If I may present my good friend, Miss Addison.”

  Somehow Anna managed to lift her hand and dip a curtsey. He smiled pleasantly, took her hand in his big one, and bent over it, his lips grazing her gloved knuckles. “A pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Miss Addison,” he said in a lovely, lilting accent.

  Her gaze steady on his smile, those lips, those lovely yet masculine lips, Anna muttered, “The pleasure is certainly all mine, my lord.”

  He cocked a curious brow, but Anna couldn’t speak, could hardly even move. Lord Ardencaple shifted his smile to Amelia Crabtree. “Shall we take a wee bit of air, Miss Crabtree?”

  “I’d be delighted,” she said, beaming up at him.

  “Will ye excuse us then, Miss Addison?” he asked.

  Too dumbfounded to find her tongue, Anna nodded helplessly and stepped aside. As they passed, the earl smiled, but Anna couldn’t tear her gaze away from his mouth.

  Those were extraordinary lips for a man, full and ripe and quite enticing, which Anna should know— she wouldn’t forget those lips in her lifetime, and had thought of them practically daily since she had kissed an almost identical pair one year ago at the Lockhart ball.

  Four

  H aving met his sixth Amelia since his arrival in London a month or so ago, Grif was coming round to the conclusion that being one of their number likely meant that the poor female was rather young and plain or old and fat. This one, bless her, was even plainer than the first young Amelia, who at least had a rather jovial spirit that made up for her large beak of a nose and tiny mouth.

  None of the Amelias he’d met thus far were acquainted with Lady Battenkirk. But Grif had high hopes for this Amelia.

  She was practically floating beside him as they toured the gardens. It would seem that Miss Crabtree’s opportunities for such walkabouts were rare indeed, and judging by the way her little hand clutched his arm, Grif thought it might be a bit of a struggle to extract himself from her company. Better to get it over and done with, then.

  “Quite a lovely moon, aye?” he asked, looking up to the watery image of a half moon, obscured by the sooty haze from thousands of chimneys.

  “Oh, my lord, I think it perhaps the loveliest moon I have ever seen!” she exclaimed with great enthusiasm.

  If that was the loveliest moon she had ever seen, he pitied her, for she, along with all the bloody Englishmen, had no idea what inspiration one could divine from the big, milky white moon that hung ripe over Talla Dileas. The lass would think she’d passed through the pearly gates to heaven.

  “’Tis quite amazing how the moon can look so very different from place to place. Have ye been abroad, Miss Crabtree?”

  She blinked two small
blue eyes. “Abroad? Ah…my family has a country home, in Yorkshire. We are back and forth between here and there.”

  “That’s the travel ye’ve done, then?”

  “Yes?” she asked, biting her lower lip as if she feared he might be cross with her for not having ventured farther into the world.

  Grif couldn’t possibly have cared less if she’d traveled as far as the ladies’ retiring room or not. “There’s quite a lot to see in the world, there is. Ye must rely on the tales of yer friends who go abroad.”

  “I suppose…Well, of course!”

  “I’d wager they bring ye trifles now and again.”

  “Trifles?”

  “Wee gifts.”

  She bit deeper into her lip. “Well… I suppose they might. If they traveled very far, that is. But what with the Season upon us all, my friends are rather firmly rooted in London,” she said with an uncertain smile.

  “All of them, really?”

  She nodded.

  Grif smiled. “Are you acquainted with Lady Battenkirk, then?”

  Miss Crabtree’s wee eyes went wide with surprise. “Lady Battenkirk!” she exclaimed. “Certainly I know of her, but… but I could not fairly count her among my acquaintances.”

  Bloody hell, then. Grif shrugged. “Ah. I had heard she’s had the good fortune to travel quite extensively,” he explained, “and I should like to inquire if she’s ventured as far as Scotland.”

  “Oh! I suppose you’ll have to wait for a time before you may ask her that,” Miss Crabtree said, obviously pleased to know something after all.

  “And why is that?”

  “I am given to understand that she has gone off to Wales to study cathedral ruins.”

  “I beg yer pardon—to study what?”

  “Cathedral ruins. Cathedrals are rather large churches—”

  “Miss Crabtree, I’m no’ such a heathen that I donna know what a cathedral is,” he said with a wink. “But a study of them?”

  “The architecture, that sort of thing.”

  Ach, for the love of Christ! Did the English have nothing better to do with their time than study architecture? In Wales of all places?