by Cara Elliott
As for Caro…
There was no denying that she had helped pull his cods out of the fire. And he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“My goodness, how very exciting,” murmured Isobel.
“You’ve been reading too many novels,” said Alec, hoping to discourage any further questions. “Like most gatherings of rich, overfed aristocrats, it was for the most part a tedious, boring affair.”
The comment caused her lips to twitch. “I daresay you shocked most of them with your outspoken political opinions on virtues of hereditary monarchy versus democracy.”
“As a courtesy to Cousin Miriam, I refrained from expressing my views.” With a few notable exceptions. To his surprise, Caro Sloane had proved to be unexpectedly radical in her own ideas. On a number of subjects.
“That must have cost you dear,” quipped Isobel.
“She is a very generous benefactor of my efforts to see that the Highland crofters have schools for their children. So muzzling my radical ideas was a paltry price to pay.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Speaking of radical ideas…”
Alec silently cursed himself for mentioning the subject, hoping she would not pursue the matter of his involvement in the clandestine political movement that sought independence for Scotland. The less she knew, the better.
“Caro has some very interesting thoughts on Lord Byron and his epic poetry.”
He exhaled in relief—a fraction too soon.
“She wonders whether passion and sex—”
“Sex!” sputtered Alec.
Isobel raised her brows. “Good heavens, shall I fetch Aunt Adelaide’s bottle of vinaigrette? You look on the verge of swooning.”
“And with good reason,” he retorted. “My baby sister ought not… ought not be exposed to…” He paused for a fraction, wondering how he had managed to lose control of the conversation.
“Why is it that men assume we ladies are completely ignorant of the ways of the world?”
“Because,” he said through gritted teeth, “Gently reared ladies of delicate sensibilities should be protected from the grim realities—”
“Sex is grim?” Isobel’s brows rose a notch higher. “Strange, that’s not the impression I get from the books and poetry I read.”
“You are,” he snapped, “banned from the library as of this moment.”
“Ha!” she answered. “That’s a bit like closing the barn door after the horses—or rather, the stallions—have bolted free.”
Alec was sorely tempted to make a run for the Scottish border.
“Oh, don’t look so queasy,” she added. “Having some knowledge of the world is not a bad thing for a lady. Ignorance can make one vulnerable.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
“That’s another reason I like Caro Sloane. She has such interesting knowledge about a wide variety of subjects. I wish I knew half the things she does.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” replied Alec. “In London, the three Sloane sisters are known as the Hellions of High Street. The mean-spirited gossip died down once the eldest married the very rich and very proper Earl of Wrexham. But the family is still considered a trifle odd.”
“Why?”
“Because their late father was an eccentric scholar and adventurer, and believed his daughters should have the same education as any son would receive.”
“He sounds like he was a very wise man,” murmured Isobel. “You’ve always encouraged me to be inquisitive and to learn new things.”
“I may revise my thinking,” shot back Alec.
She regarded him thoughtfully. “Interesting.”
Ignoring the comment, he spent several moments rearranging the empty decanter and glasses on the silver tray.
Looking up to find her gaze still focused on him, he gave an exasperated sigh. “What?”
“I’ve never seen a lady make you so agitated,” mused his sister. “It must mean something.”
“Yes—it means that she is too…”
Dangerous.
“Different,” he finished.
“I’m not sure that is such a bad thing.” Isobel tapped at her chin. “Lady Fiona Sunderland remarked last year that the wall around your heart is thicker and harder than Highland granite.”
“She should know,” he growled. “She tried using a hammer and chisel to chip away at my refusal to make her an offer of marriage.”
“Oh, I agree that the two of you would never have suited, but my point is, you’ve never shown the least emotion over any of the many ladies who have set their cap at you, since…”
Since he had been a callow, youthful fool.
Isobel looked apologetic.
“Forgive me, but if that is your point, I fail to see its meaning.” The whisky, which he had downed to bring a pleasantly mellow fuzziness to his thoughts, was now beginning to make his head ache.
“It means you’ve never let a lady pique your interest since… a long time ago.”
“Bella,” he warned in a low growl.
She ignored him and went on, “But admit it—you find Caro Sloane intriguing.”
“A more accurate adjective is ‘infuriating,’ ” replied Alec.
“Even better,” countered Isobel. “Heated feelings bode well for a passionate relationship.”
Deciding not to ask how she had come to that conclusion, he merely responded, “As I said, we are too different.”
“There is an old adage that says opposites attract.”
“And there is an even older one that says oil and water don’t mix,” scoffed Alec.
Isobel’s eyes lit with mirth. “Actually they do. Just ask any woman who’s spent time in a kitchen. You just have to put them together and shake or stir very vigorously.”
Chapter Three
… Nothing exciting ever happens in Bath.
“Ha!” Exhaling a wry sigh, Caro looked up from her sister Anna’s letter. “For the most part that is true,” she murmured to the potted geraniums who shared the Pump House alcove with her. “Quite likely the next few weeks will bring only the usual boring activities that make this town such an uninspiring place for a anyone seeking to pen passionate poetry.”
Especially as Lord Strathcona had not yet shown his face since playing the hero five nights ago.
“Wretch,” she added under her breath, before returning her attention to the letter.
Oh, but never fret, went on Anna. The time will likely pass more quickly than you imagine. And who knows, you may end up being pleasantly surprised. After all, the spa waters do occasionally attract interesting gentlemen…
Ha, that was easy for her sister to say. Anna had recently married the dark and dangerously dashing “Devil” Davenport, and the new couple were spending their wedding trip in faraway Russia, visiting St. Petersburg, a city known for its opulent splendors and extravagant parties.
Sparkling ballrooms, exotic men, exciting flirtations, thought Caro glumly. While I pine for—
“Miss Caro?”
A familiar voice interrupted her brooding.
“I say, is that really you skulking among the flowerpots?”
“Lord Andover.” Edging out from between the marble display pedestals, she smiled at Anna’s former beau. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Thank God,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I was beginning to fear there was no one in town under the age of eighty.”
“I fear we are few and far between,” replied Caro.
“Then how fortunate that I spotted you among those exquisite roses,” replied Andover. “Your bloom, of course, puts them to the blush.”
“They are geraniums, Andy,” pointed out Caro.
He grinned. “Didn’t Shakespeare say something about a rose by any name would look as lovely?”
She rolled her eyes, drawing a chuckle. “You are mangling his magnificent poetry.”
“No doubt. I am not nearly as well read as you and your sisters.” He offered his arm. “Rega
rdless, come take a walk with me around the fountain, so that I may bask in your reflected beauty.”
“You need not waste your flatteries on me,” said Caro, falling in step with him. “I know you’ve never really forgiven me for the frog incident.” It was not for nothing that the Sloane sisters were known as the Hellions of High Street. And she, as the youngest, was the most devilish of the three.
“Having a small, green croaking creature hop out of my pocket and into Lady Tilden’s soup tureen was not overly amusing at the time,” he conceded with a smile. Thinking it a deliberate prank, the imperious dowager countess, one of the highest sticklers in Society, had threatened to have Andover banned from Mayfair’s ballrooms for the rest of the Season. “But in retrospect, I do see the humor in it. And the fact that I’ve never been invited back to one of her boring dinner parties is a blessing in disguise.”
“I was only sixteen and still a silly schoolgirl. And if truth be told, I was chafing at the fact that I was still a child in the eyes of Society, while my two older sisters were part of the glittering, glamorous adult world of parties and balls and dancing until dawn.”
“Which really isn’t quite so exciting as it sounds, is it?” replied Andover dryly. “One limps home on aching feet, feeling utterly exhausted. Being gay and charming requires an awful lot of effort.”
Caro smiled. Of all Anna’s erstwhile admirers, Andover was her favorite. His quick wit and self-deprecating sense of humor complemented his sunny good cheer and faultless manners.
“Not for you, it doesn’t,” she pointed out. “Everyone adores you because you are so thoroughly nice.”
“Nice.” He made a wry face. “That smacks of being damned with faint praise.”
“You need no flowery compliments from me,” she said. “You hear more than enough from the rest of the ton.”
Andover inclined a polite nod to a trio of passing dowagers before answering, “As do you. The silly schoolgirl has grown into a lovely young lady and quickly made up for lost time.” He turned his head, and their gazes met. “Was your first Season all that you hoped it would be?”
How to answer?
Caro felt a flush steal to her cheeks. The endless parties, the elegant entertainments, the glittering ballrooms aswirl in sumptuous silks and satins—it had all been an exciting experience, as heady and effervescent as the champagne bubbling in the cut crystal glasses. But she was also aware that at times, the blazing lights had seemed overbright, the laughter overloud, the ladies overdressed.
“I am not sure,” she admitted. “There was much that was wonderful. And yet…” She gave herself a little shake. “I know this may sound silly, but I sometimes felt a little lonely because I was not able to share the experiences with my sisters.”
Olivia and Anna had both been traveling with their husbands, so the townhouse on High Street had been empty, save for herself and her mother, whose health was taking a turn for the worse. It felt strange and a little unsettling. She missed her sisters dearly—the laughter, the words of wisdom. She even missed the teasing.
“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” murmured Andover. “My two brothers joined Wellington’s staff and marched off to the Peninsula last year. I miss their camaraderie.”
They walked on in silence for several moments, then Andover turned their steps to the table selling the sulfurous mineral water for which the town was famous.
“A toast,” he said, handing her a glass. “For despite any personal reservations you may have, I assure you that your debut into Society was a smashing success.”
“As to that, my sisters and their husbands have done much to smooth the way—”
He cut her off with a quick exclamation. “Fustian! You have earned the admiration all on your own.”
Her color deepened. She was sure her face must be a vivid shade of scarlet. So much for being worldly and sophisticated when a simple compliment from a friend had her near speechless in confusion.
“Indeed, I must congratulate you on attracting a bevy of ardent admirers. I vow, it was often impossible to see you through the throng of surrounding gentlemen.”
“Oh, you are teasing me.”
Andover grinned. “Just a little.”
She sipped her water, hoping it might help cool her flaming cheeks.
“I imagine you will have a number of offers to consider when you return to London,” he went on. “I suspect that Russell and Noyes are the ones who have the best hope of capturing your heart.”
They were both interesting and engaging gentlemen. But somehow—she wasn’t sure she could explain quite why—they did not light any excitement in her soul.
No spark, no fire.
And surely a poet should feel more than a mild warmth for any gentleman who was seeking to win her hand.
Her fingers tightened around her glass. “N-n-not necessarily,” she stammered.
“Oh, you can confide in me. Since your sisters aren’t around, consider me your brother.” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “So come now, which one will you accept?”
Caro looked away for a moment. Strangely enough, the only image that came to mind was of a gentleman with red-gold hair and austere features that might have been carved out of Highland granite—
No, no, no.
She quickly blotted out the mental image. It was absurd to think of the fleeting moments all those months ago when they had set aside their differences to talk of art and literature. Most assuredly he didn’t.
As Andover pointed out, there were any number of far more amiable men. Polite, adoring men.
So why didn’t that lift her spirits?
Forcing a smile, Caro made herself match his playful tone. Time enough in the solitude after midnight to try to sort out her tangled emotions. “Surely you don’t expect me to tell you before my intended?”
The twinkle in Andover’s eye became more pronounced. “I suppose that’s fair enough.”
“Assuming there is an offer I mean to accept,” Caro added hastily, hoping her cheeks weren’t on fire.
“Ah, is that why you are rusticating in Bath, rather than enjoying the attentions in London?” he inquired. “Because you are trying to make up your mind?”
She gave him what she hoped was an enigmatic smile.
“I vote for Noyes. Russell is a nice fellow, but I’m not sure he has enough backbone for you.”
The comment caused an odd pinch in her chest. “Am I that much of a headstrong hellion?”
Andover’s chuckle died away. “It was meant as compliment, Miss Caro. You have a rare spirit.”
For an instant, she wondered whether his flirtations were more than brotherly. She hoped not. There was no denying his charm, his good looks, or the fact that his company was delightfully companionable. He was the best of friends, but as for being more than that—
“And in case you are thinking that I mean to work my wiles on you, perhaps we ought to, um, make sure there are no misunderstandings between us.” He cleared his throat with a cough before adding, “We have a wonderful friendship, which—”
“Yes, yes, I couldn’t agree more,” she interrupted in a rush of relief. “Nothing could be more perfect.”
“Right-ho. Absolutely nothing!” He, too, blew out his breath. “Well, now that we understand each other perfectly, I trust I will be the second to know when you decide who the lucky fellow will be.”
“You are forgetting one thing, Andy. The decision is not entirely up to me. The lucky fellow does have some say in the matter.” She was careful to keep her mind’s eye firmly shut. “Despite what you think about me being a hellion, I’m not about to club him over the head—assuming there is a him—and drag him to the altar.”
He grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. If you really felt strongly enough about the fellow, I suspect you might be willing to resort to extreme measures.”
“Well, there is no fellow, so let us not waste our breath in arguing the point,” said Caro.
“Very well.”
They strolled on, making several leisurely circuits of the Pump Room promenade while chatting about the just-finished London Season. Most of the other patrons that afternoon were elderly, and Andover left off his teasing to nod politely to many of the ladies.
“A number of them are bosom bows with my grandmother,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “And she will ring a peal over my head if my manners aren’t up to her exacting standards.”
“I wouldn’t think that the prospect of a grandmotherly lecture would strike terror into such a stalwart heart as yours,” remarked Caro dryly.
“Oh, but it does!” he replied. “You see, she has a very pointy cane and knows how to wield it.”
As they rounded the next turn, Andover was obliged to stop and converse about the upcoming races at Newmarket with the Marquess of Webster, allowing Caro a chance to survey the surroundings.
Craning her neck, she hoped to spot Isobel among the crowd. A cough had kept her new friend confined to her bed for the last two days, but a note she had sent this morning had indicated that the physician might allow her out for a short stroll to fortify herself with the healthful waters.
Growing up, friendships with girls her own age had not come easy to Caro. Between the travel to exotic locales while her father was still alive and the family’s reputation for eccentricity, Polite Society was not overly willing to have their children mingle with the Hellions of High Street. It hadn’t really mattered while her sisters were still at home.
But now, with the house feeling forlornly empty, the chance to talk about literature and art with another young lady who shared her interests was something she sorely missed.
She had a feeling that Isobel Urquehart might be a kindred spirit. Despite the fact that Alec McClellan was her brother.
As if summoned by some perverse Celtic imp of mischief, a shock of all-too-familiar red-gold hair suddenly appeared among the more muted shades of silver.
