From the polite surprise on Mr. Grant’s face, Ilsa was sure her guess had been correct. All interest in a union between them was Papa’s, and Papa’s alone. Still, she smiled at Mr. Grant and even agreed to dance with him later, when Papa shamelessly maneuvered the poor man into asking.
Ilsa did love to dance, and she had nothing against Mr. Grant. But she had higher hopes tonight.
The St. James girls were at the far end of the room. Ilsa’s eyes skimmed over the crowd, and finally spotted the captain. She had missed him, despite his height, because he was stooped over listening to dainty Miss Flora Clapperton, eldest daughter of a wealthy gentleman and rumored to have ten thousand pounds in dowry. Flora was flighty but sweet, and she could talk for an hour without drawing breath—especially if encouraged, as Winifred St. James appeared to be doing, standing beaming at her side and frequently drawing her brother’s attention with a hand on his arm.
Ilsa settled herself on a chair with a good view of the proceedings. There was no harm in that, she told herself, nor in taking some enjoyment from the baffled expression on the captain’s face as his sisters nudged him into marriage. She had no right to expect any other pleasures concerning him.
“You look pleased with yourself tonight,” said a familiar but unwelcome voice behind her.
And just like that, her good mood curdled. Ilsa resisted the urge to get up and walk away. “I was,” she said evenly, “until you appeared.”
Impervious, Liam Hewitt plopped into the chair next to her, folding his arms across his chest. He worked in her father’s shop, Papa’s most trusted wright, but Ilsa found him deeply annoying.
There were many reasons why. He was smug. He was arrogant. He had a braying laugh. He was handsome and clever, but not nearly as handsome or clever as he thought himself. And for some bizarre and horrible yet unknown reason, he regularly inflicted himself upon Ilsa like a bad rash.
“I beg your pardon, sir, that seat is spoken for,” she said.
Liam smirked. “No, it isn’t. You just sat down—alone, as usual.” He bumped her shoulder with his, causing Ilsa to frown at him and turn away. “Old Fletcher is trying to get you wed again, ain’t he?” He shook his head with a tsk. “That’s a fool’s errand. Who’s the victim?”
She opened her fan and kept her expression serene. Liam would only get worse if she gave any sign of distress or anger. “I will be sure to tell Papa you think him foolish.”
He barked with laughter. “Will you! I’ll tell him to his face. You’re bitter medicine to force upon any man. He ought to spare himself the trouble.”
“By all means.” She gestured with her fan. “Go now. He is over there.”
Liam squinted across the room, toward where her father was flirting with Mrs. Lowrie, a handsome widow half his age. “Not while he’s at pleasure. I could hardly deny the man some sport, could I?”
“No, by all means insult his daughter instead,” she said coolly. “He will be so grateful to you.”
He scowled. “You’re as tart as a lemon, ain’t you?”
“More like hemlock.” She smiled slyly at him. “Best keep your distance, Liam.”
With a muttered oath he flung himself off the chair and into the crowd. Ilsa smoothed her skirts and tried not to give Liam the pleasure of ruining her evening. She was sure he disliked her as much as she disliked him, and her life would be vastly improved if he would have the courtesy to leave her be.
“How you put up with that man I shall never know,” whispered Agnes St. James, sliding into the seat as soon as Liam had disappeared. “What an oily little toad!”
Ilsa hummed in agreement. “He thinks himself more important than he is, which is never good for a man to think.”
Agnes glanced at her. “How can your father be so fond of him, when he’s so spiteful toward you?”
Ilsa shrugged. It was true, and she had no idea why. Papa called Liam his right-hand man, one of the most talented cabinet-makers in Scotland. Every time Ilsa said a word against Liam, Papa brushed it off and defended Liam. She had little choice but to put up with the annoying man.
She flicked away a bit of dirt from her glove, tired of discussing him. “Tell me something more intriguing. How goes Winnie and Bella’s plan to find your brother a rich bride?”
Finally a grin split her friend’s face. “Oh, splendidly. They’ve made him dance with Catriona Hill and Lady Erskine already, and now they’ve thrown him into Flora Clapperton’s clutches.” Agnes peered down the room, where Flora was still chattering away at the captain. “Drew will ask her to dance simply for peace and quiet.”
Ilsa laughed. “He’s very good-natured, then.”
“About Flora? Yes.” Agnes hesitated. “I think he might have liked Catriona, though.”
Ilsa kept smiling even as her stomach tightened. Catriona Hill was statuesque, witty, and intelligent. She and the captain would make a handsome pair. “If your sisters cannot have their Seasons in London, they could open a matchmaking service.”
Agnes laughed as Bella dashed up. There was a handsome young man on her heels, his cheeks flushed with drink or from dancing. Bella paused long enough to lean close to the two of them and whisper, “The hook is baited! Let’s see how long it takes him to bite!” before she whirled away in the arms of her partner.
Sure enough, the captain led out Miss Clapperton. She was still speaking, and as Ilsa watched—half amused, half unreasonably annoyed—Captain St. James looked up, right over Miss Clapperton’s head and into her eyes.
His beleaguered expression faded. For a moment their gazes caught on each other, his so fierce with pleasure that Ilsa felt it in her soul. Then the scoundrel winked at her before turning back to the girl at his side and sweeping her into the dance.
Her heart was jolting in her chest. Little shocks of anticipation tingled along her nerves. She plied her fan so hard her earrings trembled. How could he do that to her from thirty feet away?
“Good evening, Mrs. Ramsay. Miss St. James.” Barely a breath separated the names, but by the time Ilsa recognized the man in front of them, Agnes had shot to her feet.
“Good evening, sir,” she said coolly, and stalked away.
Felix Duncan watched her go, his eyes shuttered.
Ilsa also rose. “Miss St. James was just saying how thirsty she is,” she said lightly. “She must be on her way to find some punch.”
Mr. Duncan accepted the lie with a knowing quirk of his brow. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with Miss St. James’s desires. I hoped I might beg the honor of a dance, ma’am.”
“Of course.”
Ilsa took his arm and they joined the long line of the Scotch reel. She loved a rollicking dance and soon was skipping down the set with her usual abandon. Mr. Duncan caught her and swung her around with cheerful vigor, and Ilsa grew breathless from exertion and laughter. When it ended, he offered his arm and they began a slow, meandering turn around the crowded room.
“I understand St. James has proposed an outing to Perth.” Mr. Duncan glanced at her. “He said you suggested I be invited.”
She gave a low laugh. “Goodness, he wastes no time. Are you displeased by the prospect?”
He grinned back. “Very much the contrary. I am in your debt.”
“Then I admit I did suggest it. I thought the captain might want support troops if he were to be confined in one house with his sisters.”
Mr. Duncan laughed. “Aye, he might! Not that he wouldn’t deserve whatever torment they inflicted.”
“Do they torment people?” She smiled artlessly at his guilty flinch. “You must know all three are my dear friends.”
He hesitated. “I did know that.”
“There aren’t better young ladies in all of Scotland,” she added. Her vow had been to not interfere in Agnes’s affairs—but included nothing about stirring the pot a little.
“I agree,” he murmured.
Ilsa heaved a sigh. “I shall miss them so, when they have all moved house to England wi
th the captain.”
Her companion stopped short. “England! The devil you say!”
Ilsa studied him closely. He hadn’t known. “Didn’t the captain tell you? He’s considering removing there, to be near his future . . . responsibilities. Winifred and Isabella are enthralled by the prospect of a Season in London, as well.”
All humor had leached from his face. “When?”
Ilsa looked at him in sympathy. “I don’t know. Perhaps you should ask him, as his dear friend.”
His brooding gaze skipped across the room. Near the windows, Agnes was in merry conversation with Sorcha White and two red-coated soldiers from the castle garrison. “Perhaps it doesn’t much matter,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she replied, watching her friend. Unless she missed her guess, Agnes was stealing peeks at them.
He must have suspected as much, too, for he inhaled deeply before turning a warm smile on her. “Only time will tell, aye? And as long as you don’t say you’re leaving Edinburgh, I shan’t mourn. St. James was gone for years and I never once missed a minute of sleep over it.”
Ilsa went along with it, arching her brows playfully. Let Agnes see someone else basking in his attention for a moment. “Is that right? Then perhaps you’ll ask me to dance again, Mr. Duncan.”
He swept a lavish bow. “I desire nothing else in life, madam.”
“Life is full of disappointments,” said a familiar voice beside her. “Go on, Duncan, inflict yourself on someone else.”
“I apologize for this rude scoundrel,” said Mr. Duncan, turning his back to Captain St. James. “Pay him no mind.”
“Let the lady decide.” The captain stepped around his friend and made a bow. “Good evening, Mrs. Ramsay.”
He was dazzling tonight, in a vivid blue coat and green plaid. His dark hair fell across his brow in a thick wave, and when he stepped closer, she almost moaned as the heat and size of him sent a hot thrill of excitement pulsing through her. His eyes glittered, as if he knew exactly what effect he had on her.
Friends, she reminded herself unsteadily. Friends who would soon be hundreds of miles apart, forever. “Good evening, Captain. How are you enjoying our assembly?”
“Very well.” He ducked his head and put out his hand. “I’ll enjoy it far more if you’ll dance with me.”
She had to say no. Ilsa knew that even though she wanted to put her hand in his and let him whirl her around as he’d done in the oyster cellar. And if he chanced to whirl her right out the door and pull her close, she would like to kiss him again . . . and again . . .
No, no, no. She had come tonight to show Jean she would not be cowed; to show her father she would not be minded like a child; to show herself how easily the captain would divert his attention to another wealthy widow or young lady, once he met them. That’s what she’d told herself when she put on her favorite gown that made her feel beautiful and confident. That’s what she’d told herself when she accepted Mr. Duncan’s invitation to dance and flirted with him.
All that time, she had been lying to herself. She had come because she wanted to see him. She wanted him to look at her with admiration and hunger in his eyes—as he was doing now. She wanted him to ask her to dance with him—as he’d just done. She wanted that thrilling, reckless kiss.
“I say, St. James, I asked first,” put in Mr. Duncan.
“And the lady will decide whom she wishes to accept,” replied the captain, his gaze never wavering from hers.
You. The word trembled on her lips despite everything.
Curse it all. She was in trouble.
Blessedly, she was saved by the approach of Mr. Grant, who had not forgotten their promised dance even if she had. With a smile, half relief and half regret, she bade the captain and Mr. Duncan farewell and let Mr. Grant lead her out.
It had been a close call. Nothing good could come of encouraging the captain; she did not want to spoil her friendships over a brief affair, and he was leaving for England in a matter of weeks. If only she weren’t so terribly, wickedly tempted . . .
Mind what you wish for, admonished a faint echo of Jean’s voice. It’s never exactly what you expect.
Chapter Eight
The suggestion of a house party visit to Stormont Palace was received with joyous excitement.
“Oh, Drew, is it really a palace?”
“How long shall we stay?”
“What shall we do while we’re there?”
He listened with a mixture of pleasure and alarm. Pleasure because they sounded so excited. Alarm because . . . He hadn’t thought of how he would entertain his family; he was not going to entertain his family. He would have work to do, touring the estate and seeing how things were run. He’d been seduced by Ilsa Ramsay’s impish smile and glowing eyes into signing his own prison sentence.
“Let’s find out more!” Bella ran to the bookshelves and came back with a ragged copy of Pennant’s A Tour in Scotland. “Stormont Palace,” she murmured, flipping pages. “Here it is! ‘The house is built around a large court, with extremely pleasing gardens and a cunning maze. The dining room is large and handsome, with an ancient but magnificent chimneypiece carved with the King’s arms.’” She lowered the book, eyes wide. “Drew, was it a royal palace?”
Winnie rolled her eyes. “Of course it wasn’t! All those fine houses were built by toadies to the King, they splashed his arms everywhere.” She seized the book from Bella and read on. “ʽIn the drawing room is some good old tapestry, with an excellent figure of Mercury. In a small bed chamber is a scripture-piece in needlework, with a border of animals, pretty well-done. The gallery is about a hundred and fifty-five feet long, with most excellent paintings . . . ʼ” She flipped the pages. “Many, many paintings, apparently.” She sounded disappointed. “Perhaps it’s haunted.”
“Haunted!” Bella’s face lit up. “Might it be, Drew?”
“By all the poor souls put to death by the English duke,” put in Agnes slyly.
“With dungeons and torture racks and thumbscrews!” Winnie looked eager now, too.
“Captured chieftains left to starve in a dungeon cell! Heiresses kidnapped and wed for their fortunes and drowned in the moat,” added Bella. She draped a handkerchief over her head and advanced on Agnes, hands clutching at the air. “Save me, my dear! Let me steal your spirit so I can seek my revenge!”
“Never,” declared Agnes dramatically. “You are cursed to wander the earth forever, unavenged and restless, for the sin of consorting with the English!” She snatched the handkerchief from her sister’s head, causing a shriek from Bella and laughter from Winnie.
“It’s not haunted.” Drew ran his fingers through his hair, torn between laughing at their antics and wishing he had thought this through a little better. “It’s just an old house, closed up these many years, with some property that needs tending.”
All three sisters stared at him in disappointed silence.
“Well, that sound enticing,” murmured Winnie. “We’ll have to explore the town, I suppose.”
“I thought we might invite some friends to help make the party merrier,” Drew said desperately. God above, he ought to have kept to his plan to go alone.
Winnie perked up, her blue eyes big and bright. “Who?”
Drew glanced at Agnes. “I thought Agnes might like to have her friend Mrs. Ramsay.” She gave him a puzzled look. “And I mentioned it to Mr. Duncan, as well.”
His sister’s face grew pink. Drew wasn’t an idiot; it had taken him a few minutes, but he’d put together that Duncan hadn’t been speaking of Ilsa Ramsay or Winifred the other day. No, Duncan’s face had come alive at the thought of Agnes.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he was very interested in his sister’s feelings. Duncan could be an ass, but he was also a reliable friend and solid mate.
“Who else?” Bella and Winnie were oblivious to the tension in Agnes’s figure. “That’s only one gentleman and four ladies.”
“Am I
not a gentleman?” he parried.
Bella scoffed. “Brothers don’t count,” said Winnie, “unless they serve as a conduit to other, more interesting gentlemen.”
Drew clapped one hand to his heart as if she’d struck him. “No blade is sharper than a sister’s tongue!”
Bella laughed. “Invite more gentlemen! Witty, single ones.”
“Handsome, rich ones wouldn’t go astray, either,” added Winnie.
“Whom do you think I know, who is single, handsome, rich, and witty, yet still willing to spend a week with the three of you?”
They cried out in disgust and indignation, until he laughed and promised to ransack his acquaintance for anyone who promised to amuse them. Bella said she would begin packing, and Winnie wandered off with the Tour open in her hand, leaving him alone with Agnes.
“Agnes?” prodded Drew. “What say you to this plan?”
She stabbed her needle into the petticoat she had been mending. “Invite whomever you please. I’m going back to Ilsa’s.”
“What of Felix Duncan?”
Her mouth set and she leapt to her feet.
He followed her as she went downstairs and put on her hat. “Has Duncan done you a harm?”
Her face was stony. “No. You don’t need to walk with me.”
He did so anyway. “Do you know him?”
“Not really,” she bit out, striding along the street. “No. Not at all.”
Drew nodded. “If he did anything, I’d have to—”
“No.” She whirled on him, eyes flashing. “It’s not your problem, Drew!”
“If a friend of mine trifled with my sister, it would be.”
Her chest heaved. “He didn’t—didn’t trifle with me. He just . . .” She sighed. “He’s a scoundrel.”
“He can be,” agreed Drew. “But he’s not generally cruel.”
A Scot to the Heart Page 9
