Elise (2 page)

“Mourning?”

“For his brothers. Drowning accident. Surely you read about it?”

“I must have missed it,” she replied.

She wasn’t fooling him, but she didn’t care. Her heart was giving her more trouble than she’d own up to, and her throat was dry. She felt like a girl of fifteen again.

“The Lady Elise Wyndham, Dowager Duchess of Wynd. Allow me to introduce you to His Grace, Colin MacPherson Rory MacGowan, Sixth Duke of Gowan, and Laird of MacGowan.”

Elise heard her name and title and took the step up onto the dais. She held out her hand but had to let it drop when he didn’t take it. She looked up; then everything in her head went right out of it. The new duke was enormous, he wasn’t wearing anything that looked remotely Scottish, and he was looking at her with something akin to dislike. She hadn’t counted on that.

He turned his head to one of his assistants. “This one does na’ have much meat to her,” he remarked.

Elise’s mouth fell open and her eyes widened, and that was the only part she’d admit to. There wasn’t a thing she could do about the flush taking over her entire body.

“I beg your pardon.” Elise managed to find her voice.

He waved, and an unseen hand took hold of her elbow and guided her. From somewhere she heard Sir Easton being announced. Then she was back on the ballroom floor, trying to find her legs beneath her. She did the only thing she could. She put her society smile back on her face and waited for her escort.

Chapter 2

Elise didn’t sleep. She tried. Visions of her own mortification played with memories of the same, and every time she closed her eyes, she saw that great hulking barbarian announcing that she didn’t have enough meat to her. And she was angry. Not with The MacGowan; he was a Scotsman and was supposed to be barbaric. She was angry with the fact that her wits and her tongue had completely deserted her when she needed them the most.

She was up, and almost wearing her riding habit, before dawn broke. Her maid, Daisy, would have to finish hooking up her stays, and promptly at the first sight of the sun, Elise rang for her. She didn’t care if it was an ungodly hour to be out and riding. She had to escape any more time alone with her thoughts.

The Dowager Duchess of Wynd always rode in Hyde Park during the Season. It was one of the few pleasures none of her so-called friends shared. She needed the fresh air and the wind on her face. Elise found herself running the steps, and she had to stop to take a breath.

A groom awaited her at the front step, his hand gentling a pure Arabian mare. Elise ignored his touch about her waist as he assisted her into the sidesaddle.

She’d grabbed the first thing in her wardrobe to wear and grimaced down at her newest habit, which was made of vivid blue satin with black piping. Seated atop her nephew’s mare in such a color, she’d be impossible to miss. She was grateful it was early morn.

Elise actually owned nothing. Her late husband’s nephew, Archibald Wyndham, owned the title and all the wealth being Duke of Wynd brought. Elise wasn’t slighted, however. She had a stipend on her for life. It was something her father had been most insistent on when he’d, in effect, sold her.

Elise gathered the reins and set off, her mind still riding the morbid train of her thoughts, and that’s why she didn’t see what awaited her the moment she and her groom entered the park.

Good Lord!
She thought it the moment she saw the seven men astride seven horses. He’s even larger on horseback.

The man bearing down on her from across the park could be none other than MacGowan. Elise tipped her head back, barely avoiding making any sort of a sound as he neared. She didn’t question that he was racing to see her. There wasn’t anyone else in the park.

She watched the hooves of the beast he was riding; they churned up sod with the way he halted it in, and she couldn’t help but be impressed. Colin MacGowan had chestnut hair, nearly the same shade as his horse; his hair was thick and wavy and fell to his shoulders, if the muscled expanse inside his jacket was shoulders. Elise eyed the width of him while his horse breathed across on her and waited.

“Are you the woman known as The Ice Goddess?”

He held up a crumpled piece of paper in his gloved hand as he asked it. Actually, Elise had to rephrase it.

He wasn’t asking anything, he was demanding to know. In his next sentence, she knew it.

“Answer me, woman! Are you the wench known as—?”

“I heard you the first time,” she answered, interrupting him.

“Well?”

He had a becoming flush to his face, and if she hadn’t been overawed by the size of him the previous evening, she would have noticed the square jaw, Roman nose, and very brown eyes, bordered by very dark brown lashes. This MacGowan didn’t look a thing like his older brother Evan MacGowan, she decided.

“Well, what?” she asked sweetly.

The six attendants he’d been out riding with formed a perfectly executed V behind him, with Colin at the tip. They all had their mounts’ heads at an exact angle, their black ensembles perfectly matched, and not one moved by as much as a twitch of his horse’s tail. Elise didn’t let how awe-inspiring she found it show anywhere on her.

“Explain this.”

He was shoving the paper toward her, and Elise sat immobile. Then she was motioning for her groom to go and fetch it. The young man’s fright was apparent, and it helped to temper her own. It was obvious Colin MacGowan had every bit of the Scottish uncivilized arrogance, and then more as well. She patted her mare’s neck and waited.

The crumpled piece of paper was a freshly printed cartoon. It was fairly amusing, too. She was depicted, shaped like a very slender icicle, while a mammoth-sized man was pointing down at her and shouting something about meat. Her lips twitched.

“Explain that,” he demanded.

“Everyone at the Royal Palace must have been busy,” she answered, flattening out the paper on one of her blue-clothed thighs.

“What?”

“The Royal Palace. The family. You know. Prince Albert. Crown Prince Edward. Queen Victoria. Surely you’ve heard of them.”

“I know who the Royal family is. What the devil does it have to do with me? And you?”

“I do believe someone found that what happened last evening between us was more amusing than the Royal house. They’ve decided to spare Queen Victoria. She’s their usual target, you understand.”

“Some wretch handed this to me on my own front steps! Right in front of my home!”

Elise shrugged. “It’s a cartoon. We’ve been lampooned. Welcome to London, Your Grace.”

“Well, I dinna’ like it. Destroy it and stop any others from being distributed.”

“You’re speaking to the wrong person. Now, if you’d excuse me.”

“You’re to cease this immediately.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Are you denying this is you?”

“Oh, it’s definitely a depiction of me, Your Grace, and that’s a very good likeness of you. Obviously the cartoonists have decided that I... make that we, are good fodder for their ink. It means nothing, really. They’ll have another victim by noon. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Don’t turn your back on me, woman.”

Elise hadn’t turned yet. She looked over and across at him. “I have a name, Your Grace. And I don’t take orders, I give them. Now, once again. Good day.”

She had exactly six seconds to enjoy his discomfiture before she heard his horse again. The mare was trembling as that chestnut stallion bore down on their right and slammed them to a halt, which Colin then guaranteed by reaching across for her mare’s bridle. Elise narrowed her eyes to look over at him.

The mass in his jacket probably was his shoulders, she decided, since it looked like the size of his thigh was equivalent to her hips. She eyed him uneasily. It was dawn, there were street vendors out, and this was London. He couldn’t do anything to her. At least, she told herself he couldn’t and hoped it worked.

“No woman turns away from me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Elise answered in the same even tone.

“You heard me. I was na’ finished, and you’re na’ dismissed until I am.”

“If you don’t wish to have your name connected to mine, Your Grace, this is not a very good way to manage that.”

“What?”

“Chasing me down, preventing me from leaving, calling me names like wench, being seen with me. All told, I would hazard a guess you’re going to see another cartoon about it.”

“What are you talking of now?”

“Eyes.”

“What?”

He really was fairly handsome, Elise decided, as his eyebrows rose and he puzzled that out.

“People have eyes, Your Grace. Especially the lower classes. It’s what they do to even the field, I suspect. Everywhere you look these cartoonists get their scenes. Then they draw them, and then they print them, and then they pass them out. It’s called socialism. The new order. If I’m not mistaken, that’s a press chap right over there.”

Elise pointed at a dark-clothed individual, who took off running the moment she did. She hadn’t even seen him move, but one of Colin’s guards was giving chase.

She watched him reach the street and turn back, empty-handed, before realizing she’d been holding her breath.

“Blast this nonsense! And you—”

He had a gloved finger pointing at her. Elise looked over at him.

“I had nothing to do with any of this, Your Grace, although I’m going to reap the results once again, no doubt. You shouldn’t let it bother you so. I don’t.”

“You’ve been in these before?” he asked.

“Weekly, I’m afraid.” She sighed. “It’s the price of notoriety.”

“Well, I have na’. I’ve na’ wish to, either.”

“There’s not much way to correct that, I’m afraid.”

“What?”

“Freedom, Your Grace. They can print what they like. You can let it bother you, or you can ignore it. I prefer to ignore it, which is a perfect lead-in for my adieu. It was ever so unpleasant meeting with you this morning. If you’d be so good as to release my mount, so I can proceed?”

“Is there nae way to stop this?”

“I’m afraid not. My mount?”

“If I’m seen in your company, enjoying your company, will that work?”

“Afraid not. I’m scandalous to be near. And you’ll probably look like a barbarian again, but at least he’ll have to invent the words to use.”

“I’m nae barbarian.”

Elise couldn’t answer that, at first. She was afraid of the mirth bubbling just below the surface. She looked at him as levelly as possible until she got it under control. “I’ll have to take your word on that, I’m afraid. Now, please release my mount and allow me to escape. I no longer feel any need for fresh air, or another moment of your company.”

“I’ll be escorting you to the Countess of Ipswich’s dinner this eve. I’ll call for you at eight. Be ready.”

Elise’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?” she finally managed to say again.

“The Countess of Ipswich’s dinner. I’ll call for you at eight.”

“You’re woefully out of your element, aren’t you?” Elise asked. “And I’m afraid this isn’t Scotland.”

“I’ve na’ been in Scotland for some years, my lady.”

“Oh dear. I’ve advanced past wench. I hope that doesn’t signify anything I don’t want it to,” she replied.

“You speak with riddles.”

“And you don’t speak, you shout. What I meant was, this is London, and here a lady is asked to be escorted, not told she will be.”

He stuck his tongue in one cheek and looked down at her while his lips quirked. Elise’s eyes widened slightly before she could help it as the strangest tingle ran up and down her spine. She told herself she was being ridiculous, and a moment later, she knew she was.

“Nonsense. I’ll call at eight. We’ll stop this at the source. If you’re seen enjoying my company, they’ll find someone else to draw.”

“You seem to have forgotten something,” Elise said.

“What?”

“I don’t enjoy your company.”

To her surprise, he tossed back his head and laughed, and he wasn’t a quiet person when it came to laughter. As the sound died, she wondered if he did anything quietly.

“Eight. Be ready. I doona’ like waiting.”

“You don’t know where I live,” she answered.

“Yonder. Pinkish house. Frilly decor all about.” He pointed. She didn’t look. He had the Wynd town-home pegged perfectly.

“If you’re speaking of my Italian, iron-work balconies, I’m fairly insulted, I think. Then again, they are rather frilly.”

“Be ready. Eight.”

“I’ve not said I’ll go with you.”

“Doona’ make me chase you down.”

“You’d do such a thing?” Elise asked.

“You doubt it?”

He released her horse with the question and turned, walking away while the six men on horseback filed behind him. Elise didn’t move.

~ ~ ~

She’d never enjoyed getting ready for an evening more in her life. Daisy helped. There was only one gown that would do justice to an evening of thwarting the Duke of MacGowan, and that was her white, pin-tucked satin, with the light blue gauze overlay. Elise watched the transformation taking place in the mirror as Daisy coiled her ash-blond hair atop her head and entwined silver filigree through the tresses.

There was some consternation about the heels. Daisy didn’t think heels would be necessary and would end up doing more harm than good to Elise’s legs. Elise, on the other hand, knew that without some height, she was going to be dwarfed.

She was ready promptly at seven, and in her own coach at seven-thirty. She couldn’t wait to see the Duke of MacGowan’s face at the Countess of Ipswich’s soiree. She wasn’t accompanying a MacGowan anywhere. Elise Wyndham didn’t want, or need, any escort, for any reason, especially not someone from the same family that had helped ruin hers.

She hadn’t counted on Sir Roald.

Sophie, the Countess of Ipswich, had a table set up and arranged for her guests. Elise was in her assigned seat, with Sir Roald slated to be at her side, when the Duke of MacGowan was announced. She forced herself to sit stone-still and ignore all else about her as his presence filled the room. Despite everything she was trying, Elise felt him. She felt him! The hairs on the back of her neck were whispering where he was, and the shivers up her spine were confirming it.

She had her eyes open on the elegance of a swan formed from butter that sat in the center of the table, when she watched him pull out a chair opposite her. She blinked. He wasn’t supposed to be near. She knew it. Everyone else knew it. The whispers started again as he seated himself, filling her vision with perfectly groomed and tailored maleness.