Highland Awakening (4 page)

Her heart began to hammer in her chest. Her palms grew wet. She sucked in short, choppy breaths.

Mr. McLeod removed the glass from her lap and handed her his napkin before rising and holding out his hand to her.

“Lady Esme was given a deficient wineglass,” he announced to the room at large, his tone polite but with a tinge of disapproval directed at whomever would be so despicable as to give her a wineglass on the verge of breaking.

She allowed him to help her out of the chair. But then Sarah appeared, standing at her other side.

“Thank you so much, Mr. McLeod. Esme, dearest, I'll take you to get cleaned up. Everyone, please, enjoy your dessert. Lady Esme and I will return shortly.”

Esme was mute with horror as they left the dining room and headed upstairs. “Oh, dear,” Sarah murmured as she ushered her along. “You're going to have to change your dress. I don't believe this one is salvageable—at least not tonight.”

Esme managed a nod as they reached the top of the stairs and turned toward her bedchamber.

She was hopeless. She'd embarrassed her family yet again.

Once they were safely inside her room, she stopped short and put her head in her hands. “Oh, Sarah,” she said, her voice laden with misery. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” Sarah said with her usual efficient kindness. “You are hardly to blame for a faulty wineglass.”

She shook her head miserably. “Mr. McLeod was just being kind. You and I—along with everyone else in that room—know there was nothing wrong with my glass. I have failed you and Trent again. I knew I shouldn't—”

“Stop,” Sarah said, her voice quiet but firm. “Of course you should. You haven't failed us. All you did was spill a glass of wine.”

“I…just…I can't…” Her voice shook, and Sarah led her to the chair at her desk.

“It's all right,” Sarah soothed.

Why was she like this? In the grand scheme, Sarah was right. She'd only spilled a glass of wine. But people would giggle about it tomorrow. There might even be another idiotic caricature of her in the gossip rags.

It was yet another failure to add to all her other public failures, and en masse, they threatened to crush her.

There was a knock on the door—Polly come to help her change her dress. Sarah must have summoned her at some point during the long walk from the dining room.

As Esme sat, trying to get her breathing under control, Polly and Sarah chose another dress for her to wear, speaking in low tones in her closet. They emerged with a primrose ball gown edged with white, with a wide white belt just below the breasts.

“What do you think?” Sarah asked.

She gave a nod of approval. “Yes.”

Sarah came over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I need to go back downstairs. You'll be all right?”

“Yes.”

“And you'll rejoin us as soon as you're dressed?”

She gave Sarah a hopeless look. “Are you sure you want me to?”

“Of course.” Sarah's voice was warm and honest. “Listen, I know how challenging these parties are for you, Esme. But your brother and I are proud of you. We think you're brave and strong for attending these events that are so difficult for you.”

Esme managed a small smile, amazed that they were so kind to her after everything she'd done. It surprised her that they hadn't given up on her long ago. Perhaps the time she'd caused a half-dozen partygoers to fall into a heap on a ballroom floor, provoking a riot of glee in the gossip rags the following day. Or when she'd been so buried in her secret writings that she hadn't noticed her mother had disappeared from her house without a trace days earlier. Or perhaps when she'd inadvertently given Princess Charlotte the cut direct…

Truly, she should not be allowed outside her bedchamber. It would be better for everyone.

“Thank you, Sarah.”

Sarah bent down and kissed her cheek, and in a flurry of skirts she was gone, closing the door softly behind her.

“Here now, milady,” Polly said, “let's get you out of that wet dress.”

Ten minutes later, Esme headed back downstairs, her hands clutched into fists at her sides, reminding herself with each step that she needed to do this. Avoidance was cowardice, and it was her duty to make a reappearance.

But a part of her knew it wasn't only duty that drove her; it was an insatiable curiosity about Mr. McLeod. She needed to glean some information about his real identity…and learn what he intended to do with the information he now knew about her.

She found the ladies congregated in the drawing room, awaiting the gentlemen, who were still in the dining room enjoying their port.

Ladies flocked to her as soon as she appeared, murmuring how sorry they were about her defective wineglass and commiserating with her regarding the ruin of her lovely dress, though several agreed that they liked the one she wore now even better.

She managed tremulous smiles and nods until the ladies were drawn away by someone's suggestion to take turns singing and playing on the pianoforte. She took several deep breaths, watching them as they laughed and argued good-naturedly over sheet music, and Sarah came to stand by her side.

“Are you all right?” her sister-in-law asked in a low voice.

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good.” Sarah paused. “What Mr. McLeod did in there…I thought it was very kind.”

Esme latched on to this opening. “Who
is
Mr. McLeod? I have never seen him in Town.”

Sarah's lips curved. “He is the heir of the Earl of Sutton.”

Esme blinked. “Oh.”

The Earl of Sutton she did know. He had once been a friend to her father, but Trent despised him for reasons she'd never been able to determine. She'd met the man once, at a ball, and he'd looked at her with cold blue eyes—eyes, now that she thought of it, quite similar to his son's. In fact, the earl looked very much like an older version of Cam. She was surprised, come to think of it, that she hadn't made the connection earlier.

“Mr. McLeod does not interact with society much,” Sarah continued in a low voice. “He had a very open falling out with his father years ago. Evidently, it included a decision on his part to avoid the
haute ton
altogether. He did so by joining the army and participating in many campaigns, including Waterloo. But now he's evidently given up his commission and returned to London. We invited him because he's a friend of Lord Pinfield, and Pinfield asked if we would extend the invitation. Your brother thought it would be a good idea to get to know him a little better.”

Esme frowned, remembering Betty at the whorehouse telling her and Mr. McLeod that she and “Pinny” wanted food. Had she meant Lord Pinfield? Had Mr. McLeod and Pinfield come to the establishment searching for the same thing?

Maybe when she'd encountered him, Mr. McLeod hadn't yet found his “girl” to entertain him for the evening. Perhaps he'd intended for
Esme
to be that girl.

She'd been so lost in the memory of his kiss, she hadn't even considered these possibilities. Now the thought of them made her twisted stomach feel like a stone had settled somewhere within the knots.

One of the younger ladies began to sing, and all eyes in the room riveted to her. The air in the drawing room was close and thick, and Esme clenched her fists with the now-familiar feeling of her skin prickling and sweat beading at her temples. She gave Sarah's arm a squeeze. “I think I'll go outside for a moment. I'll be back shortly.”

“Should I send…?”

But Esme was already opening the double doors to the terrace. She slipped out into the night and closed the doors quietly behind her, moving to stand in the narrow space between two potted trees. She placed her hands on the railing and looked out over Green Park.

The spring evening was very dark, with no moon and just a smattering of stars breaking through London's coal haze. There was no one else on the terrace, perhaps because it had grown somewhat cool. She gazed at the park, only able to make out the shadowy outlines of trees and bushes in the dimness.

Except those moments when she was in his company, she'd hardly thought about Henry tonight. She hadn't even noticed where he'd been seated at the dinner table.

Guilt swept through her, tightening her chest. She bowed her head in shame. McLeod had swamped her thoughts to such an extent that she hadn't been able to allow anyone else in. And it wasn't only fear that he'd reveal her secrets. It was the thrill of having him close to her again.

“Lady Esme.”

She went stiff all over. It was him, the silky rumble of his Scottish brogue. He'd come up behind her, his lips very close to her ear. She kept her head bent, gazing down over the railing. “Mr. McLeod,” she whispered.

“Where's your wee notebook tonight?” he asked, pressing his body between her and the tree. She squeezed closer to the other tree to give him more room.

She didn't move her eyes from their focus upon the railing. “I…didn't bring it to the party.”

“Is it hiding in your bedchamber, then? Upstairs?”

She glanced toward the dark window at the corner of the upper story of the house. He followed her gaze, a smile curling on his lips.

“Is that your bedchamber, Esme? That one?” The brazen man pointed directly at her room. “Is that where I can find your notebook?”

She ground her teeth. “That's none of your business, sir.”

“I intend to make it my business.”

The wickedness of his words sent a strange jolt of heat through her. She drew in a shaky breath, trying to harden her resolve. Looking at him from the corner of her eye, she said, “You mustn't tell anyone where I was last night.”

“Why not?”

She swung her head around to face him, knowing he had to be teasing, as she didn't think he was that dim-witted. “Because it will put the final nail in the coffin of my reputation. And worse, it would hurt my family.”

“I see.” He gave a low, deprecating laugh. “Well, if I'd wanted to tell anyone, lass, I already would have. I've no interest in those people or their gossip.”

He seemed sincere, and relief washed over her.

“But what I do have an interest in,
Lady
Esme, is you.”

Her heart pounded so hard he must have been able to hear it. He was a flash of white-hot energy in the cool night air. He was
electric,
and his presence, so close to her, made her skin prickle with sensitivity.

“Why was an innocent lass like you—the sister of the
Duke of Trent,
no less—in that whorehouse last night?” He moved closer to her, the length and heat of his body just an inch away from hers. “What's in that notebook of yours?”

She gripped the railing so tightly the white of her knuckles seemed to glow in the dim light. “That's none of your concern,” she said faintly.

“Oh, but you're wrong about that, milady. I'm concerned.” He inched close enough that she could feel the whisper of his breath on her lips. “
Deeply
concerned.”

“You shouldn't be.”

“Here's what I'd like to know,” he murmured, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers. “Why did you kiss me when you're marrying that bore Henry Whitworth?”

Esme squeezed her eyes shut. McLeod reached around her, and the tips of his fingers skimmed down her arm, from the top of her sleeve to her wrist, leaving a trail of heat in their wake that made her shudder.

“I shouldn't have kissed you,” she pushed out through her closed throat. “It was very wrong of me. I can't do it again.” She gripped the railing even tighter, fighting her body's impulse to press against him, to lose herself in the heat of his embrace.

“You dinna love Henry Whitworth,” he whispered, his lips skimming the shell of her ear.

“How…how can you possibly know that?” she managed.

His laughter was a soft puff in her ear. “Oh, I ken,” he said confidently. “You dinna want him.” After a beat of silence, he added, “End it now, before 'tis too late.”

She gasped and straightened, every muscle in her body going rigid in anger. How dare he presume to know whom she loved and what she should do with her life?

“You are very forward, sir.”

He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Shocked by the forceful movement, she stared up into his face. Even in shadows, it was incredibly appealing, the dark slashes of his bone structure and brows and the glint of his light eyes. “Dinna play the innocent English miss with me, Esme. That might work with those idiots in there”—he gestured roughly toward the house—“but not with me. Dinna pretend to be one of them when I ken you're not. You were at a whorehouse last night. There's something about that notebook you carry…”

She didn't move. She couldn't remember the last time she'd drawn breath, but she didn't need air. She felt suspended, frozen in time. Terrified and thrilled at once. On the edge of something that would change her life, but whether it would destroy her or bring her happiness, she couldn't tell.

His fingers dug into the skin of her shoulders. Not to the point of pain, but almost. The sensation buzzed through her—a heady rush of arousal…and to combat it she clenched her thighs.

“Does Whitworth ken you visited a whorehouse?”

That broke the spell. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, turning her face away from him.

He gave a cynical laugh. “I thought not. He doesna know about your wee notebook, either, does he?”

She bowed her head, shame rushing through her all over again.

“Does he know you at all? Or do I already know you better, after meeting you only once before tonight?”

Oh God. He was right. She squeezed her eyes shut and balled her fists over the railing. She'd known Henry almost her whole life, and this man—this arrogant, handsome, forceful man—already knew her better than her own fiancé.

A sense of doom flooded her, dark and forbidding.

He took her by the chin as he had last night, forcing her to face him. He leaned forward until his lips feathered against hers. “Dinna think you can keep any part of yourself from me, Esme. I'm going to learn all your secrets. I'm going to know every inch of you. Of your mind, of your thoughts, of your body. Then we'll see what you think about marrying Henry Whitworth.”

And then, for the second time in two nights, his lips crashed onto hers.