How to Entice an Enchantress (17 page)

As soon as the door closed, Freya clapped her hands together. “Och, miss! Not here a whole week and already gettin’ love letters.”

“It’s not a love letter.” However, it
was
a very nice
letter. Dalhousie had invited her to a viewing of the Roxburghe portrait gallery, which he’d planned for their amusement. He was most effusive about the idea, and had closed with “I eagerly await your answer.” She smiled and folded the letter and placed it the dressing table.

“Viscount Dalhousie is quite a handsome mon.” Freya slid a sly look at Dahlia.

“He’s very charming.” Dahlia remembered how Miss Stewart had looked at him the day before. “Half of the ladies here are already in love with him.”

“The duchess ne’er invites someone to her house party wit’oot havin’ a plan fer them. I wonder who she wishes to match to Dalhousie?”

That was an interesting question indeed. Dahlia’s stomach growled again and she glanced at the clock. “It’s a quarter past nine. I should hurry to breakfast if I’m to reach the portrait gallery by ten.”

Freya placed two more pins in Dahlia’s hair and then stepped back. “There now. See if tha’ is no’ wha’ ye had in mind.”

Dahlia tilted her head this way and that. Her thick brown hair had been pinned in a series of loose knots with silken tendrils falling in loose curls at her ears. It was a far cry from the tangled mess she’d come in with after yesterday’s walk, that much was certain. “It’s perfect. I hope it will stay up.”

“If it dinna, then jus’ come back to the room and ring fer me. I’ll come in a trice and fix it.”

Dahlia stood. “Thank you, Freya. I must say, I’m
excited to see the Roxburghe portrait gallery. Her grace said at dinner last night that some of the paintings were by very famous artists.”

“So I’ve been told. I’m surprised Lord Dalhousie knows the Roxburghe history enou’ to be a guide fer ye.”

“I daresay that what he doesn’t know, he will feel free to invent. He has a vivid imagination and a rich sense of humor.” No one made her laugh more than Lord Dalhousie.

Freya grinned. “Mayhap he’s jus’ tryin’ to get ye alone. He’s a verrah fine gentleman, but I do hear tell tha’ he has a rovin’ eye.”

“Well, if dalliance is his purpose in inviting me to view the portrait gallery, then he is doomed for disappointment, for there will be footmen placed every six feet or so. How many footmen are there at Floors Castle, anyway? One cannot turn around without running into one.”

“If ye ask Lillith, the upstairs maid, there is no’ enou’,” Freya said darkly. “When the footmen were setting oop fer the battledore tournament, she wouldna’ leave them alone, commentin’ on their muscles and flirtin’ so much tha’ the housekeeper sent her back to her post!”

“I daresay she was annoying the footmen.”

“As to tha’, I canno’ say, fer she’s—” Freya cupped her hands out before her breasts.

“Ah. She has a figure, does she?”

“Aye, miss. More tha’ she can handle.”

Dahlia looked at her own figure in the mirror and sighed. “I’ve always wished I were thinner, for then one can wear the latest fashions without draping oneself from head to foot in enough cloth to hide what one doesn’t wish noticed.”

“Och, ye are beautiful, miss. E’eryone says so.”

“You are too kind. By the way, later this afternoon I shall need your help getting ready for the battledore tournament. I’m scheduled to play at two.” Judging by the number of people who’d mentioned the game to her after dinner, there would be quite a large number in attendance. That was fine; if there was one skill Dahlia was certain about, it was battledore.

A knock sounded on the door.

Freya went to answer it. As she opened the door, a pug scampered between her feet and bounded into the room.

Freya gave a shout and lunged for the dog, but it was quicker, dodging her grasp and running as fast as it could around the entire room. Finally it collapsed upon the rug before the fire, panting, a silly grin on its muzzle.

Freya whipped about to glare at the footman. “Angus, ye falpeen fool! Wha’ do ye’ mean, bringin’ tha’ beastie into a lady’s room like tha’? And I’ll ne’er catch tha’ one, fer she’s faster than all o’ the other combined!”

The footman grinned. “She is, isna’ she? Small and wiry, to boot.”

“Dinna say tha’ as if it’s funny, fer ’tis no’ funny at
all. Especially when the beastie goes to chewin’ on the misses’ shoes.”

Dahlia looked around at that. “Oh dear. Does she do that?”

“Aye. And she’s no’ the only one as has tha’ problem, neither.” The maid glared at the footman. “Did ye come jus’ to make trouble, or are ye here on an errand o’ some sort?”

Recalled to his duty, Angus straightened and held out a salver, a note in the center. “I’ve a note fer Miss Balfour. I was tol’ I dinna need to wait fer an answer.”

Freya took the note. “Fine, but ye are takin’ tha’ dog wit’ ye.”

“I’m no’, fer I’ve someplace to be, but I’ll come back later and fetch her when she’s no’ so excited. And, Freya, do no’ chase her aboot. Ye’re bad aboot tha’ and it only makes her harder t’ catch.”

“Och! Ye’re a fine one to talk, Angus MacLellan! I’ve seen ye chase the pugs all o’er the front lawn, I have.”

“Only when her grace asked me to. Other than tha’, I dinna take a step toward ’em unless they welcome it.”

“Why, ye lyin’—” Freya caught herself and, with an apologetic glance back at Dahlia, straightened her narrow shoulders and faced the cheeky footman. “We’ll discuss this another time.” She curtsied. “Thank ye fer bringin’ the missive.”

“Ye’re wel—”

She slammed the door. A muffled word came from
the hallway, but she ignored it and brought the note to Dahlia, who instantly recognized Kirk’s familiar back-slanted handwriting.

The maid had the grace to look shamefaced. “I’m verrah sorry fer slammin’ the door, miss. I shouldna’ ha’ done tha’, but tha’ mon is a lazy bit o’ bone and blood, he is. E’er since the duchess asked him t’ be the one t’ carry puir ol’ Randolph oop an’ down the stairs when he refused t’ do it hisself—”

“Pardon me, but who is this Randolph?”

“Och, Randolph is the oldest o’ the Roxburghe pugs, miss. He’s ancient, he is, bu’ full o’ life. MacDougal thinks ’tis all a trick and tha’ Randolph can manage the stairs fer all tha’ her grace thinks he canno’. Angus, meanwhile, has been lordin’ it o’er everyone belowstairs, actin’ as if he’d been crowned king.”

“King of the pugs, is he? Men can be so infuriating.”

The note was pleasantly heavy in her hand, as if it held something of great value.
So you’ve made arrangements for us to meet privately, have you?
She’d wondered when and how he’d manage it. A faint shiver rushed over her, a wave of invisible heat.

Aware of the maid’s eyes upon her, Dahlia tossed the unopened missive onto the dressing table and said, “I believe I’ll wear the blue slippers.”

“Aye, miss. They’ll look fetchin’ wit’ tha’ gown. I’ll fetch them fro’ the dressin’ room.”

“Thank you.” Dahlia waited for the maid to leave before she picked up the missive. Yesterday, when Kirk had suggested that they practice their skills so
as not to embarrass themselves again, she’d found herself in complete agreement, swayed by both his reasoning and his presence. But the cool logic of a night spent thinking away the hours had brought to light several flaws with this plan, not the least of which was the impropriety of it. Beyond that, there could be unexpected outcomes from their continued contact.

As it was, she was having a difficult enough time forgetting their kiss. Those first seconds had been beyond anything she’d ever dreamed, which was why she’d reacted so strongly. So how would she be able to forget a kiss from Kirk that was exceptional from beginning to end?
Could
she forget it? Would she want to?

She picked up her silver comb and, just as she’d done to Dalhousie’s missive, she slid it under the flap and broke the seal. She replaced her comb on the dresser and then unfolded the stiff paper.

The paper was remarkably fine. Only the best for the master of Fordyce Castle. She smiled as she opened the vellum.

The library at ten. Do not be late.

Kirk

She frowned.
Short and to the point, with no time taken for pleasantries. Worse, he doesn’t even ask, but announces it as if I’d have nothing to say about it.
As
could be expected from Kirk, the missive was vastly unsatisfying.

She scowled at the letter. Why had she agreed to his request to hone her kissing skills with him, of all men? It was ludicrous. She’d come to the duchess’s to find love and romance, something Kirk couldn’t understand, nor did he wish to. Why, even common courtesy seemed to stretch his resources.

A rational woman would have avoided him, and would certainly have never agreed to his proposition. But yesterday, she hadn’t been able to do either.

Something had happened when Kirk had lunged for her bonnet and she’d found herself in his arms. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could feel the split second of heat caused by that innocuous embrace and smell the faint hint of cologne that had lingered on his coat.

Of course, now that time had passed, she realized that his seeming embrace had merely been a way to steady himself. Equally disheartening, she also realized that his scheme to advance their kissing skills—something she would have suspected as an attempt at flirtation had another man proposed it—was exactly as he’d declared it: he wished to avoid another embarrassing moment and he was woefully without practice.

Perhaps it was kind that he thought to include her, but it still confirmed that there was nothing the least bit romantic about his efforts.

As always, Kirk’s request had been based on cold,
hard practicality and his own needs, and she deeply regretted agreeing to participate. And yet somehow she had.

But perhaps she shouldn’t be so hard on herself. She’d been raw from their horrid encounter; then after he’d held her, she’d fallen under some sort of spell cast by his dark gaze and the feel of his strong arms about her.

Well, her reason had returned. She would meet with him at ten o’clock and explain why she was no longer interested in “perfecting” her skills.

She tossed the letter on the dresser where it came to rest beside Dalhousie’s longer, more eloquent missive. The viscount had
requested
the honor of her presence, not rudely assumed that he would have it. There were many other things to recommend Dalhousie’s letter over Kirk’s, as well—his warm tone, the politeness of his request, the time he’d taken to plan an amusement for them both—all of it pointed to a deepness of thought and consideration that was completely lacking in Kirk’s abrupt, demanding missive.

A cold, wet nose touched her elbow.

“
Oh!
” Dahlia looked down at the pug, who was wagging her curly tail with abandon. “Your nose is like ice.”

Freya stuck her head out of the dressing room. “Och, is she botherin’ ye, miss? I can try to catch her and—”

“No, no. She’s fine.”

“Verrah weel. I mus’ say tha’ I’m glad, fer she dinna take kindly to bein’ chased.”

“None of us do.”

Freya twinkled. “Unless ’tis by the right mon, miss. I’ve found yer shoes bu’ they needed a mite o’ polish. I’m jus’ finishin’ them oop now.”

“Thank you, Freya.”

“Ye’re quite welcome, miss.” The maid disappeared back into the dressing room.

Dahlia regarded the dog sitting at her feet. “I wish you could go to the library for me. If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that Lord Kirk is going to be angry when I tell him no.”

Meenie cocked her head to one side.

“Oh, I know, he stomps about and snaps like a dragon. He meets almost everything with irritation—a change in the weather, a book that has had the corners of the pages folded, a cravat with too much starch—the list is endless. Which is why, when he huffs and puffs, I shan’t pay him the slightest heed.”

Meenie wagged her tail.

Dahlia was heartened by this positive reaction. “Yes. I will simply tell him I don’t need to hone my skills. I need to hone my
reaction.
” She reached down to pat the pug. Its hair was velveteen soft and made her smile. “You are a sweet one. Come sit on my lap.”

The dog barked once, and then ran away as fast as its legs would carry it, making wider and wider circles around the room until, once again, she collapsed in a panting, grinning heap before the fireplace.

Freya came out of the dressing room carrying the shoes. “Ye canno’ pick tha’ one oop, miss. No’ unless she decides she wishes ye to do so.” She placed the shoes on the floor before Dahlia. “So Lord Dalhousie sounds as if he might be interested in ye, miss. Do ye like him?”

“I don’t know.” Dahlia opened her jewelry box and selected her favorite garnet earrings. “He’s fun and lively and he flirts outrageously, but . . . we shall see.” Compared to Kirk, who didn’t like to do many things at all, Dalhousie was the most attractive of companions.

Still, for no reason at all, she couldn’t help but wonder what a real kiss from Lord Kirk might be like. A kiss born and sustained by passion, one uninterrupted by her own inexperience.

But Lord Kirk has no passion. As he pointed out yesterday, we knew each other before, so naturally we’re comfortable when we’re together and enjoy a feeling of familiarity
. Yet there had been that decided flare when he’d held her. That was stronger than mere familiarity.

“Why are ye scowlin’ so, miss?”

Dahlia realized that her maid was watching her in the mirror. “I was just thinking of how difficult it is to know one’s own feelings.”

“Aye. I’ve been thinkin’ aboot tha’ meself of late.” The maid hesitated, and then asked, “Miss, I hope ye dinna mind me askin’, but wha’ do ye think aboot an older mon?”

Goodness, how did Freya know Kirk was— She caught the maid’s gaze and gave a relieved laugh. “You have an older suitor!”

The maid’s face pinkened. “I was jus’ askin’, miss. Sometimes I think it might be well on to have a mon who is experienced in the ways o’ the world, and no’ a young foo’ who’s more interested in makin’ himself happy. Young men know passion, but an older mon knows how to woo a girl proper.”