How to Entice an Enchantress (18 page)

That wasn’t true about Kirk. He didn’t know how to woo anyone. “Who is this older man?”

“He’s a valet. And verrah nice and—” The maid shook her head and, with a smile, fetched a shawl from the wardrobe. “It dinna matter. Ye’d best be on yer way or ye’ll miss yer meetin’ wit’ Lord Dalhousie.”

Dahlia allowed Freya to settle the shawl over her elbows.

“Off wit’ ye, miss. And let me know wha’ sort o’ nonsense Lord Dalhousie tells ye aboot the Roxburghe family. It might make fer guid tellin’ at the servant’s dinner table.”

“I shall. And remember, I’m to play battledore at two, so I shall need a looser gown.”

“I’ll be waitin’ fer ye at one, miss.”

Dahlia left, pausing to pat the pug one more time. Whatever was going to happen with Kirk would happen, and she’d be ready for it. Straightening her shoulders, she turned and left—ready for come what may.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

I expect certain things from my guests: good manners, a pleasant demeanor, a willingness to be entertained—odd as it may seem, these simple skills are not always found where one expects them to be. While I’m certain Kirk would not appreciate my interference, I refuse to allow two spoiled misses to mock a man on such a noble mission. I was prepared to take a stand and bring up the issue, but Lady Charlotte feels it would be best to allow Miss Balfour’s plan to play itself out before I act.

If, as Charlotte hopes, Dahlia succeeds in pointing out the folly of such rudeness, I’ll leave well enough alone. But if I find myself dissatisfied with the outcome, I shall speak—and speak loudly.

It is during these moments that I miss Roxburghe the most, and wish he were here and not out doing the prime minister’s bidding. Roxburghe always knows how to remind people of their obligations
with the lightest of words. Meanwhile, try as I might, my words fall like sledgehammers upon railway spikes—loud, forceful, and perhaps, at times, a bit firmer than necessary.

*   *   *

Although Dahlia would have relished a quiet breakfast before meeting Kirk, she arrived in the breakfast room to discover that far more than the usual dozen early morning guests were gathered about the table. She thought she might slip in and sit off by herself a bit and avoid discussion, but within moments of arriving, Mr. Ballanoch—a gossipy old man much inclined to present himself as an admirer of Lady Charlotte’s, although she never seemed to notice him—brought up the afternoon’s battledore tournament and (with an impertinently arch look) announced Dahlia’s challenge to Lady Mary and Miss Stewart.

All conversation from that point on centered upon the coming game and battledore in general. Battledore was all the rage ever since soldiers returning home from adventures in India had brought the game with them. The Duke of Beaufort had confirmed the game’s prominence by orchestrating tournaments for his guests.

The game had been a marvelous way for Dahlia and her sisters to pass desultory hours. As they were three girls with no other playmates within reach, they’d played two against one. At first they’d traded teams, but when it quickly became evident that Dahlia was far more talented than her sisters, she was
consigned to her own team more and more often, which was how she liked it, anyway.

Judging by Lady Mary’s and Miss Stewart’s smug expressions yesterday, they thought they were quite talented, too. But Dahlia knew a few tricks, and because of the circumstances of their match, she was more than willing to use them. Of course, her determination had nothing to do with the fact that disparaging comments had been made about Lord Kirk, but rather because Miss Stewart and Lady Mary had dared mock someone from Dahlia’s beloved Aberdeenshire.

All too soon, the clock in the breakfast room chimed a quarter of ten, and Dahlia finished her tea and excused herself, slowed by the rounds of hearty good wishes for a successful game. It was odd how enthusiastic the other guests seemed to be. As she hurried down the wide hallway to the library, she mentally rehearsed a very chilly and flat statement about why she no longer wished to participate in Lord Kirk’s flawed plan.

She slowed when she arrived at the library. Two footmen flanked the doors, both standing at attention as if they were palace guards. She eyed the one closest to her. “Pardon me, Angus?”

Surprised she’d remembered his name, Angus sent her a startled glance. “Aye, miss?” He couldn’t have spoken more cautiously if she’d been a Bow Street runner and he a smuggler.

“Lord Kirk asked me to meet him in the library.”

“Aye, miss. He’s waitin’ on ye now. We’re to let ye in.”

“I see. And then what are you supposed to do?”

Angus and Stuart, the other footman, exchanged warning looks. Angus offered a tentative smile. “We’re merely doin’ our duty, miss.”

Stuart nodded vigorously.

“So is guarding the library doors a part of your regular duties? Shall I ask Lady Charlotte how—”

“Och, no! There’s no need, miss. Indeed, I—” Angus gulped and then fell silent. He’d known from the first moment he clapped his peepers on Miss Balfour that she was a sharp one.
I should ha’ asked Lord Kirk fer mo’ than a guinea once’t he said we was waitin’ on Miss Balfour.
She had her arms crossed now, too, and he could see her slippered foot tapping away as if it was itching to kick his shins. Worse, her expression reminded him far too much of his oldest sister, who was a wee thing, but as mean as a stirred badger.

He straightened his shoulders. “Miss, as ye ha’ surmised, Lord Kirk paid us to stand guard.”

“I see. And once I’ve entered, what are you to do?”

“We’re to keep oot anyone as may wish to interrupt ye.”

“Aye,” Stuart agreed. “Like guards, we are.”

“I see. Do guests often pay you to do such things?”

“All of the time.” Stuart blushed when her brows rose. “Oy mean, er, no miss. Ne’er.”

“Stuart, dinna tell the miss such a tale.” Angus had
no doubt she’d see right through any pretense, so it was best to simply speak the truth up front. “It happens all o’ the time, miss. Although no one has ever paid as much as his lor’ship.”

“How nice of him to be so generous. Sadly, I must inform you that you are no longer needed.”

Angus was suddenly glad Lord Kirk had paid them in advance. He had plans for that money, he did. There was a certain pert maid he wished to prove something to, a Miss Freya of the Smart Mouth That Needed to Be Kissed. Or, if she didn’t offer him a few kinder words, he might just spend it all on himself.

He turned to Stuart. “Tha’ is it, then. Miss Balfour says we’re no’ needed, and so we’re no’.”

“Bu’ his lordship—”

“His lordship will understand how ’tis. Now open the door fer Miss Balfour and leave it open, and then we’ll be off. I’ve a notion, anyways, tha’ I will be needed to carry the auld pug oop the stairs soon, fer Lady Charlotte was takin’ it wit’ her fer a walk.”

“Verrah weel.” Looking unhappy, Stuart opened the door wide and then stood to one side.

Dahlia took a steadying breath and, trying to still her racing mind, she entered the library. Now was the time to stand firm. She only wished her heart didn’t ache so, as if she were hurting it herself.

She stepped onto the ornate rug and paused. It was a cloudy morning, leaving the pale swath of light that entered the terrace doors gray and wan. No lamps had been lit, so the only other light in the dark room came
from the fire, which snapped and crackled cheerfully, as if aware it had to put forth more effort.

And yet the air remained gloomy, and Lord Kirk was nowhere to be seen. Dahlia took a few more steps into the room, her shoes silent on the thick rug. All about her, shelves of books—normally the most welcome of all sights—loomed. The library was an impressive part of Floors Castle

She was just about to call Kirk’s name when the large wing-backed chair before the fireplace creaked and she caught sight of his left hand as he gripped his cane and rose. He saw her, and then glanced at the pocket watch he held in his other hand. “You’re late.”

Dahlia’d just bent her knee in a curtsy, but at his words, she froze and then slowly straightened. “I beg your pardon, but did you just announce that I’m late?”

Kirk opened his mouth to answer, but the flash in Dahlia’s gaze made him pause. He’d arrived in the library a good half hour early, as eager for their meeting as a callow youth waiting for his first tryst. He’d spent the time imagining how he wished the events to play out, what her reaction might be, how he might best draw her to him—every thought lighting his already heightened awareness. But none of his imagining had included Dahlia staring at him with such a martial light in her eyes.

He slipped his watch back into his pocket. “I was merely commenting on the time. It’s ten after.”

Her gaze narrowed.

He hurried to add, “Not that it matters, of course.”

“No, it doesn’t. Kirk, before you say anything more, I must inform you that I’m not here because you commanded me to be.”

Kirk frowned. “Commanded?”

“Your note—if I can even call it that—was as rude and insensitive as the remark you just made about my being late.”

“I merely gave you the time and place. It was as all notes should be—informative and to the point.”

“It
was
informative, for it allowed me to see that this”—she waved a hand in a circle—“scheme of yours, or whatever you wish to call it, is a waste of time.
My
time.”

Ah. So she’s getting cold feet, is she? I should have expected as much.
“Fine. If you feel that way, then there is nothing more to be said.”

His capitulation seemed to surprise her, for she frowned. “So you think it is the case as well?”

“No, but—” He shrugged. “If you are decided, you are decided. I would never—” He narrowed his gaze. “You are rubbing your arms. Are you chilled?”

“A little,” she admitted. “As large as this castle is, I daresay it is impossible to keep it warm in the winter.”

“It’s cold outside, and getting more so, and you can feel it. Here, let me stir the fire.” He grasped his cane and started to turn.

“No, no. There’s no need.”

“Don’t be foolish.” He made his way to the fireplace. When he bent to pick up the log, he had to hide a grimace caused by his aching leg. His morning sessions
with MacCreedy were more painful than he’d expected, despite the warnings the valet had given him. He tossed in the log and straightened. “There.”

“Thank you. That is very kind.”

“It’s not kindness to do what should be done.” Dusting his clothing, he turned to face her. “That should warm the room up soon enough.”

“I can already feel it.”

“Move closer to the fire and you’ll feel it even more.”

She glanced toward the door as if it called her.

“Come, Dahlia. We know each other too well to leave things unsaid. If we do so, we’ll only mull it over until we can’t sleep. We’re the sort of people who think, often too much. A good conversation now could give us both a better night’s sleep later on.”

She smiled. “My father has accused me of over-thinking.”

“Many, many people have said the same of me. So we must talk.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She walked around the settee and came to stand near the fire. “I’ve no wish to cause you to lose any sleep.”

“Good.” He watched as she held her hands out to the flames. Such delicate hands, too. Hands he’d seen caress a book as if it were human. His body tightened at the thought, and he had to put his weight on his aching leg to refocus his wayward imagination. “Let me make this easier: you no longer wish to participate in my ‘scheme,’ as you put it.”

She flushed. “You are going to speak very baldly, aren’t you?”

“You would have me speak through a filter of politeness?”

“No, not at all. Pray continue.”

“Thank you. I did make a suggestion, but it was no scheme. I’d no wish to experience that sort of awkwardness again, and I assumed that neither did you. Or don’t you want to find a mate?”

She grimaced. “I hate it when you use the term ‘mate.’ It sounds so vulgar.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing? Two peacocks preening before the opposite sex, hoping one or another will notice us?” He flapped his arms as he talked.

Her lips twitched, but she said in a severe tone, “That’s not any better.”

“The truth is rarely pretty. Not in this case, anyway.” He limped back to his chair and sat. When he noticed her lifted eyebrows he said, “I should stand? My leg hurts.”

“You could have invited me to take a seat, as well.”

“But you were cold and wished to be near the fire.”

“Kirk, when you’re being polite, you sometimes ask things even though you know the answer.”

“That sounds like a damn waste of time.”

“And you shouldn’t curs—” She sighed. “Oh, never mind.”

She turned and moved closer still to the fire, the amber light warming her skin, bringing out the faintest hint of red in her brown curls, and catching the red
light of the garnet earrings that hung from her delicate earlobes. The earrings must hold special meaning, for she rarely wore any others.

They’re pretty, but garnets aren’t good enough. She deserves rubies. Rich, red, bold rubies.

Kirk smiled to himself at the thought. She really was a pretty woman, his Dahlia. Beautiful, even, if not in the showy manner preferred by the shallow-hearted followers of fashion. No, her beauty consisted of a purity of line of nose and jaw, and the ripe curve of her lips. Her skin, not the colorless white so favored by the maidens here, seemed fresh and young, dusted with a smattering of freckles that begged a man to trace them with his lips.

She lifted her skirts the tiniest bit and extended one daintily slippered foot toward the fire. As she did so, she moved to one side and suddenly, the light from the fire silhouetted her slender legs through the material of her gown.

His heart slammed an extra beat and he found himself unable to look away.
God, but she’s gracefully shaped, with rounded calves and thighs that beg for a man’s hand. She has none of this scrawny thinness that’s so fashionable. Who could even think of such bone-baggery when faced with such generous, lush curves?