How to Entice an Enchantress (25 page)

“Och, ye seem a bit miffed, me lor’. Ye’ve been miffed fer two days now, and I’m beginnin’ to wonder if ’tis a permanent condition.”

Kirk wished his knee didn’t hurt, for he’d like nothing better than to kick the footstool. He contented himself with a short “It’s Miss Balfour.”

“Ah, the object o’ yer affections.”

“Yes, or as I’ve come to think of her, ‘the woman who should be spanked.’ ”

“Mind if I ask why ye’ve been thinkin’ such a thing aboot Miss Balfour?”

Kirk scowled. “Several days ago, she challenged some of the ladies of the house party to a duel.”

MacCreedy lifted his brows. “Pardon me, me lor’, but did you say a
duel
?”

“Yes. Her weapon of choice was a battledore paddle.” Kirk dropped his head back against the high cushions of the chair and looked at his valet. “And you can stop pretending you didn’t know about the match, for I’m sure it was discussed as much belowstairs as it was abovestairs.”

“I may ha’ heard some’at of it earlier.” When Kirk raised his brows, MacCreedy added, “But ’twas obvious
ye dinna wish to talk aboot it, so I dinna bring it oop.”

“I still don’t. It’s a colossal embarrassment. Thanks to that damned battledore duel, which every person in the castle apparently attended, I’m now treated as an object of pity.”

“Sure ’tis no’ so bad as tha’.”

“Just this morning, two gentlemen—
gentlemen
, MacCreedy—got into a tussle over which would hold the breakfast room door for me.”

The valet winced.

“Exactly. I yanked the door from their hands and ordered them in before me. And that’s just one example. Everyone is suddenly anxious to accommodate me, as if I were an invalid. Except Miss Balfour. She can’t seem to find ten minutes to spare for a conversation.” And his godmother, who’d suddenly switched sides in this battle and was now working for the enemy.

The valet placed a dark blue silk waistcoat with the coat on the bed. “Do ye know wha’ I think ye need, me lor’?”

“A battledore paddle to use on Miss Balfour’s bottom?”

“I was thinkin’ ye needed a wee dram.” The valet nodded to where a tray sat upon a small table beside the fire, a crystal decanter catching the light of the flames. “I had it brought up, thinkin’ ye may need a bit to soften oot the day.”

“Good God, yes. Pour me a heavy one, please.”

The valet smiled and soon brought a drink to Kirk, who was rubbing his leg. “Had another seize oop, did ye?”

“Yes, in the hallway as I was turning the corner.”

“ ’Tis the twistin’ that’s causin’ it. I know it hurts, me lor’, but ye’ll be glad ye’re workin’ it—ye truly will.”

“I hope so.” Kirk leaned back in his chair and took a generous drink. “By Zeus, that’s good.”

“Jus’ wha’ ye needed. Take another sip, and then tell ol’ MacCreedy aboot Miss Balfour and why ye think she’s avoidin’ ye. Ye canno’ keep a Scot from a spate o’ gossip.”

“Hell, there’s not a person under this roof who hasn’t involved themselves in my business, so why not you, too?” The whiskey was warming Kirk into a better mood with each swallow. “It began two days ago. As you know, I offered to teach Miss Balfour how to kiss more genteelly.”

“And she agreed?”

“Yes, and we had our first encounter.” The memory was so fresh that it almost stole his breath. Aware of the valet’s gaze, he said quietly, “It went well.”

“Tha’ is good.”

“Is it?” He frowned at his glass and took another drink, this one slower as he savored the whiskey. “I think it frightened her.”

“Ah—and now she’ll no’ meet ye at all.”

Kirk stared at the remaining amber liquid. “There’s a bit more to it than that. After the battledore match
and everyone started whispering about me, I was angry.”

“Were ye now?”

“Yes, and I hauled her into the salon and demanded to know what she thought she was doing.”

“And other people saw this?”

“Yes.”

The valet winced.

“I know, I know, but I was vexed.”

“So now she willna’ speak to ye.”

“I believe someone else has a hand in it. It dawned on me this evening that Lady Charlotte and the duchess have been involved in keeping Dahlia and myself apart. I don’t believe it’s at Dahlia’s behest.”

“I see.” The valet shook his head. “Women do like to tie a man into knots, me lor’. There’s a maid I’ve been wishin’ to walk oot wit’, and she’s a cheeky lass. She’s no’ made it easy.”

“They never do.”

“Nay.” MacCreedy came to stand at the end of the bed. “If Miss Balfour’s been avoidin’ ye, then dinna ye think tha’ is all the more reason to go down to dinner and read yer poem, like ye promised to? Be visible, as it were, rather tha’ givin’ oop.”

“I’m not giving up. I’m merely looking for a more strategic position.” Kirk finished his drink. Before he’d even swallowed, the valet had scooped it up and refilled it. “You’re good, MacCreedy.”

His valet grinned as he handed the glass back. “I know me way aboot a whiskey bottle, me lor’.” He
went to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of neatly pressed breeches and placed them on the bed with the other clothes. “If ye go to dinner and read yer poem, ’twill show Miss Balfour tha’ ye are no’ the sort as ye’ll turn into a hermit jus’ because things are no’ goin’ yer way.”

“She already thinks me a hermit.”

“She can think it all she wants, but if ye dinna go to dinner and read yer poem, then she’ll know it to be true, me lor’.”

He sighed.

“Or,” the valet added with a shrug, “ye can jus’ quit an’ leave it all be.”

“I’m a Kirk. Kirks never quit. I was going to go down
after
the performance.”

“But ye dinna know if she’ll still be aboot or no’.”

Kark paused. “That’s true.”

“Ye’ve a stout heart, me lor’; I’ve seen it meself. But ye’re missin’ the strategy o’ showin’ yerself to advantage tonight. Ye could win a bit o’ favor, which can only help ye.”

“By reading a poem. What foolery.” Yet the taste of Dahlia’s kiss was still fresh, and he longed for another. “Miss Balfour was very taken when I repeated a few lines of Byron in the library.”

“Mayhap ye could read her a poem fro’ the book ye bought her. ’Tis by Byron, is it no’?”

“Yes.”

“So read her a poem, and make her a gift o’ the
book after. Tha’ would be a pretty gesture, and ’twill make the book seem all the more special.”

Kirk supposed there was no harm in trying. Anything was better than merely hoping, and that’s what he’d been reduced to doing. He took another sip of whiskey, its warmth easing the pain in his leg even more.

Perhaps I’ve been going about this all wrong. Perhaps I should prove myself to her, show her that I’m willing to meet her halfway.
His gaze found the books he’d had the valet purchase for him and he remembered the smile on Dahlia’s lips when he’d quoted Byron in the library.
It might be just the thing.

A scratching noise came from the door, and a low growl followed as a paw appeared under the door, reaching as if in search of a treat.

Kirk’s gaze narrowed. “One of the duchess’s pudgy pugs followed me here.”

“Ye dislike animals, me lor’?”

“Of course not. I just don’t like them in the house. They belong outside, where—”

A low, mournful howl erupted from the hall.

Kirk glared at the closed door.

MacCreedy unsuccessfully hid a smile. “He’s pinin’ fer ye, me lor’.”

“He’s pining for anyone who will give him food.”

Another howl, even more mournful.

“Should I let him in? If he sees we’ve no food, mayhap he’ll wander back oot.”

Kirk muttered a curse, grabbed his cane, went to the door and yanked it open. When the pug saw Kirk, he became a wiggling, happy ball of fur.

“What in the hell are you doing, yowling like that?” Kirk demanded.

The pug plopped his haunches onto the floor and then looked pleased, as if he’d performed a mighty trick.

“I’m not impressed,” Kirk told the mutt.

MacCreedy peered around Kirk. “Tha’ is Randolph, the oldest pug. MacDougal says he canno’ take the stairs on his own now, bein’ too feeble.”

“Or lazy.”

“MacDougal suggested tha’ as weel, me lor’. I’ll ring fer someone to fetch ’im.”

“Don’t bother; it’s not worth their time. I’ll carry him back downstairs when I go.” Kirk eyed the dog. “Don’t get any ideas, mutt. You are only to be allowed into this bedchamber this one time.”

The dog wagged his tail and peered up at Kirk in a way that made MacCreedy snicker.

Kirk snapped his fingers. “Randolph, come!” He turned and went back to his chair and whiskey.

Behind him, he could hear the tap tap tap of Randolph’s nails as the dog waddled after him. MacCreedy shut the door, smiling.

Kirk drank his whiskey as Randolph toured the room, snuffling the rug, the wardrobe, and finally the legs of Kirk’s breeches that hung over the side of the bed.

“Och, dinna muss his lordship’s clothin’.” MacCreedy rescued the breeches, placing them higher on the bed.

Randolph sniffed the place where the breeches had been and then sneezed.

MacCreedy tsked. “Ye’re a right wisty pup, aren’t ye?”

The dog wagged his tail as if to agree. Perhaps it was the generous amount of whiskey MacCreedy had poured, but Kirk found himself smiling at the cheeky dog. “He’s spoiled, but he’s well behaved. Except for the howling, that is.” He nodded toward the clothes on the bed. “I suppose I should get dressed.”

The valet brightened. “Ye’re goin’ to dinner and the entertainment after all, then.”

“I suppose so. You’d make a masterful negotiator, MacCreedy.”

“So Duke Wellington always tol’ me. Do ye know which poem ye wish to read, me lor’?”

“Lud, no.” Kirk rose and began dressing. “Poetry’s nothing but tripe, but if it makes Dahlia smile, I’ll do it.”

“An’ smile whilst ye do it.”

“Don’t ask for too much, MacCreedy. It’s enough that I’m even going.”

Randolph found a spot on the rug that seemed to please him, for after sniffing it thoroughly, he dug at it.

“Randolph, stop!” Kirk commanded.

The dog looked abashed, circled three times, and with a monstrous sigh, plopped down.

“Good dog.”

Randolph panted, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

“At least
you
do what you’re told,” Kirk said to the dog.

“And all he wants is a bone fer his trouble,” MacCreedy said.

Kirk looked at the book of poetry, a thought flickering through his mind. Finally, he nodded. “MacCreedy, help me into this coat and then hand me that blasted book. If I’m to do this, then I’m going to do it right. I’ll pick the shortest poem and memorize the blasted thing. Surely that will make Miss Balfour happy.”

“Tha’ is the spirit, me lor’!”

An hour later, the poem freshly committed to memory, Kirk was on his way to dinner, the book tucked in his coat pocket.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

Roxburghe is fond of saying, “Never predict your fellow man, for you’ll fail every time.” Until Lord Kirk’s performance tonight, I didn’t understand the true meaning of that phrase. But now . . . oh my.

*   *   *

When Dahlia entered the Blue Salon she saw Miss MacLeod and Dalhousie sitting at the pianoforte, which had been moved to a prominent spot near the fireplace, rows and rows of chairs lined up before it. Now that dinner was over, the guests were wandering into the salon while Lady Charlotte fluttered here and there, handing out beautifully handwritten programs and trying to herd everyone to their seats.

As Dahlia approached, Anne pointed to the program on top of the pianoforte. “I see you’re playing two songs.”

“What?” Dahlia frowned. “I only offered to do one.”

“That’s quite all right,” Dalhousie said. “Apparently
I’m reading”—he squinted at the program—“an edifying sermon.’ ”

Anne giggled. “You! A sermon!”

He sent her a mock-stern look before flashing a grin at Dahlia. “It wouldn’t be acting if it were true to life—right, Miss Balfour?”

Dahlia had to smile back. “Very true.”

“The big surprise is Lord Kirk.” Anne pointed to the final name on the list. “He’s reading a poem.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“A pity, for I’ve been wondering about that since I heard him tell Lady Charlotte days ago that he’d do so.” Dahlia had to fight to keep the smile on her lips. The last few days had been difficult. After she and Kirk had had their disagreement about the battledore game, Lady Charlotte and the duchess had warned her about allowing Kirk to “set the pace” on the relationship and had opined that perhaps things were progressing “far, far too quickly.”

Dahlia had been embarrassed that they were so closely monitoring her relationship with Kirk, but that wasn’t why she hadn’t protested when the two older women had begun chaperoning her more thoroughly.

She had no fear of Kirk. He was painfully honest, and while he was more than willing to break society’s rules, she knew he would never, ever touch her in a way she didn’t want. The real trouble was that she was beginning to realize how much she
did
want him to touch her. She didn’t mistrust Kirk; she mistrusted herself.

Anne, who’d been arranging sheet music in a pile to match the program, glanced up at Dahlia. “Do you know both songs you’re to play?”

“I know one of them very well. The other one, well enough that only the musically inclined will know when I’ve made a misstep.”

“You’re fortunate, then, for I heard Miss Dapplemeyer say that she’d never even heard of the song Lady Charlotte put her down for.”

“At least she can plead off,” Dalhousie said. “But those of us who’ve been instructed to read an improving sermon are stuck, for we can’t pretend we’ve forgotten how to read.”

Anne laughed. “Yes, but you—” Her gaze suddenly locked over Dahlia’s shoulder, then she turned back to the sheet music. “
Someone
is walking this way.”

Kirk!
Dahlia held her breath and waited. But as the seconds passed and no shiver warmed her skin and no breathlessness overtook her, she realized it wasn’t him. She was just turning to see whom it might be when Lady Mary’s nasally voice broke into her thoughts.