How to Entice an Enchantress (7 page)

“As I said before, she refused me, so I didn’t see the need to say anything about it.”

The duchess threw up her hands. “Didn’t see the— Good God, how are Charlotte and I to promote your suit if you keep secrets from us?”

“Horrible secrets,” Charlotte echoed. “Did you really say such wretched things during a
proposal
?”

“They didn’t seem wretched at the time. I was trying to explain that, despite her lack of experience with the world and her family’s lack of standing, I thought her
so superior as to offer for her hand despite all I could hold against her. How is that a wretched thing to say?”

Lady Charlotte shook her head, her lace cap fluttering. “Did you at least tell her that you found her pretty? Intelligent? Interesting?”

“She knew I thought those things or I’d hardly have offered to get leg shackled to begin with.”

“Good God,” her grace snapped. “I daresay you didn’t even offer the chit a decent ring, did you?”

“I had one that belonged to my mother,” he replied stiffly. “It’s not very pretty, which I admitted to her. In fact, it’s damned ugly—but it was all I had on hand.”

Lady Charlotte pinched her nose and shook her head. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s a family heirloom.”

“You poor, poor man. You don’t really know, do you?”

“Know what?” he snapped, irritated by the whole situation.

Her grace sighed. “You’ve much further to go than we thought.”

“How much further can I go? Look at me! I’m dressed like a popinjay, my hair has been cut like a damned dandy’s, and I’ve been forced to learn mawkish manners and mealymouthed pleasantries until I can’t stand to hear myself speak. And for what? She’s not in the room two minutes before she’s bringing up the past and telling me in no uncertain terms that she wishes I were to go to Hades. And damn it, after all of this, that’s where I wish I were, too!”

“You must give it time. Give her time. It appears she has more to recover from than we realized.”

Kirk turned and made his way back to the fireplace, where he stared into the flames. “I told you she wouldn’t wish to see me, fine clothing or no. She is furious with me, and I don’t blame her. The terms of the loan were horrible.”

“How did that come to be?”

“I instructed my man of business to write up the loan. It never dawned on me he would write one that was other than fair.”

“Ah. And since you never really expected to collect on the loan, you didn’t examine the terms first.”

“Exactly. I dismissed him once I found out, but by then it was too late—the loan had been signed, and Dahlia viewed it as evidence that I am a man without a conscience.”

“What a coil.”

“Indeed.” Kirk placed a hand against the marble mantel and leaned against it.

“Still . . . I remain hopeful,” the duchess said.

“Then you are more an optimist than I.”

“I am more experienced in matters of the heart, Kirk. I have hope for a reason.”

His dark gaze turned toward her. “Why? Did you see something?”

“Perhaps.” The duchess bent to pat one of the pugs who was staring up at her with a hopeful expression. “For now at least, perhaps you should leave Miss Balfour to Lady Charlotte and myself.”

“You think you can help?”

“It’s not in my nature to abandon a potential match merely because there are a few difficulties.” She pursed her lips. “However, it is a setback that Charlotte and I didn’t know the full of your history”—she fixed a hard gaze on him—“which we should have.”

“I’ve already explained that.”

“Humph. Because of that, Miss Balfour was not prepared for our meeting. Had Charlotte and I known the extent of the history behind you, we might have softened that blow, but we were not given that opportunity. There’s nothing to be done now but press forward. Now that Dahlia has seen you, she won’t be surprised again.”

“Yes, but she won’t speak to me. She hasn’t said a word to me in months until today, and you saw how furious she is.” He gave a helpless shrug. “She’ll have none of me.”

“Things will be different here. Good manners will prevent her from ignoring you when you’re with the other guests. Those same good manners will force her to speak to you whenever you are together. That should give you time to mend those broken fences of yours, and perhaps forge newer, pleasanter memories.”

Kirk rubbed his neck, feeling a dull ache behind his eyes. All he wanted was to bridge this gulf that had grown between him and Dahlia. Why was it so hard? It seemed that the more he wished for it to happen, the less likely it would be so. He looked at the duchess. “Tell me the truth: do you think I have a chance?”

She hesitated, but finally said, “Yes, but it won’t be easy. There’s much to overcome and not much time in which to do it.”

He looked down at his hand, clenched about the cane knob.
Hope. That’s all I have. But if there is even the smallest chance . . .
He sighed. “Fine. I will do what I can to make it so.”

“Excellent. Charlotte and I shall come up with a plot to allow you some time to speak with Miss Balfour. You, meanwhile, will find a compliment or two you can pay that poor girl.”

“Oh yes,” Lady Charlotte agreed. “You owe her some compliments.”

“Flowers, too,” her grace added.

“And a poem, if you can find the time to write one.”

“A poem?”

Lady Charlotte nodded. “Yes, but not about her eyes. Everyone writes about a woman’s eyes, and really, what can be said other than they shine like a lamp or a star or—”

“Hold. I don’t write poetry.”

“No? That’s a pity, for if you were to write a poem about her mouth or her hair or— It would be the very thing, I’m certain of it.” Lady Charlotte peeped hopefully at him. “Are you absolutely
certain
you can’t write a poem, even a short one?”

“Bloody hell, no!” Catching the duchess’s suddenly stern gaze, he swallowed a growl. “Tomorrow, after I’ve some time to think it through, I’ll ask MacCreedy to procure some flowers. I’m sure I can think
of a compliment or two, as well. But the poetry—damn it. It’s not in me to write an ode.”

“That’s a great deal too bad.” Lady Charlotte looked mournful.

“You might at least
try
to write one,” her grace said calmly. “Not for tonight, of course. However, there’s plenty of time between now and tomorrow’s dinner.”

His shoulders ached as if every word they’d said were weighing them down. With a sigh, Kirk rubbed a hand over his face. “Good God, is there to be no end to this?”

“Oh, there will be an end,” her grace said, a sharp note in her voice. “Hopefully it will consist of a proposal and a happy acceptance. That
is
what you wanted, isn’t it?”

For one sweet moment, he imagined Dahlia as she’d once been, smiling at him, talking about the last book she’d read, sharing secrets with such open trust— His heart ached at the thought.
It’s been so long since she’s smiled at me. Every day seems a year.
“Fine. I’ll see what I can do, but don’t expect a miracle.”

“We won’t expect anything except your best effort.” The duchess noted the darkness in Lord Kirk’s eyes, and once again she wondered how entangled his heart had become. He was such an enigmatic man that it was difficult to tell. “Have heart, Alasdair. This may be a difficult case, but it is far from hopeless.”

His gaze locked with hers and for a moment she thought he might admit his true feelings, but then he muttered something about needing to soak his aching leg, bowed, and limped from the room.

As the door closed behind him, Charlotte blew out her breath in a huge whoosh. “Goodness! That didn’t go the way we’d wished.”

“No. He was very bad for not telling us all. What a horrid history!”

“They have much to overcome.”

“Yes, they do. Both of them, I think.”

Charlotte dropped into a chair. “Do you really think there’s hope?”

“Yes. I would never waste our time.”

“I thought perhaps you were just saying that to be kind.”

“There were some positive moments.”

“There were?” Charlotte blinked. “When?”

“Miss Balfour had quite a positive reaction on seeing Kirk’s transformation. She stared at him as if fascinated.” Margaret picked up Randolph and took the chair next to Charlotte’s. “I think our Beauty is more taken with our Beast than she realizes.”

Charlotte nodded thoughtfully.

“Now we need to provide her with more reasons to be so.” Margaret patted Randolph absently. “What would a young lady in love with love wish to see in a suitor? Hmm . . .” After a long moment, she stiffened. “That might work . . . yes. It just might.”

“Oh, Margaret, I quite love it when you get that look in your eyes! What do you have planned?”

Margaret smiled, and for the next half hour, they plotted. And when they were done, they were both beaming with hope.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

I did not place Miss Balfour near Lord Kirk at dinner last night. After the scene Charlotte and I witnessed, it would be an error to allow Dahlia to think for a second that I was promoting Kirk as a potential match. Yet.

If there is one thing I know about the Balfour women, it’s that they possess pride and stubbornness in abundance, and must make up their own minds about whom they wish to pursue and be pursued by. That can make assisting them quite difficult. Still, I’ve never before allowed personal preference, mistaken as it can sometimes be, to get in the way of a good match and I shall not do so now.

Of course, last night was not without some glimmer of hope. Several times I caught Dahlia glancing toward Lord Kirk, and even though it was only to deliver the most burning of looks, it was good that she looked at him at all.

Still, we must change this. Over the course of her stay, we must find ways to remind her of the things she has in common with Lord Kirk. Meanwhile, he must show her that in order to please her, he is willing to leave his least desirable traits behind. If a man or a woman loves another—and I believe Kirk is in love with Miss Balfour, though he has not yet admitted such—he must be willing to
improve
.

We all must do so for those we love.

Bringing these two stubborn souls together will be a daunting task, and yet the match will be all the more worthwhile because of the difficulty—nay, the
impossibility
of it.

*   *   *

“Yer waistcoat, me lor’.” MacCreedy placed the garment upon the bed.

Kirk turned from the mirror where he’d just finished tying his cravat, yet another skill the valet had taught him. “Hand me a waistcoat, please. I’m— Oh. Not that one. Find another, please.”

“Me lor’?”

“It’s red
satin
.”

MacCreedy’s lips twitched. “Och now, can ye no’ wear satin, me lor’?”

Kirk lifted his brows in disbelief. “Do I
appear
to be the type of man who would wear satin?”

“I’ll no’ be answerin’ tha’, me lor’.” The valet chuckled. “ ’Tis satin, but ’tis the fashion fer all tha’.”

“Which I’m constrained to follow.” Kirk couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. Last night’s dinner
had been an unmitigated failure. Reluctantly taking the duchess’s advice, he’d given Dahlia a wide berth, though he’d wished for just a few moments to speak to her. But judging from her icy glares, the time wasn’t right.

This morning, after a restless night during which he’d assigned the duchess’s advice to hell, he’d gone in search of Dahlia before breakfast, determined to have a much-needed conversation, but she was nowhere to be found. Later, he learned she’d left with her grace and Lady Charlotte to run errands in town. That had left him to mingle with the other guests, who treated him much as they had last night, with a mixture of awkward glances or morbid stares.

He ran his thumb along his scar, wondering if he’d have to put up with such looks for the entire three weeks.

“Is yer scar hurtin’ ye, me lor’?”

“No. I was just wondering how long it would take her grace’s guests to stop staring at it.”

“Och, ’tis rude o’ them.”

He shrugged. “It’s easier to get used to rude guests than to deal with this damnable neckcloth. It seems that since I’ve been buried in the countryside, fashion has taken a decidedly French turn. That is not a compliment.”

MacCreedy chuckled. “Fer all ye’re complainin’, fashion has no’ changed so much fer gentlemen. Is it possible tha’ ye’ve ne’er been one to dress, e’en afore ye buried ye’self in the country?”

“Perhaps. My first wife frequently lamented I possessed no fashion sense worth mentioning.”

“Tha’ explains it, then. Ye’ve been rejectin’ dressin’ to yer station since th’ cradle. I canno’ say tha’ I’m surprised, fer ye seem verrah set in yer ways, ye do.” MacCreedy gave the waistcoat a fond look. “This is verrah much in style, me lor’, which is probably why ye instinctively dislike it so.”

Kirk grinned. “I’ve good instincts, have I?”

Humor warmed the valet’s craggy face. “I’ve ne’er seen anyone wit’ a better aptitude fer recognizin’ wha’ is in style, me lor’. The problem is tha’ after ye recognize it, ye instantly decide to hate it.”

“At least I’m consistent.” Over the last two months, Kirk had grown to appreciate MacCreedy’s expert assistance. In Edinburgh Kirk had relearned the ways of the polite world, all the things he’d forgotten and many things he’d never known. He now realized that the death of his parents, especially his mother, when he was quite young had deprived him of a certain polish, something he’d never missed until now. He’d never been taught—or over the years had forgotten—basic things such as how to bow with grace, how to greet various members of the nobility, which were appropriate topics of conversation and which were not, and a variety of other foppish duties that no one in their right mind would wish to know.

He’d been quite happy not knowing those things until he’d met Dahlia Balfour, and there were times when he’d questioned his sanity in undertaking this
mad quest.
And all for a woman who wishes me to the devil.
A single, slender, fragile strand of hope that somehow, some way, Dahlia Balfour might come to see him as something other than the man who tried to ruin her family pulled him inexorably to this course.