How to Entice an Enchantress (8 page)

She’d damned well better appreciate my efforts.
He left his cane beside the dresser and limped to the bed. “MacCreedy, please find a waistcoat that won’t make me look like a fop.”

MacCreedy wisely didn’t argue, but returned to the wardrobe.

Kirk leaned against the bedpost to take the weight off his aching leg. If he were home right now, he’d be sitting in his study reading the latest book on the Egyptian explorations, his newest interest. Either that or he might be trying his hand at the new Beethoven sheet music he’d ordered from London last month. That was one thing he had gotten from his mother, a deep love of music. She used to play beautiful pieces for hours, with a talent he’d never possess.

The thought of the waiting sheet music made him wish he was home right now, where every night Mrs. MacAllis cooked him one of his favorite meals, and his butler made certain that the fire in his study was just so. Instead, here he was, dressed in these damned uncomfortable clothes, hoping that Dahlia would come to her senses and realize they were uniquely matched.

For they were more compatible in thought and action than any other two people Kirk knew. He
suspected that Dahlia, young and romantic, didn’t realize how important or rare that was. Even if the duchess introduced Dahlia to every eligible bachelor in the kingdom, she’d find no man as well suited to her as he.

That’s why he was so determined to win this battle, silly as it was, concerned with satin waistcoats and how deeply one bowed to a duke as opposed to a viscount. But if it took a battle of society to win her hand, then so be it.
She is worth it. More than worth it.

“I had yer coat pressed.” MacCreedy’s voice broke into Kirk’s thoughts.

“Thank you.”

“Och, ’twas fer me own benefit.” MacCreedy withdrew a perfectly pressed coat from the wardrobe and placed it on the bed. “A well-turned-out gentleman speaks jus’ as much to his valet’s credit as his own.”

“I’m glad I won’t shame you.”

“As if I’d let ye.” MacCreedy grinned. “I was a topnotch boxer in me day. I’m fairly sure I could take ye now, e’en though I’ve a score o’ years on ye.”

“I’ve no doubt.” MacCreedy was unlike any valet Kirk had ever known. After Wellington’s valet had been injured during the Spanish campaign and sent home, MacCreedy—the groom in charge of his grace’s horses—had been pressed into service for the exacting, crotchety commander. Under the duke’s precise direction, MacCreedy had learned the valet arts and was now a master valet. He could black boots to a high gloss, starch cravats into rigid and snowy perfection,
and maintain a frosty air with the most impudent of footmen.

Yet because he’d first been a groom and had served the duke throughout the harsh, often desperate conditions of the infamous Spanish campaign, MacCreedy also knew things other valets didn’t—like how to clean and fire any sort of pistol, and a thorough knowledge of field medicine. The latter had been of special help, for the valet knew many remedies to ease a sore and aching leg.

Now, though, the valet wasn’t helping at all. Instead, he was holding Kirk’s dinner coat against the waistcoat. “The red color complements yer black dinner coat.” He looked hopefully at Kirk.

Kirk was fairly certain Dahlia would laugh at the ridiculous waistcoat. He had a sudden memory of her laughter—huskier than one might expect, and very attractive. It would be nice to hear her laugh again, anything other than the dark looks she’d sent him throughout dinner last night.

MacCreedy sighed. “Verrah weel, me lor’. If ye’ve decided, then ye’ve decided. As ye dinna ha’ anyone to impress but yerself, I’ll put awa’ the satin waistcoat and fetch ye a nice, safe wool one.” The valet pulled out a wool waistcoat and placed it on the bed beside the red one.

Kirk looked at the two waistcoats. Beside the vibrant sheen of the red satin, the blue wool looked bland and boring. He sighed. “Damn it, give me the satin waistcoat. I’ve gone this far to make myself a fop,
so why stop now? Besides, I’ll be so uncomfortable in these”—he gestured toward his breeches—“that I won’t care about the waistcoat.”

MacCreedy’s craggy face cracked in a smile. “Och, ye’re back t’ tha’, are ye? How breeches nowadays cling?”

“I prefer looser ones.”

“Aye, as were the fashion twenty years ago.”

Kirk sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as his leg protested.

MacCreedy eyed him somberly. “I’ll order a bath fer after dinner. I’ve more ointment fer ye to rub into tha’ leg, too.”

“It has helped.”

“I could do more, if ye’d let me. The muscles need to be stretched, they do. Wit’ the proper work, ye could turn more easily, perhaps e’en ride. It’s e’en possible tha’ ye could leave yer cane behind and walk wit’oot a limp.”

Kirk looked up at that. “I wouldn’t limp? At all?”

“ ’Tis possible, if ye work hard enou’.”

“When this is over, I shall gladly pursue your advice. But for now, I fear that in trying to obtain that goal, you’d leave me limping worse than ever.”

“Aye, at least in the beginning.”

“Exactly. And I’ve no wish to look even less capable in front of Miss Balfour.”

MacCreedy shook his head. “Och, ye’ve a bad case o’ it, haven’t ye’, me lor’.”

“A bad case?”

“O’ love.”

“Miss Balfour and I are very compatible. That’s far more important than love.”

The valet shook his head. “Me lor’, I dinna think to hear such nonsense fro’ ye.”

“It’s not nonsense. I was married before and I know love.”

“Ah, so ye loved yer wife, but no’ Miss Balfour?”

“I loved my wife with the foolhardiness and drama of a youth.” He grimaced. “That was fine for the age I was, but no longer. What I feel for Miss Balfour is quite different. We are comfortable, she and I.”

“Poor Miss Balfour.”

“Why do you say that? Just because I see her without the falseness of a fleeting passion doesn’t mean that I don’t value her. She’s intelligent, pleasant, and pleasing to look upon.” More than pleasing, in fact. Her smile was breathtaking and she possessed a freshness that no other woman could match. With her brown curls and the most damnably attractive sprinkling of freckles, he would never tire of just seeing her smile.

Their relationship had been tantalizingly short, but in the months after they’d had their disagreement and she’d stormed out of his home and sworn never to return, he’d found himself missing her far more than he’d expected. Worse, he’d begun wondering about other things . . . like how she’d feel in his arms. If he closed his eyes even now, he could imagine exactly what it would feel like to trace a kiss between each
freckle on her nose, across her cheek, directly to those plump lips—

“Me lor’? ’Tis a wee bit past seven. Ye’ll be late if we dinna get ye dressed.”

The waistcoat seemed to mock his thoughts.
Fine. I may have to endure some foolishness to win Dahlia, but hopefully it won’t be much. She’s a pragmatist at heart, and she’ll soon realize that both of our lives will be more comfortable if we spend them together.

“Let’s get this over with. The sooner Dahlia realizes the silliness of this entire venture, the sooner we can return home and forget this horrendous event.”

MacCreedy sent him a humorous glance. “Me lor’, ’tis becomin’ more and more obvious tha’ ye’re no romantic.”

“Romance is for women and novels.”

MacCreedy winced. “Tha’ made me cold, it did.”

“Well, I’m about to make you ill. Hand me that wretched waistcoat and let’s be done with this.”

The valet helped Kirk into the waistcoat and then watched as he buttoned it. “I hope ye dinna think I’m pryin’, but did ye ha’ a chance to, oh, I dinna know, mayhap write some’at this afternoon? A poem, mayhap?”

Kirk turned to look at his valet. “You’ve been talking to her grace.”

MacCreedy picked up the coat from the bed and smoothed one sleeve. “Mayhap I ran into her and Lady Charlotte in the courtyard after I returned fro’ town.”

“With Miss Balfour, I take it?”

“Sadly, she’d already entered th’ house afore I arrived.” MacCreedy held up the coat.

Kirk allowed the valet to ease the coat onto his shoulders. “Her grace is a meddling woman.”

“Aye, but her heart is in th’ right place, me lor’. Ye canno’ say tha’ aboot many people.”

“I suppose. What did you tell her when she asked if I was writing a poem?”

“Tha’ I’d seen no evidence of such.”

“Nor will you. I’m not a poet. I do, however, know Miss Balfour better than her grace does. Speaking of which, were you able to procure the items I requested?”

“Aye. They’re on the table by the dresser.”

Kirk limped across the room. Three books sat in a stack. “Ah. An Egyptian history, a study of the Roman ruins found in Bath, and Byron’s poetry.” He replaced the books. “Well done, MacCreedy. They are exactly what I was hoping you’d find.”

“ ’Twas hard to make a mistake when ye gave me such explicit instructions. The duke’s battle orders weren’t much clearer.”

“It helps that I know the reader’s taste so well.” This was much better than flowers. “So the money I gave you was enough?”

“Aye, I put the extra in yer lockbox along wit’ the bill. The Byron book cost ye a bit more than th’ others, which is odd seein’ as how it has fewer words.”

“The man’s work is sappy and dramatic, but since
Miss Balfour’s taste runs in that direction, she’ll enjoy it.”

“She also likes histories?”

“Very much.” Kirk remembered her face when she’d found his collection of books on Roman history. Her eyes had widened, her lips parted, her skin flushed— He caught MacCreedy’s inquiring look and said shortly, “She’ll enjoy all three of these books.”

“Are you giving them to her tonight?”

Kirk looked at them thoughtfully. “No, not yet. She’s barely speaking to me now. I’ll find a better time and place.” He limped to the dresser and reclaimed his cane, pausing to look at himself in the mirror. Only a slender margin of the waistcoat showed where his coat opened and, as MacCreedy had suggested, it complemented the black coat well. Two months ago, he’d have never realized that contrast.
Good God, I’m turning into a fop.
Shaking his head, he made his way to the door.

“I’ll ha’ a hot bath ready when ye return, me lor’. It’ll do yer leg good.”

“Thank you, MacCreedy.” Kirk left and closed the door behind him. Tonight, he would not allow Dahlia to escape without some conversation. One way or another, he was going to break through the wall of chilly disapproval she’d built around herself.

*   *   *

In a bedchamber in the east wing, Dahlia admired her gown in the mirror. Thanks to her sister’s skill with a needle, the gown was far better fashioned than many
purchased from the famed modistes on Bond Street. The short-sleeved ball gown was comprised of an undergown of blue silk, with an overdress of white silk and silver thread that made it glisten as she moved. White bobbin lace trimmed the hem and the low oval neckline, and the whole was tied with a wide blue sash. “I’m so glad the duchess is offering dancing this evening. I love to dance.”

The maid, who was replacing the hairpins on the dresser, smiled. “ ’Tis a beautiful gown, miss. And t’ think Miss Lily made it!”

“My sister is very skilled.” Lily’s soon-to-be husband, Prince Wulfinski, thought so, too, for he’d encouraged her to open a shop on Bond Street and in Edinburgh’s more fashionable district when they returned from visiting his family in Oxenburg. Dahlia imagined her sister’s happiness in seeing her wearing the gown, and a pinch of homesickness struck her.

Oh, how she missed Lily. In fact, Dahlia missed both of her sisters, who were off having adventures while she’d been left at home with their distracted father, who was more interested in the growth of his roses than breathing. She smoothed the silk overskirt and sighed. She loved her father dearly—they all did—but he wasn’t the most companionable of men.

That was probably why she’d been so fascinated with Lord Kirk when she’d first met him. Although he was a male, he actually
talked
to her, and she, unaware that was the normal way of things, had thought him unusual.

The thought of Lord Kirk brought her spirits even lower. Although she’d known of him for a long time, she’d paid him very little heed until a year or so ago when, in town shopping for some trim for a gown, she had—literally—run into him. He’d been coming out of a store, his hands full of packages, and she’d turned the corner, her vision obscured by her bonnet poke. Their collision had caused him to drop his packages, one of which he’d already opened, and she found herself looking down at the most fascinating array of books on history and architecture, ancient civilizations and—oh, every topic she loved. Although they’d never before spoken, they had fallen into an instant conversation about books, authors, the importance of the new discoveries in Egypt and Greece, and all sorts of things.

Prior to that meeting, she’d barely spared the older, taciturn widower a thought. She knew a little of his tragic story and might have been disposed to view him in a romantic fashion, but his refusal to so much as wave whenever he rode past her or her sisters had left her with little inclination to think of him as anything more than a rude recluse.

But after their conversation about the books he’d purchased, she’d seen him in an entirely different light. Lured by his promise to allow her to borrow any book from his library that she might wish, she’d found herself tramping through the fields between their houses to visit.

Although she’d been hesitant at first, over the next
few months two things had brought her back time and again. One was Kirk’s insistence that his housekeeper be present every time Dahlia visited, which made her feel quite safe. The second was the richness of his amazing library. Thus, her fears assuaged, her thirst for new books stirred, she’d found herself returning several times a week, staying longer with each visit.

Dahlia knew she was risking scandal by visiting a widower at his home without the benefit of a known chaperone. But she’d been helpless to refuse such a wealth of books, and if she were honest, there was something about Lord Kirk that fascinated her. He was so alone, so set in his ways, and yet she sensed a darkness to him, a deep loneliness that made her heart ache and quite softened her opinion of him.