How to Entice an Enchantress (9 page)

For several months, their visits had progressed from discussions of books and history to something subtly more. And Dahlia had dared hope for that more. But to her chagrin, Kirk never offered a single word of encouragement, nor did he touch her. And though she thought she detected a growing warmth in his gaze, he seemed content to leave things as they were.

Or so she’d thought until the fateful day when he’d made his coldhearted proposal, insulting her and her family in the same breath. She’d been deeply hurt, for although it was obvious his feelings weren’t involved, hers were. Not very much, for he hadn’t exactly been encouraging, but enough that the memory left a bitter sting.

After she’d stormed out, he hadn’t once attempted to explain himself or make things better. He’d merely written increasingly more demanding notes, as if he could simply order her to accept his proposal.

It had been a very unsatisfactory end to a very unsatisfactory relationship, if one could even call it that.

Then a short time later, in obvious retaliation, Kirk had made her father that horrid loan. The man’s sins were boundless, and she found herself clenching her jaw every time she thought of him.

That’s all in the past
, she told herself firmly. It was irritating that she had to bear Kirk’s company while trying to enjoy her time at the duchess’s, but overall, that was a very small obstacle now that she was on the road to future happiness.

She pushed the thoughts away and turned in front of the mirror, smiling as the gown flowed about her legs.
Ah, Lily, you are a genius. I wish you could see me!

The maid sighed. “Ye look as pretty as a picture, miss. E’en prettier than yer sisters.”

“Thank you, but I’m not as pretty as either of my sisters.”

“Och, ye’ve a different kind o’ bonniness, miss. They are the sort o’ beautiful roses sent fro’ London-town to decorate fer a ball, whilst ye ha’ the prettiness of Scottish heather plucked on a fresh spring mornin’.”

“That’s quite poetic, Freya.”

The maid grinned. “Thank ye, miss. But ’tis still the truth.”

Dahlia chuckled. “My sisters are lovelier, but I’m happy with what I have and who I am. I have the luxury of marrying for true love, unlike my sisters. Fortunately for us all, they found love as well, thanks to the duchess.”

“She’s a smart one, she is.” Freya gathered an Indian shawl of blue and pink, and helped Dahlia drape it over each elbow, letting it hang gracefully at her back.

Dahlia noted that the little maid’s brow was furrowed. “Freya? Is something amiss?”

“Weel, miss, wha’ ye said has me t’ thinkin’. Do ye really believe in true love?”

“I believe in it with all of my heart, and I’ll settle for nothing less.”

“And ye think ye will find it?”

“One day.”

“And if ye dinna? Wha’ then?”

“Well . . . I suppose it is possible that I won’t meet someone.” The thought was so lowering that Dahlia instantly shoved it away. “But I’m far more likely to meet an eligible parti here at the duchess’s castle rather than hidden away in the countryside at Caith Manor. And if I’m
willing
to fall in love, then it is bound to happen. If it doesn’t on this visit, then it surely will the next.”

“I’m no’ certain I wish fer a husband, bu’ I wouldna’ turn me nose up a’ findin’ a beau.”

“A beau over a husband?”

“Och, indeed, miss. I’d rather ha’ the romance o’
steppin’ oot wit’ someone, wit’oot the problems o’ a marriage. Some o’ the downstairs maids are married, and it do seem tha’ they be fightin’ and squablin’ more than the rest o’ us.”

“Well, I want both: romance
and
a good marriage. Oh dear! I’m late. Pray hand me that fan, and I’m off.”

Freya pressed the fan into Dahlia’s hand as she whisked herself out the door and down the hallway, the swell of the voices below rising to greet her.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

Well. That didn’t happen the way I’d imagined.

*   *   *

Dinner was a delight. Dahlia was glad she’d again been seated a good distance from Lord Kirk. As usual, the guests were seated men and women alternating. To Dahlia’s immense satisfaction, the gentlemen who sat to either side of her were both quite pleasant.

To her left was a rotund young man who sported an outlandish number of rings and watch fobs. While he was rather quiet, he was very polite and offered a smile whenever their eyes chanced to meet. On her other side sat the charming Viscount Dalhousie, whose good-natured tales grew more and more outlandish as the meal progressed, leaving Dahlia and the surrounding guests chuckling.

After dinner, the gentlemen excused themselves for port while the women retired to the salon, which had been set up for the evening’s entertainment. The furniture had been moved from one end of the room,
where a small quartet played quietly in a corner in preparation for the dancing to come. The women talked and sipped a dessert sherry while waiting for the men to return.

Dahlia found herself near the two young ladies she’d arrived with, Lady Mary and Miss Stewart. From the feathers in their hair to their painted silk slippers, the two women exemplified the latest fashions. More intriguing was the fact that Lady Mary’s auburn tresses were cut à la Sappho, a style Dahlia had greatly admired when she’d seen it in
Ackermann’s Repository
last month.

She put a hand to her own brown curls and was wondering if she dared ask Lady Mary how difficult the style was to attain when she realized that the two women were whispering furiously, as if in an argument.

It was quite awkward until Miss Stewart gave a sharp nod and turned to Dahlia, a practiced smile on her thin lips. “Pardon me, Misssssss—” Her brows rose.

Relieved the two had finished their disagreement and pleased to be making some new acquaintances, Dahlia curtsied to Miss Stewart. “I’m Dahlia Balfour.”

“Miss Alayne Stewart and this”—Miss Stewart inclined her head toward the taller woman—“is Lady Mary.”

“Yes, I believe we met in the foyer on our arrival yesterday.” Dahlia curtsied to Lady Mary.

Lady Mary barely returned it, her cold gaze flickering over Dahlia from head to toe as if trying to find fault with some aspect of her appearance.

Miss Stewart showed her teeth in a smile. “Miss Balfour, would you mind helping us solve a slight argument?”

“I don’t know how I could be of help, but of course.”

“Lady Mary and I cannot decide which modiste made your gown. I think it is one of Mrs. Bell’s, while Lady Mary believes it to be a creation of Mack and Bennet’s.”

Hearing the names of two of London’s most famous modistes made Dahlia beam with pride.
Wait until I write to Lily and tell her that her gown was mistaken for a Bond Street creation!
“It was neither.”

Lady Mary moved forward. “Nonsense. It has to be one or the other— Ah! Of course! It’s French.”

“Oh my!” Miss Stewart looked at Dahlia’s gown with renewed appreciation.

“No, it’s not French. Actually, my sister made it.” Dahlia couldn’t keep from preening just the slightest bit.

Miss Stewart’s jaw dropped. “That cannot be true.”

“It is true. My sister is an excellent seamstress.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lily Balfour.”

Miss Stewart made a face. “I’ve never heard of her. Where is her shop?”

“She doesn’t have one yet. Once she’s married to Prince Wulfinski, they are going to open one on Bond Street.”

“Wulfinski?” Lady Mary’s gaze sharpened. “Ah!
Balfour. I remember now. Your sister is the last match made by the duchess. Your other sister married the Earl of Sinclair, another match brought about by her grace.”

Dahlia inclined her head warily. “Yes.”

Lady Mary’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It seems as if the duchess has made a project out of marrying off the Balfour sisters. How quaint.”

The note of superiority in her voice made Dahlia say rather hotly, “Her grace treats my family no different from anyone else’s. She is kind to everyone.”

Lady Mary exchanged a humorous glance with Miss Stewart before the latter tittered and said, “Oh, she’s been
especially
kind to the Balfours. You and your sisters have been her grace’s most talked-about charity cases.”

Dahlia stiffened. “Charity? I beg your pardon, but—”

The doors opened and the men began to enter, talking and laughing, the heavy-sweet scent of cigar smoke hovering about them. Instantly, the quartet changed to a lively Scottish reel as swarms of footmen carrying trays of champagne invaded the room. In the space of a single moment, the air went from feminine quiet to one of boisterous merriment.

“Ah, Miss Balfour! I was hoping to find you here.”

Dahlia, still irritated at Lady Mary and Miss Stewart, turned to find Viscount Dalhousie behind her. Instantly, Miss Stewart smoothed her gown and patted her hair in a nervous way.
So, she has an interest there, does she? Well, so do I.

Lord Dalhousie had been an amusing dinner companion,
and he was also pleasingly tall and handsome with gray eyes, light brown hair, and a mischievous smile. Now that Dahlia knew Miss Stewart found him handsome, he seemed even more so to her.

Dahlia smiled at him. “Lord Dalhousie, have you come to tell me more about the time in Oxford when your horse ran away with you, and you ended up in a religious parade where people thought you were St. Christopher? For if you have, I pray you stop right there, for I did not believe a word of your tale at dinner, and I’m even less inclined to do so now.”

Lord Dalhousie laughed, his gray eyes glinting. “You caught me! I was going to repeat that very tale, word for word. Now I’m at a loss for anything to say.”

Miss Stewart leaned forward, inserting herself into the conversation without a care for politeness. “Lord Dalhousie, you may repeat your story to me, for I’ve never heard it.”

“Oh yes,” Lady Mary said, coming to her friend’s aid. “Miss Stewart adores nothing more than a funny story.”

“I fear this was funny only to Miss Balfour,” Dalhousie said, sending a twinkling look at Dahlia before pretending to be mournful. “For me, it was a tragedy, a bitter humiliation that I shall never overcome.”

Miss Stewart giggled. “Pray stop teasing, Lord Dalhousie! Do tell us your story!”

Lord Dalhousie sighed. “I would, but I fear the dagger glances that will be shot at me from Miss Balfour’s fine eyes.”

Fine eyes?
Dahlia had to bite back a grin, especially after she caught Miss Stewart’s fading smile.

The quartet struck up a waltz, the music flooding the room.

“Oh, a waltz,” Lady Mary said. “Miss Stewart loves to waltz, don’t you, Alayne?”

“Oh yes. I adore a good waltz.”

“Then you are lucky there are so many partners available,” Lord Dalhousie said, as if he didn’t realize the two women were trying to lure an invitation from him.

“Hardly.” Lady Mary unfurled her fan and wafted it with practiced languor. “Who do you think might make Miss Stewart an eligible partner? Perhaps aged Lord MacInnis?”

“Aged? Lord MacInnis is a very nice man,” Dahlia protested. “He helped Lady Fowley down the stairs before dinner in the most solicitous way.”

“Then let
her
dance with him,” Miss Stewart said. “He’s ancient and smells like licorice.”

Lord Dalhousie threw up a hand. “Sadly, after dinner Lord MacInnis retired to his room, saying he was tired and wished an early night and a cup of warmed milk, so he’s not here.”

“Of course he isn’t.” Lady Mary’s fan wafted gently. “Alayne, perhaps you should dance with Mr. Simmons?”

“I couldn’t!” Miss Stewart declared. “Have you seen his hair?”

Dalhousie looked confused. “It’s red?”

Miss Stewart opened her mouth, but Dahlia hurried to interrupt in an attempt to move the conversation to kinder ground. “Oh look! Several people have already joined the floor. Perhaps we should move there so we can watch the danc—”

“Mr. Simmons wears a
wig
!” Miss Stewart interrupted without so much as glancing Dahlia’s way.

Dalhousie looked surprised. “Does he, now? I’ve known him for years, since we are both members of the Four Horse Club, and I never suspected.”

“Oh yes! When we arrived yesterday, his carriage was beside mine. As I was walking in, he bent to pat one of the Roxburghe pugs and his hair slipped to one side—all of it!”

Dalhousie laughed. “How disturbing.”

“Oh, I was horrified! I couldn’t possibly dance with him, for fear I might fall into a spate of giggles.”

“He won’t do at all.” Lady Mary’s smirk over the edge of her fan couldn’t be more pronounced. “What about”—she paused, malice in her eyes—“
Lord Kirk
?”

Dahlia stiffened. She might harbor some anger toward Lord Kirk, but she knew more than anyone else how much it hurt him to be mocked for his scars. Though he’d never said anything to her, she knew from the bleakness of his gaze that every slight ripped at him.

Miss Stewart shuddered dramatically. “I would never,
ever
dance with that scar-faced, gimpy man!
Never!
”

It was then that Dahlia saw him over Miss Stewart’s shoulder, just a few feet away. He’d been walking
toward them and had frozen at the cruel words, his face taut, leaving the red blaze of his scar more raw than usual, his mouth an angry slash.

His gaze locked with Dahlia’s and he inclined his head ever so faintly.

What does that nod mean?
Her heart ached to think that he might believe her a part of such meanness. “Miss Stewart, that was unkind of you.”

“Nonsense, you must admit Kirk is a veritable Medusa, both beautiful and wretchedly ugly at the same time. The first time I saw him I didn’t see his scarred side, which was turned away, and I thought him the most beautiful man, didn’t I, Mary?”

Dalhousie, having a clear view of Kirk, said in a low voice, “Miss Stewart, it would be best if you didn’t speak about Lord—”

“Ha!” She playfully tapped his arm with her fan. “I won’t say a thing if you can find me someone to dance with who isn’t old or maimed or scarred.”