Three
Anne glanced across the crowded ballroom at the horrid Lord Rutledge, who she had purposely warned of her intention to let all innocent debutantes know he was an unrepentant rake. The man should have had the decency to depart in shame, but there he stood, champagne coupe in hand, talking with a man to his right. She couldn’t get a glimpse of Rutledge’s companion, undoubtedly a fellow rogue, as the man had turned his back in the precise moment that she endeavored to see his face. She swept her gaze over the guests near Lord Rutledge. Which poor debutante might he have his sights set upon? Just as she was considering the ladies present who might need to be informed of Lord Rutledge’s character an odd hissing came from her grandfather, and then he grabbed her arm.
All thoughts of both men vanished as Anne looked at her normally stalwart grandfather’s face, which seemed utterly lacking in color. “Grandfather, what is it? Are you in pain?”
“Yes, the pain of being too old to endure a tedious ball,” he grumbled. Yet Anne feared his words were a ruse to cover up his true pain. She’d noticed as of late that he often looked pale and pinched in the face, and that he was emerging from his bedchambers in the mornings much later than he had in the last year and a half she had been living there. But the most obvious sign that something was wrong was that he no longer insisted on accompanying her to every social function to watch over her and ensure no rogues took advantage as had happened before.
Worry blossomed in her chest, and as she spied Dr. Talbot, her grandfather’s longtime physician and friend and onetime true admirer of her now deceased mother, Anne raised her hand and waved him over. He nodded, broke off the conversation he was engaged in, and came immediately to her and her grandfather.
“Is something amiss, Miss Adair?” Dr. Talbot asked, concern clear in his voice. The man was not only her grandfather’s tall, gray-haired, kindhearted physician but was now related to her through her twin sister Jemma’s mother-in-law.
“Grandfather is—”
“Fatigued!” her grandfather snapped, his blue eyes flashing with his ire.
Anne let out a relieved breath. Her grandfather may be feeling a bit ill, but at least he had enough spirit left to try to control the situation, as he did in almost all situations. Still, she would feel better if Dr. Talbot tended to him.
Anne squared her shoulders and prepared herself for a battle, which she prayed was not loud since the Duke and Duchess of Scarsdale’s home was brimming with guests for their ball. Anne had no wish for a column to appear in the gossip section tomorrow about her quarreling with her grandfather. That would undermine the authoritative figure she was trying to cultivate so that other, younger, far more naive debutantes would heed her advice about which men were rogues and how to avoid them. Unfortunately, they were standing near the open terrace doors, and the throngs of people milling about made privacy near impossible.
“Dr. Talbot,” she started, pleased with her stern but hushed tone, “my grandfather is ill, and I believe he needs to be examined.”
“I’m not ill,” her grandfather growled, but his grimace of pain belied his words.
Anne exchanged a look with Dr. Talbot.
“I daresay you’re not, Rowan. Just pained by ill humor,” Dr. Talbot said teasingly. “Still, why don’t you indulge an old friend and allow me to ascertain all is well? We can utilize one of the upstairs guest chambers. My bag is in my carriage and won’t take but a moment to retrieve.”
“I’ll let you examine me,” Anne’s grandfather grumbled, “but only because if I don’t, you won’t leave my side all night, and I know poor Anne will worry.”
Anne took her grandfather’s hand and squeezed it. “Yes, I would. I’m glad you’re being reasonable.” She left out for once, not wishing to rile him. “Come.”
She started to slip her arm into the crook of her grandfather’s elbow, but he caught her hand and shook his head. “I will allow myself to be examined, but on the condition that you remain down here and mingle amongst the young people, where you should be.”
“But, Grandfather—”
“I’ll not tolerate any argument,” he said, giving her his formidable, ducal stare. “You need to find a husband—”
“Grandfather!” she gasped, her face heating. He’d been making small insinuations that it was time for her to secure a match for a while, but this was the first he’d outright stated it.
“Do not Grandfather me,” he snipped, arching his eyebrows. “You’ve mourned that blackguard who broke your heart long enough.”
Thank goodness, her grandfather didn’t know the entire truth—that she was no longer an innocent. He’d been livid enough upon learning a man had convinced her of his affections and intentions to marry her, and then promptly abandoned her when he thought she was dowerless. She pushed the memories aside and focused on her grandfather. It was pointless to argue with him when his back got ramrod straight and his jaw was set defiantly. Besides that, she still had a room full of unsuspecting debutantes to warn about Lord Rutledge. She’d only managed to speak to five so far this evening. Her goal was to attend every social function he was invited to and ensure the eligible ladies knew what he was really like.
And as it went with all sinful things, merely thinking upon them almost always put them in your path. There, suddenly in her direct line of vision, was Lord Rutledge, leading Lady Barbara to the dance floor. Lady Barbara certainly needed to be warned!
Decision firmly made, Anne said, “I will follow momentarily to see what Dr. Talbot has said.”
“Do not,” her grandfather commanded briskly. Since her time with him, she’d learned not to take offense at his often cold tone. He’d lived alone for so long after sending Mary to live with his cousin in the country thirteen years prior—he’d only recently called her back to London—that Anne suspected he’d forgotten how to speak with another without sounding like he was giving an order.
She simply nodded, feigning obedience while catching Dr. Talbot’s eye and trying to convey that she would be defying her grandfather’s order. “I’ll see Rowan home if I deem it necessary,” Dr. Talbot said. “You remain and enjoy the ball.”
“I’m not a child that needs a nanny,” Grandfather grumbled.
“Then do not act like a petulant child,” Dr. Talbot countered while deftly turning her grandfather toward the exit.
Anne watched them make their way toward the stairs, stopping to speak with Sophia on the way. Sophia was talking with the doctor’s wife and Jemma, who was married to the doctor’s son-in-law, Philip, the Earl of Harthorne. Anne suppressed a chuckle at the cross expression that suddenly shadowed her grandfather’s face as Jemma linked her arm through his. Clearly, her sister had insisted on attending to Grandfather, which set Anne at ease. Jemma loved him as dearly as Anne did, and if anything was truly amiss, she’d ensure Anne knew.
Once Anne could no longer see the small party, she focused once again on the dancers, skimming her gaze over the crowd in search of Lady Barbara and thinking upon her grandfather’s obvious desire to see her married. She wanted to tell him that she no longer wished to wed, but she did still want to have children of her own. She may have abandoned the dream of being loved greatly, but she’d not abandoned her hope of being a mother. So she would eventually need to secure a husband, preferably an intelligent man with a sense of humor. And he needed to treat her well and like an equal, as Jemma’s husband did with her.
Anne sighed. She’d never attain all of that. Jemma was a beauty. Anne had a lame leg. And while her grandfather had bestowed an enormous dowry upon her, it was more hindrance than help. It still made her grind her teeth. She was like honey to the rogue bees, but Grandfather had a different view: he saw the money as protection for her. If he died before she married, she would not be forced to wed, as she would have enough money to support herself comfortably. He’d dowered Mary, as well, though only with five thousand pounds. There was an odd tension between Grandfather and his ward that Anne attributed to Mary being rather grating on the nerves.
Anne quirked her mouth and skimmed her gaze over the men and women chatting. She tried to see herself as a potential suitor might. She had a sharp mind and a keen sense of humor, but men did not seem to care for either from women, at least not unless inside a beautiful package. That brought her back to her status as an heiress, which potential suitors would most definitely consider an incentive. That was all they really wanted, yet her money was the very last reason she wanted a man to marry her. It was all so utterly depressing, and it was probably why she was so focused on her new project with the Sisterhood. Ensuring no other debutante was duped as she had been was a much better hobby than wallowing in her own hopeless situation. It gave her a sense of justice. And speaking of her project, she spotted Lady Barbara laughing merrily in the arms of the devilish Lord Rutledge. Poor Fanny could not even show her face in polite Society but Lord Rutledge had seemingly escaped unscathed from being discovered last week with Fanny in his arms.
The unfairness of it all made her positively hot under her chemise. As the set drew to an end, she took a deep breath to fortify herself to charge into the fray and secure an audience with Lady Barbara. She did not get more than two steps, however, before Sophia appeared before her, seemingly out of nowhere.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Sophia said.
Anne’s heart raced with worry. “Is it Grandfather?”
“Oh, dearest, no!” Sophia exclaimed. “I apologize for frightening you.” She patted Anne’s arm. “You know he’s in excellent hands with Dr. Talbot. My search for you is in regard to a much more delicate matter.” A mischievous grin curved her lips, and Anne chuckled despite the immediate feeling of looking like a wilted flower in Sophia’s presence. The woman had flawless porcelain skin, dark luminous eyes, and rich dark hair that made her seem rather exotic and mysterious. It always made Anne all too aware that she was rather plain and drab—and had two mismatched legs. Still, that was no fault of Sophia’s.
Anne smiled. “Well, now you have found me, and we really must chat, but—”
Sophia turned even as Anne spoke and waved at a man who stood not two heads away, engrossed in conversation with Sophia’s husband. Both men smiled, but Anne found her gaze drawn to the stranger. He was as tall as Scarsdale—who was taller than most any gentleman present—and wore a dark-green waistcoat that his shoulders filled out. Completely. As he and His Grace walked toward them, Anne realized that the man reminded her of a fine thoroughbred with the graceful, yet powerful way he moved.
“Who is that?” she whispered, hating the breathiness of her voice.
Sophia chuckled. “That, my dear, is the new Duke of Kilmartin, fresh from Scotland where he has lived all his life.”
Anne frowned. “But why—”
“I wish I knew!” Sophia interrupted. “But the man is a mystery. Kilmartin—” she grinned. “He insisted I call him that.”
“Why would he do that?” Anne asked, glancing at Sophia, who was smirking.
“Because I insisted he call me Sophia,” she said with a wink. “Nathan is so jealous of Kilmartin!” Sophia chortled, using her husband’s Christian name. “I met him several days ago when he came to my aid with a stuck carriage wheel.” Sophia cocked her head, a thoughtful look upon her face. “I find it highly refreshing for my husband to be green since I am always so possessive of him.”
“Is there a reason he should be wary of the Duke of Kilmartin?” Anne prodded. She knew Sophia to be quite in love with her husband, so she would be shocked if there was.
“Certainly not! Though, Kilmartin is quite nice to look at.”
“Darling,” the Duke of Scarsdale said as he approached and gave his wife a knowing, amused look.
Sophia beamed at her husband and tilted her head toward the Duke of Kilmartin. “It’s my pleasure to introduce you, as you requested,” she said, giving Kilmartin a pointed look, “to Miss Adair.”
Anne could not have been more surprised if the chandelier above her head suddenly fell on her. The Duke of Kilmartin had wanted to meet her? He’d requested it? Cool air hit her teeth when she sucked in a breath.
Heavens! Her jaw had actually fallen open. She quickly clamped it shut, and locking gazes with the Duke of Kilmartin, she curtsied.
When she came up, Sophia said, “Anne, this is the Duke of Kilmart—”
“Simon is sufficient,” he cut in, his sapphire gaze seeming to delve into her.
Her pulse skittered alarmingly. This was not good, not good at all. Only one other man had ever made her pulse skitter, and when she’d followed her heart and forgotten her head, she had paid a heavy price. She knew better than to think a man who looked like the Duke of Kilmartin wanted to meet her for any reason other than her dowry.
She’d set him in his place directly. She opened her mouth to speak, and he tilted his head slightly to the right, an undeniable look of interest settling on his strong features. All her composure left her.
“Oh, I couldn’t call you Simon—” His name rolled off her tongue, giving her gooseflesh. Dear Lord above, she had feathers for brains suddenly! She clenched her jaw, determined to speak with composure. “That is to say, I could call you Simon—” Her scalp prickled with a secret thrill of saying his Christian name twice. Feathers were in her head, for certain. “What I’m telling you is that I mustn’t.” Heavens, now she was rambling. First, she’d gawked, and now she rambled. How mortifying!
“But I want ye to call me Simon, Anne,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice that not only made her pulse skitter more intensely but weakened her knees. All the blood in her body seemed to take up residence in her ears and was rushing rather loudly, hopefully in an effort to set her head back in order. She licked her lips, counting the loud thuds of her heart. When she got to five, she gave herself a mental slap, and then she said, “It seems you rather enjoy offering invitations to ladies to refer to you familiarly.”
“Anne!” Sophia gasped. Her husband merely chuckled, as did the Duke of Kilmartin.
“Well, Anne,” the Duke of Kilmartin said in a tone of barely contained amusement, “I come from Scotland, and ye know what they say about us Scots?”
“You are heathens?” Anne replied, purposely infusing her voice with a note of what she hoped was dripping, false sweetness. She cocked her eyebrows at the duke, who surprised her by grinning.
“Touché. I was referring to Englishmen saying us Scots live by our own rules.”
“You should have been more specific,” she said, unable to help but admire how unruffled he seemed by her barb.
“I’ll remember to be specific with ye in the future, Anne.”
He had a way of saying her name that made her stomach flutter. It was truly vexing. “You mustn’t call me Anne.”
“Why mustn’t I?” he asked, his question innocent enough, but the look he gave her was anything but. That look…well, it spoke of seduction. She ought to know. She’d fallen prey to such a look before from a Scot like the duke, but he’d had a much heavier brogue than His Grace did. Lord Cad, as she liked to think of the man, had possessed a seductive stare that had made her lose her good senses. Lord Cad’s stare could not even hold a candle to the simmering one settled upon her now. This man was absolutely a rogue. She’d wager her dowry on it, but not against him. He’d undoubtedly take that wager, strive to convince her he was not a rake, and then marry her for the funds she could provide him. A slow, positively devastating smile curved his lips as if he knew what she had been thinking and needed to persuade her to forget her silly thoughts. And the desire to do so flared shockingly.
If this had been ancient times, Anne thought, while struggling to suppress the sudden desire to snort, he would have been Adonis. He was perfection. It wasn’t simply that his face looked as if it had been chiseled from marble. There was an inherent strength there, as well as the set of his chin that suggested he had a stubborn streak. He wore his thick, wavy russet hair a little longer than proper, suggesting he didn’t give a fig about rules. His bronzed skin hinted that he enjoyed the outdoors, and as she swept her gaze quickly over his massive shoulders, down his torso, to his thighs, which appeared powerful even clad as they were in black trousers, she was certain he was very fit. Moving her gaze back up to his face, she startled to find him gazing intently at her, lips curled in an amused smile. Goodness! She quickly glanced away from him and toward Sophia, who raised questioning brows at her. Heat licked Anne’s chest and neck, then settled on her face. She’d been staring at him like a simpleton.
“And that, Kilmartin,” the Duke of Scarsdale pronounced, “is why you mustn’t call Miss Adair by her Christian name. Don’t worry yourself too much over all the rules. You’ve only been in England a sennight. It took me nearly twenty years to get them all straight.” Sophia’s husband ended with a laugh and a wink at his wife.
Sophia, her husband, and Simon—as Anne could not help but think of him now, blast him—all laughed, and Anne realized, to her horror, that she had missed every word the Duke of Scarsdale had said. She’d been too busy gawking at Simon. She forced a chuckle and prayed no one had taken notice of her idle mind.
“I beg yer pardon,” Simon said. She met his gaze, determined to get a hold of herself. His words were appropriately apologetic, yet the glint in his eye and the cynical twist to his lips told her he wasn’t sorry in the least. She should have been aghast, yet she found she could not muster the feeling. She detested the rules, so why should she pretend to be appalled by another who did not follow them? Besides that, his thick brogue—and the fact that she’d never heard one mention of the former Duke of Kilmartin having a grandson—told her that Simon likely had spent very little time in England and could quite possibly not even know all the intricate, ridiculous dictates.
“No need to apologize,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “You are quite obviously not from England.”
“Anne!” Sophia gasped.
Oh, good heavens! She’d meant that in the best sense, yet…
“Is it that obvious?” Simon asked, his cynical smile becoming more pronounced.
Oh, to have magical powers that enabled her to disappear…
“Well, yes—” The sudden twinkle of amusement in his eyes made her thoughts spin. “That is, your brogue, you see—” He arched his brows, making her forget the rest of her sentence. She stared at him, sensing that he was utterly enjoying her inability to rectify her blunder.
“Ye may make amends to me by dancing with me,” he drawled, his tone scandalous though his face did not display a bit of improper insinuation. Maybe she’d imagined it? Or maybe he was simply a well-practiced rogue. Either way, she most definitely could not dance with the man.
She barely resisted the urge to grasp her shorter leg. No one could tell, of course, not since her grandfather had commissioned a special shoe for her. She no longer limped, but she had, terribly so, for the longest time, and she’d never learned to dance because of it. “I do not care for dancing,” she lied, hearing the catch of emotion in her voice, blast it all. He did not look at all surprised by her announcement, as many men often did. Instead, well, it seemed to her that he looked as if he’d expected such a pronouncement.
“A stroll on the terrace, then?” he suggested, a most definite challenging look in his eyes. Oh, but he was most indeed a rogue and a clever one! Had he been watching her this night to know she had refused many requests to dance?
“I daresay no as it’s cold outside,” she replied, finding a sudden vast enjoyment in thwarting him at his own game, though if she were honest with herself, there was a sliver of disappointment as well. She was only human after all, and he was Lord Adonis. She bit her lip hard on the need to chuckle.
“My apologies,” he replied, his amusement evident in his tone, “I did not take ye for the sort of lass to shy away from the cold. Ye appear hale and hearty to me.”
With that casually thrown challenge, he’d struck at her innermost secret desire and what she had always striven for—to seem as capable as everyone with two perfectly matched good legs. Did he know? No, he could not possibly. Yet, she did sense he’d been testing her. She could not resist accepting, though she absolutely knew she should resist. He was dangerous in a most seductive sort of way.
“I’ll take a short stroll with you,” she said, his brief look of triumph confirming her assessment.
He had been challenging her, but why? To seduce her? For simply the sport of seeing if she might accede? Surely not because she had honestly piqued his interest. This man was a wolf, barely even disguised, and she was the morsel he wanted to gobble up. She wondered briefly how he had lost his fortune. Perhaps he had inherited an already penniless title? She wished she knew. Either way, she was going to show him that even wolves were not undefeatable.