Amanda Scott (19 page)

She smiled but made no reply. A moment later, she said, “I hope your dog is none the worse for his adventures, sir.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I did not bring him today because I would have had to watch him in all the traffic. He did amazingly well on his own, but London streets are not safe for animals afoot. When next I call at Faircourt House, I’ll bring the chaise. He enjoys riding in it, and I did promise to bring him for a visit.”

“Aye, you did, and Roddy is looking forward to renewing the acquaintance.”

“Do you go to Almack’s tonight?” he asked. Realizing that he had spoken abruptly, he added, “My sister mentioned that MacCrichton means to attend the subscription ball there. I wondered if the whole family would attend.”

“Aye, sir, we are all going, for Lady Agnes has insisted that we must.”

He nodded. “Cousin Bella is much the same. I doubt that she would agree to dance, unless by some miracle the king himself were to ask her, but she is in alt at the mere thought of lending her presence to this ball.”

“I expect she looks forward to watching your sister, sir. Lady Bridget is exceedingly beautiful. I daresay all the gentlemen will want to dance with her.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

They rode in silence for a time, and Michael found himself wishing for the first time in his life that he had a glib tongue. He knew that it was his place to lead the conversation, that a well-brought-up young lady did not chatter or talk about herself—at least, not to the extent that his sister did. He seemed to recall having more ease with such things when he was at university, but he was sadly out of practice. Doubtless that was one reason he had felt out of place at many of the events to which he had escorted Bridget and the older ladies. Perhaps it had been merely convenient to think that he missed the tranquility of the Highlands.

He observed that she rode well—so well that she clearly gave little thought to her horse or her seat. As they rode along the east bank of the Serpentine, she looked into the distance, paying no heed to other people or to the swans on the water.

“It is odd that they call it the Serpentine when it’s got only one bend in it,” he said, more to break the silence than to hear what she would reply.

She turned her head and smiled. “They say the old queen wanted it to have lots of curves, but the king refused to pay for them. Men generally have their way about such things, do they not?”

“Do they?”

“Well, don’t they?”

Despite the inane topic, he felt his mood lightening. “In my household, Miss MacCrichton, men rarely get their way about anything.”

“I don’t believe you, sir. I cannot imagine anyone ordering you about.”

“Not ordering, perhaps, but if you think I am man enough to stand against three women, two of whom have greater fortunes—” He broke off, realizing that he should not speak of such things to her. His tongue simply had taken on a life of its own, which was most unnerving. He had never known a woman who affected him the way this one did. One minute his loins burned for her and he yearned to fling prudence to the winds, the next he wanted to shelter her from the slightest chill.

Her cheeks were red, but he could not tell if it was the result of the icy breeze or if his words had embarrassed her. Then she turned her head and he saw that her eyes were twinkling.

“I am trying to imagine you in such a household,” she said.

“It’s a matter of widows,” he told her.

“Widows?”

“Aye, widows. My aunt and her cousin are both widowed ladies who answer to no one. They are quite independent, you see, and able to do as they please without having to consider the opinions of others.”

“I see how it is, sir. They do not seek your advice.”

He chuckled. “Not only do they not seek it, Miss MacCrichton, they dismiss it when it is offered.”

“And you want to be king in your castle.”

“I admit that such a picture sounds agreeable,” he said, “but, thanks to the disintegration of the clans, too many Highland lords—at least, insofar as being lords of their castles and all they survey—have vanished like ghosts into thin air.”

A bird took wing just ahead of them, and his horse shied, momentarily requiring his full attention. When she remained silent, he glanced at her, noting at once that the color in her cheeks had deepened far too much to be accounted for by the weather. She did not look at him, nor did she speak.

“What is it?” he asked. “Have I somehow managed to offend you?”

She shook her head, still not looking at him.

Concerned now, he said as gently as he knew how, “My sister frequently accuses me of having the sensitivity of a stone, but I certainly did not mean to put you out of countenance.”

“Truly, sir, it was no doing of yours.” She muttered the words, her tone not so much offended as rueful.

“Pull up for a moment,” he said, drawing rein. “I cannot tell if you are angry or upset, and I want to know.” When she had obeyed, he said, “That’s better, or it would be if you would look at me.”

She nibbled her lower lip, her eyes still downcast.

“Please,” he coaxed, “or has my manner put you off so much that you cannot bear to speak plainly to me?”

She looked at him then, and to his astonishment the twinkle had returned. “Faith, sir, it is nothing that you have done, and nothing in your manner. I find myself quite at a loss, however, because if I tell you what I was thinking, you will think me as daft as my brother does.”

“I doubt that,” he said, smiling. “You are many things, Miss MacCrichton, but I do not for one moment doubt your sanity.”

“Now, I wonder what you mean by ‘many things,’” she said. “You do not pay me pretty compliments, so that cannot have been one, and doubtless I’d be wiser not to inquire too closely. Indeed, I suppose I should simply be grateful that you do not—at this present moment, at all events—think me mad.”

“If you are attempting to divert me, you will miss your mark. I am a stubborn man,” he added, “and furthermore, I do not like seeing you so perturbed. You generally appear even-tempered to the point of placidity.”

“Faith, sir, you make me sound like a contented cow.”

He chuckled. “I know of no one less cowlike than you,” he said. “If I were a man who finds amusement in comparing people to animals, I should more likely compare you to a friendly kitten.”

“I don’t know that I like that much better.”

“Well, it is of no consequence, because in truth I don’t think of you as cow or kitten. It is merely that I have not seen you put out of countenance before, and I find that I do not like to see it. Come, lassie, no more diversions. Tell me.”

“Very well, since you insist, but I hope you will not repeat it to anyone else.”

Evenly, he said, “Do I strike you as a man who indulges in gossip?”

“No, sir,” she said, her eyes widening. “Nor did I mean to offend you.”

“You did not offend me.”

“Well, I shudder to think of what you would do if I should, then. You sounded ready to cut out my liver if I
had
dared think you a gossip.”

“Not your liver, surely.” He was amused, and it occurred to him that he rather liked not knowing what she would say next. Still, she had not answered his question, and he wanted an answer. He waited.

After a short silence, she sighed. “You will most certainly think me daft. Any sensible man would, and I find you eminently sensible. You see, you resemble a ghost of my acquaintance, and when you said that about vanishing into thin air—”

“A ghost?”

“Yes, sir.” She eyed him uncertainly.

“Of your acquaintance.”

“Aye, for some years now.”

“Oh, so he is not a recent acquaintance, then.”

“If you mean to mock me, sir, I think perhaps we had better return to Faircourt House.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “I want to hear more about this ghost.”

“Perhaps we might ride on, however,” she suggested. “I am growing chilly.”

“Then by all means, let’s warm you up. Shall we gallop?”

“Aye, since we are well beyond the Row. No one will mind, and I would like beyond anything to enjoy a good run.”

He let her go first, still feeling that need to watch over her, but when he saw that she could ride like the wind, he set off in pursuit, experiencing an exhilaration unlike anything he had felt since boyhood. They rode through the woodland until they could see the gardens of Kensington Palace ahead. When next they drew rein, her cheeks were pink from the exercise and her eyes sparkled with joy.

“Shall we tie the horses to that post for a bit and walk?” he said.

“Aye, if you like.”

“I would like you to tell me all about this ghost of yours.”

She nodded, and he dismounted, wrapping both sets of reins around his arm while he lifted her from her saddle and set her down beside him. Then he tied the reins to the ring in the post set for the purpose and offered her his arm.

Although he had expected to have to coax the story from her, she told it willingly, explaining that she had first seen the ghost at her brother’s estate as a child and had seen it several times since. She did not offer many details, but neither did he ask for them. He just liked to hear her talk, and he did not believe in ghosts. When she had finished, she raised her eyebrows, waiting for his comment.

He said, “So your ghost has a deerhound.”

“Aye.”

“They are rare,” he said. “Had you seen one before?”

“Aye, for Lord Menzies visited Duncan once some years ago, and brought two of his. That was how I learned what breed my ghost dog was, and his lordship told us about the law that only earls and men of higher rank can own them.”

“Will you save a dance for me this evening?”

Apparently not seeing the blunt request as a non sequitur, she looked into his eyes and smiled. “Aye, sir,” she said quietly. “I’d like that very much.”

Neither her manner nor her response startled him as much as his own feelings did. Before now, he had seen no indication that Miss MacCrichton paid him any particular heed, certainly no more than she paid other gentlemen. And he had not meant to stir any particular response. He told himself firmly that he had cultivated her acquaintance only as one means of keeping an ear to the ground, to note any progress in his effort to get MacCrichton to offer for Bridget. But there had not been any progress to note, so he was not persuasive.

Confused by what seemed to be another entity invading both his body—one that wanted to snatch her into its arms and hold her tight—and his mind, which was painting idyllic pictures of a future life with her by his side, he drew himself up short at last. What was he thinking? He had no business to think such things. Indeed, he had no business gazing at her like a moonstruck zany, doubtless leading her to expect an offer he had neither the intent nor the justification to make.

“I had best get you home,” he said gruffly. “You must have a good many things to do before the ball, and they will be wondering what is keeping us so long.”

W
HEN KINTYRE LEFT FAIRCOURT
House, Pinkie walked upstairs, trying to imagine what could have happened to change him so. One moment he had seemed interested only in hearing about her ghost, the next he had asked if she would save him a dance at the subscription ball. Then, oddest of all, he had declared that they should leave, after which they had ridden back to the house in near silence.

He had changed, she thought. No longer did he seem as arrogant or as abrupt of manner as he had seemed before. Even as the thought crossed her mind, however, she realized that she had just been wondering why he had so suddenly decided to return her to Faircourt House. Still, there was a difference, the voice in her head insisted, even if she could not put her finger on precisely what it was.

To her surprise, the morning was nearly gone. Doreen was waiting for her in her bedchamber with barely concealed impatience.

“Is it the yellow dress you’ll be wantin’ for the assembly tonight, miss? I must know if I’m to have all in readiness for ye betimes.”

“Aye, the yellow,” Pinkie said, her thoughts still on Kintyre’s odd behavior.

“The man who is to do your hair will be ready for ye at four, miss. He’s to do their ladyships’ heads first. Will ye be goin’ out at all this afternoon?”

“No,” Pinkie said. “I shall want a bath, though, Doreen, before Monsieur Dupont comes to arrange my hair.”

“Nay, then,” Doreen protested, “ye’ll no be bathing on such a chilly day.”

“You can build up the fire and set screens around the bath,” Pinkie said. “I smell too much of London air and horses to suit me, and it certainly will not be the first time I’ve bathed on a cold day.”

“You’ll catch your death,” Doreen muttered.

Pinkie did not reply, and the afternoon sped by in a flurry of preparations and arrangements for the evening. Rothwell and Maggie dined with them, and afterward their entire party went in two coaches to the new assembly rooms in King Street.

Michael tugged at his cravat. After the icy chill outside, the interior of Almack’s Assembly Rooms, crowded with people as it was, was damned hot. They had been climbing innumerable stairs from the time they had left his carriage in the too-small courtyard known as King Street, which had proven to be no more than a short, narrow alleyway that butted up against the backside of a club in St James’s Street. Thus, the street had no proper egress. More experienced coachmen than his dropped their passengers at the end of King Street. Others had to turn their vehicles in its narrow confines to get out again.

As he and the others in his party continued up the stairs, he kept one hand cupped under Bridget’s elbow, knowing that she had all she could do to manage her wide hoop and long skirts, especially since she kept gaping around at the crowd and at the elaborate decor. Briefly he felt the familiar yearning for fresh air and the Highlands, but then he made up his mind to behave himself and allow Bridget and the older ladies to enjoy the evening.

Cousin Bella, chatting brightly with the Countess of Pembroke, had gone ahead, but Lady Marsali moved in their wake, making her way with greater speed than usual, clearly feeling pressure from those behind them to hurry. Hearing her voice rise lightly above the murmur of the crowd, Michael glanced back and felt a wave of relief when he recognized the Duchess of Bedford walking with her, chattering amiably. The duke, following the two, nodded a greeting, and Michael nodded back, then focused his attention ahead again.