How to Seduce a Scot (12 page)

Alexander watched as that pale-faced fop, Lord Somebody-Or-Other, led Catherine out among the dancers. He had not cared greatly when he saw the other young men dance with his girl, some of whom were too young to know what to do with a woman, much less an angel, were they to find themselves alone with her. But while Lord Somebody-Or-Other might be a bloodless Englishman, he was a man.

Alex cursed under his breath as he watched his angel's face light up at the other man's nearness. He stared the couple down, but neither acknowledged his presence, holding up the same pillar as he had done for the last hour or more. He saw Mary Elizabeth gallop by with her latest suitor in tow, for his sister did not seem to realize that it was appropriate for the gentleman to lead, even in a quadrille.

When the interminable music ended, Alexander shifted his gaze, expecting Lord What's-It to abandon his angel for greener, wealthier pastures. But even as he watched, his lordship did not remove himself from Catherine's side, save to fetch her a glass of punch.

The supper waltz finally struck, and Alexander stalked to her side, cutting a swath through the passel of fops and dandies that filled Lady Jersey's ballroom. They cleared a path for him at once, and stared after him, as he stood head and shoulders above most of them. All save for Lord Whose-It, who faced him with cool aplomb from his angel's side.

“Good evening,” Lord Something-Or-Other said. “Mr. Waters, is it? Lately of Scotland, I believe.”

“Always of Scotland, my lord.” Alexander executed what he hoped was a stylish bow before turning to Catherine.

“I am come to claim my dance, Miss Middlebrook.”

His angel did not answer him, but Lord Somebody-Or-Other did. “Indeed? I fear you are mistaken, my Highland friend. Miss Middlebrook has promised this dance, and her company after, to me.”

Alexander turned his glare on Catherine, but when she met his eyes, he did not see triumph in their mossy-green depths. He did not find sophisticated amusement over two grown gentlemen arguing over her company. He found honest misery. He may have been angry with her, he may have been angry with himself, but he had not come to the ball to make her miserable. He did not want her to be made unhappy by him or by his actions, there or anywhere.

He recalled his mother's firm hand, and his father's firm birch rod on his backside, the two things that had raised him from a hellion into a man. He drew on his upbringing, and reminded himself that he was a gentleman.

“Forgive the intrusion,” was all Alex said. “I must have been mistaken.”

Catherine still did not speak, but she looked less wretched. She looked instead a little misty, and he prayed that she would not cry there in front of all those English. He should leave her alone for the rest of the night, leave her in peace among her own kind. But there seemed to be some kind of entreaty buried in the green of her eyes. She seemed to be asking him for something, and he could not turn his back on her. He knew that he never would.

He watched as Lord What's-It drew her into his arms, keeping a decorous distance between them as he whirled her into the waltz. Alexander clenched one fist at his side, his impotence eating away at his spleen. He would not make a scene in front of all those people. But he would not give up yet.

It would take more than one thin lord to keep him from his angel, that night or ever.

* * *

Catherine did her best to enjoy her waltz with Lord Farleigh, but her thoughts, if not her gaze, kept turning to Mr. Waters. She knew he stood on the edge of the dance floor. She knew he watched her even then, for she felt more in tune with him over half a room away than she did with Lord Farleigh who stood just beside her.

Of course, she was no musician, so no tune that might run between them signified. Lord Farleigh was her sensible—most likely her only—choice. His decision to dance with her twice in company suggested that in spite of their earlier, ill-bred conversation, he was still intent on wooing her.

She did not give in to hope. She had promised herself that for this one night, she would not think of the morrow, and of all the dangers it brought. Still, the two men who pursued her remained strange mysteries to her, mysteries she could not solve. As she whirled in the arms of one man while feeling the gaze of another, she would not try. Let her enjoy the new sensation of being sought by two handsome gentlemen and think about the future tomorrow.

Lord Farleigh made polite conversation about the company and the music as he led her in to supper. There was no formal dining that night, but a great buffet set up where all comers might serve themselves, and seat themselves where they liked among the round tables scattered throughout Lady Jersey's usually formal dining room.

Catherine was grateful for the reprieve from the usual promenade into dinner, in which everyone took his position as his rank dictated. She had read of such things, and her grandmother had drilled her on proper etiquette to exercise at such a time, but she did not trust herself to follow through. Her mother would have been no help, so she simply said a prayer of gratitude and sat where Lord Farleigh placed her while he went to fetch her a plate.

“So you've changed your tastes from strapping Scots to foppish Englishmen in the space of twelve hours.”

Catherine did not have to turn to her left to see who spoke to her. She would have known that malmsey-sweet, hot-honeyed voice anywhere.

“I don't know what you mean, Mr. Waters.”

“I think you do.” He touched her hand once, very lightly, and she turned to face him. He was wearing his black leather gloves again, though the rest of the company wore white gloves of cotton. He seemed always ready to stand out, wanting always to set himself apart wherever he was. She wondered if he was like that in his homeland too, or if he just reacted badly to London society by constantly wanting to be elsewhere.

Though it seemed that night, as his dark eyes devoured her, he did not wish himself anywhere but at her side.

Blast the man.

“Does your fine young Lord What's-It know I had my hands on your person this morning?”

Catherine glared at him. “The gentleman's name is Lord Farleigh. And I do not know of what you speak.”

Lord Farleigh appeared at her side then, a plate in each hand. A footman followed with two cups of watered wine. “Good evening, Mr. Waters. You seem to have lost your way. The buffet table is over there. I am sure this fine gentleman can escort you, if you cannot find repast on your own.”

Catherine lowered her eyes to the wineglass the footman had set in front of her. Refusing for the moment to look at either man, she sipped at it. If only it were the magic elixir Mary Elizabeth had given her the day before. She could use a taste of oblivion.

“I find I am not hungry,” Mr. Waters said. “I think there is plenty of repast for any man right here.”

Catherine blushed deeply, then sneaked a look at Lord Farleigh to see if he would simply walk off and leave her in disgust. But it seemed he was the only man among the company who did not feel the need to give the man beside her a wide berth.

Instead of reacting with anger or any sign of displeasure, Lord Farleigh simply shrugged. “Suit yourself. But Lady Jersey's cook has outdone herself this night.”

He sat beside her as if Mr. Waters were not even there. “Will you try a bit of this braised quail, Miss Middlebrook? I believe her cook is known for it.”

“I thank you, my lord.” Catherine took up her gold-pronged fork and sampled it. It was very good. The taste was well spiced, though as she swallowed, the bit of fowl stuck in her dry throat. She drank more wine, and smiled when a passing footman refilled her glass. She drank a bit more wine, and felt a tiny touch of warmth begin to pervade her being.

She knew she should drink no more. Grandmother had warned her away from too much wine, especially at a party, where a young lady might easily make a cake of herself. But she felt a touch of peace and happy warmth from what little she had already taken. Suddenly, being attended on both sides by two attractive men no longer seemed like a burden. “Well, Mr. Waters, you might as well go and fetch yourself a plate,” she said. “I like you well enough, but I will not allow you to eat off mine.”

Her Highlander laughed then, a low rumble in his chest that she seemed to feel deep in her own body. She ignored her body's response to him and smiled politely, including Lord Farleigh in her regard. Both men watched her as cats might watch a promising mouse hole. Being the focus of such masculine attention made her want to laugh out loud. Instead, she simply ate another bite of quail.

“I will keep your place for you, if you're worried that another gentleman might come to my side and take it.”

It was Lord Farleigh's turn to laugh then, and she smiled at him warmly. She could indulge herself by encouraging him without seeming too forward, for his intentions were honest. When she caught the heat from Mr. Waters's dark gaze, she had to confess that she had no idea what his intentions were. Perhaps that was a small part of his attraction, the fact that he simply made no sense, like a puzzle she wished to solve.

She dismissed such a notion at once. She had no time for puzzles or their elusive solutions. She had only this one night to enjoy herself, after all. Tonight, she would eat, drink, and dance.

If two delightful young men intended to spend the evening at her side as she did so, so much the better.

“I will find myself a bit of that quail, Miss Middlebrook. But I hold you to your word. Keep my place.”

“As I hold you to yours, Mr. Waters.” She sharpened her gaze upon him, and watched as he seemed to gleam with pleasure under it. Of course, that might have simply been the warmth of the wine.

“You hold all gentlemen to their word, I hope, Miss Middlebrook,” Lord Farleigh said as Mr. Waters made his way through a crowd of ladies to the buffet. Each woman seemed intent on catching his eye and turning the heat of his gaze on themselves. Many of them went so far as to speak with him as he passed. Catherine saw him smile at each of them, speaking to more than one longer than she would have liked.

She had to stop being a fool. Mr. Waters was a free man who could do as he pleased. He owed her nothing. Just as she owed him nothing in return.

She turned to Lord Farleigh and smiled. “My lord, I find this quail to be braised to perfection. Do you think the cook might be persuaded to part with the recipe?”

Lord Farleigh laughed. “I think she guards all of her recipes with her life, but perhaps I might persuade Lady Jersey to intervene. Would your cook take direction coming from another?”

“I believe she would,” Catherine answered. “Though honestly it has never before come up. Always, in our kitchen, Cook has been the teacher and I, the pupil.”

Catherine drank a bit more of her wine, smiling down into the glass. She must find out what vintage it was. Perhaps it was something scandalous, like a vintage from France. Somehow the thought made the drink taste even finer.

“You cook?” Lord Farleigh asked. He seemed surprised, if not shocked. Catherine remembered suddenly that most well-bred young ladies did not know how to boil water.

“Well,” she said, “my grandmother believes in a woman holding practical skills. She does not approve of an ignorant lady of the manor, but told me that before I ask a servant to do something, I must know how to do it myself, and do it properly.”

“Very wise.”

She could not tell whether or not Lord Farleigh was simply being polite, but as she finished her second glass of wine, she found that she did not care.

“Is your grandmother Scottish, by any chance?”

Mr. Waters had seated himself again on her left, taking off his leather gloves long enough to cut into his own quail braised with honeyed lavender. He did not savor his food but ate as a military man might, as if it might be taken from him at any moment. Or as if he might be called on to defend the house from invaders, and needed fuel for the fight.

What was it about Alexander Waters that always made her think of fighting? Perhaps it was because he was so large—or perhaps because she always felt safe with him, whatever the odd circumstances. She remembered the vow he had made to protect her, even from himself, as he was dressing her knife wound. No matter how vexing he sometimes was, Mr. Waters would stand for her, and by her, should trouble ever rise.

She turned to look at Lord Farleigh. He was the kind of man who would hire men to guard her, instead of defending her himself. While this was sensible, and gentlemanly, she found herself vaguely dissatisfied by the notion.

She realized then how irrational she was being and resolved to switch from wine to lemonade.

“Do you mean to insult me, Mr. Waters?” she asked.

“Indeed, I do not,” he answered. “To have a Scottish grandmother is the highest compliment.”

She laughed and found herself filled with joyful well-being, a calm that even encompassed her Highlander. “Forgive my impertinence, Mr. Waters. I am sure the Scots are a fine people.”

“Some of them are. But we have more than one fine dancer among us. May I take you for a turn around the floor, Miss Middlebrook? I believe the second quadrille is about to begin.”

She looked to Lord Farleigh as if for permission, but he was not her chaperone, merely her dinner companion and perhaps, if she were very lucky, the companion of her future life. But she had danced twice with him already and could not dance with him a third time, not even if they had been engaged. Still, she looked to him. She felt Mr. Waters stiffen beside her, but she ignored him.

Lord Farleigh, as ever, was the soul of gentlemanly courtesy. “I do hope that you will partake of a slice of cake with me upon your return, Miss Middlebrook. Lady Jersey's chocolate torte is a wonder not to be missed.”

Catherine smiled at him. He always sought to make her life easier. What a lovely quality to find in a man. Why had her grandmother not added that quality to the list of a future husband's attributes, along with tolerable good looks and a decent income?