Kathryn Caskie (4 page)

Every last one of them was pressed, polished, and starched, in garb as well as a demeanor. How foreign these people seemed.

Why, he wouldn’t even know how to begin to look for a wife amongst the Quality—let alone a rich wife. He was a Scot after all, not a prim Londoner. Aye, he was schooled in England, could feign Society’s manners when it suited, but the wilds of the Highlands drove his heart and ran thick through his veins.

The set had just concluded, when he noticed in the distance a young woman, her visage obscured by a lace fan, leaving the floor with an extremely well-appointed gentleman.

He watched as she slipped a crimson-edged card from the placket in her gown and covertly slipped it to her dance partner. The gentleman read the card, then stared at the woman, mouth agape, as she turned and left the dance floor.

The odd exchange would not normally have interested Magnus, but the fact that the young woman now stared directly at
him,
did. Magnus watched her join an animated crescent of matrons, whose backs faced him as they conversed with their esteemed hostess.

He was about to look away when the bold miss turned, peered over her fan, and brazenly eyed his form from head to toe.

What the devil?
Now she had his full attention.

Bemused, he watched as her curious gaze crept leisurely up his body, titillating him.
Ye wicked lass.
A wry grin lifted the edges of Magnus’s lips.

Within the span of a breath, their gazes met, giving Magnus pause. In that instant, he almost convinced himself that he knew those eyes. Bah, quite unlikely. He’d only been in London a few short weeks. Still, there was something oddly familiar about them. Magnus bowed his head in address.

But as the woman took heed of his notice, her large dark eyes rounded and she lurched as though splashed with a dipper of ice water.

Magnus pursed his lips in satisfaction.
Serves ye right, my bold little chit. Now lower yer fan and let me see who ye are.

As if to defy him, the young lady raised her blasted fan higher still, concealing her face completely. Then, grasping her gossamer white and blue gown in her hand, she turned, giving her back to him.

Why, had that brash miss just issued a challenge? Intrigued, Magnus turned to his uncle. “What do ye know about
that
lass?” he asked, nodding toward his once ardent admirer.

Pender’s face brightened. “Glad to hear you have taken my advice.” He raised his quizzing glass and peered across the dance floor. “Now, which gel has caught your eye?”

“’Tis impossible to see her face from here, but she is standing just to the right of our hostess, Lady Greymont.”

“Ah, yes,” his uncle said, spying her.

Magnus’s spirits lifted. “So ye know her?”

“Actually, no. But I am sure our hostess can arrange an introduction, should you desire it.”

“I believe I would,” Magnus replied, if for no other reason than to alleviate his growing boredom.

Brows lifted high, his uncle’s quizzing glass promptly dislodged from the fleshy fold beneath his eye. The eyepiece dropped to his lapel, where it swung on its golden chain, ticking away the moments until he could catch their hostess’s attention.

It was then that Magnus noticed that three gentlemen standing nearby held the same crimson-edged cards he’d seen the woman give to her dance partner. He edged closer, hoping their conversation might shed some light on the mystery woman’s identity.

“Just who does she think she is?” Magnus heard one of the men ask, prompting the other two to cast their disbelieving eyes at their own cards again.

“She’s an odd one, that’s for certain. Headstrong too,” the shorter of the three replied. “She’s got the curves of a goddess but the stones of a man.”

“Say what you will,” the last of the three said. “I admit, she mightn’t be the sort to marry, but I suspect she’d make a lively bed partner for some lucky gent. Just look at her luscious mouth.”

All three chuckled wickedly in agreement, until they noticed Magnus standing close by. Then, as if cued, the men tucked their cards into their pockets.

“Ah, good,” Pender finally said. “Lady Greymont is headed our way.”

Magnus straightened his back and awaited their hostess. He had to know just who the woman was who could inspire such conversation.

A few short moments later, Lady Greymont reached the far comer of the dance floor and greeted Magnus and his uncle. But before Magnus could request an introduction to the spirited lass across the room, Lady Greymont made a request of her own.

“Lord Somerton,” she said, “I simply must introduce you to one of the most enlightened women I have ever met. Will you allow me?”

“Most certainly,” Magnus replied, hesitantly offering her his arm.

Lady Greymont laughed at his delay. “No need to worry yourself. Miss Merriweather is tolerably handsome, I assure you.”

Magnus’s heart slammed into his ribs. “Ye dinna mean Miss
Eliza
Merriweather?”

“You are not already acquainted with her, are you?”

“Only informally.”
So far.
Magnus couldn’t believe his good fortune and wondered at the serendipitous cascade of events that must have occurred to bring them together once more.

Lady Greymont pulled a frown. “Oh, dear. I did so hope to be the one to introduce you to your future wife.”

“Future wife?” Magnus glanced at Pender then, donning an amused smile. “Uncle, ye did not tell me that matchmaking was such a competitive sport in town.”

Lady Greymont laughed, playfully nudging Magnus. “My, you haven’t been in London long, have you? Matchmaking, my lord, is
the
game of the season.”

Eliza’s middle clenched when she saw Lady Greymont leading Lord Somerton and an elderly gentleman directly toward them. “Oh, Auntie, you didn’t.”

“Well of course I did, Lizzy,” Aunt Letitia admitted, tapping her cane on the floor with excitement.

Eliza watched nervously as he moved steadily forward, his gaze hot upon her. Tiny beads of moisture sprang up along Eliza’s hairline and between her breasts. She swished her fan before her face hoping to regain her composure. “I told you, I have no interest in Lord Somerton.”

Aunt Letitia chuckled. “We know what you
said,
my dear, but Sister and I saw the way the two of you looked at each other at court. Tis a love match in the making if we ever saw one.”

“A glorious match, to be sure,” Aunt Viola added. “The trick, of course, is making Lord Somerton realize it. Hence the need to employ Rule Three.”

Eliza turned to her aunts. “Rule Three?” she asked, warily. From the corner of her eye she could see Lord Somerton was nearly upon them.

Aunt Letitia nodded. “Rule Three clearly states that local guides should be used to gain advantage.”

“And Lady Greymont is our hostess,” her aunt Viola added. “She is our—”

“Local guide,” Eliza said, completing her aunt’s thought.

“Quite right.” Aunt Letitia leaned close to Eliza. “By using this strategy, you will be able to beat the other young ladies to the prize.”

“The prize being?” Eliza asked.
Twenty feet away. Fifteen.

“Why, Lord Somerton, of course,” her aunt whispered.

“Of course.” Eliza’s gaze drifted heavenward as she pleaded for divine intervention.

Magnus’s lips curved with delight as Lady Greymont drew him toward the very debutante whose less than delicate gaze had intrigued him only moments before—Eliza Merriweather.

Miss Merriweather, ye are full of surprises.

Wide, golden-brown eyes broached the upper rim of her fluttering fan and she stared, unblinking at him as he approached.

Magnus broadened his stride, forcing Lady Greymont to double her step merely to keep up with him.

“My, you are an eager chap,” his hostess quipped as they quickly closed in on Miss Merriweather and her family.

“How can I be anything less than eager, my dear lady? Ye said it yerself, my future wife awaits.”

Lady Greymont chuckled between gasped pants for air and graciously guided Magnus and his uncle into the Featherton ladies’ intimate circle of conversation. There, she introduced him, once more, to the elderly sisters.

She gestured to Eliza next. “May I present—” She stopped then. Still winded from the trot across the ballroom, Lady Greymont laid her hand upon her chest and inhaled deeply.

Magnus stepped into the momentary gap and turned to the young woman now skulking behind her fan. “The legendary Miss Merriweather, I presume?”

Eliza Merriweather slowly lowered her fan and politely dropped him a curtsey. “My lord.”

An unplanned smile formed on his lips, which, to his great surprise, was returned by Miss Merriweather. She blushed, then muttered something to herself and quickly looked away.

“I daresay,” Lady Greymont managed, “they do look quite handsome together. Do they not?”

“Oh, indeed they do,” the reed-thin aunt, Viola, replied, with an elbow nudge to her sister. “Most handsome.”

Magnus lifted Eliza’s hand and bowed low. Beneath the pads of her gloved fingertips, his palm heated with exhilaration. How small and fragile her hand looked in his. As his gaze took in her lithe form, Magnus straightened his sixfoot-and-a-hand frame, suddenly feeling larger and stronger than ever before.

Behind her, he could see that the orchestra readied to play. Dancers were beginning to assemble on the floor. Now was his chance to separate Miss Merriweather from her aunts.

“If ye’re not already engaged, Miss Merriweather,” he persisted, “may I have this dance?”

Eliza looked at him then, and narrowed her gaze. “I fear I must decline, Lord Somerton. I… find myself rather fatigued.”

“Nonsense,” her aunt Letitia countered, giving her grand-niece a furtive shove forward. “My niece would be honored to dance with you, Lord Somerton.”

Her other aunt, Viola, took his arm and drew him still closer to Miss Merriweather. “Eliza is new to elevated Society, you see, and still shy as a spring blossom.”

Magnus lifted a brow as he eyed the glaring young lady.
Shy
was not a word he would ever use to describe the woman standing before him. He offered Eliza his arm. “Shall we?”

She paused another moment then reluctantly laid her gloved hand on his proffered arm.

At her touch, Magnus’s chest swelled. He puzzled over his odd sense of exhilaration. Maybe marrying a dowry wouldn’t be so distasteful after all—not if it came wrapped in a package so delectable as Miss Merriweather.

While they moved about the dance floor to the music, Magnus became aware of the marked change in Eliza’s appearance from their first meeting. Her face, no longer flushed from sneezing, was a delicate ivory oval, framed by sable locks swept into a mass of glossy ringlets atop her head.

When she looked up at him, he remembered how red and swollen her eyes had been at court. Now, he could scarce take his gaze from the intriguing swirl of brown and gold blinking up at him. His pulse quickened.

“All eyes are upon ye this evening, Miss Merriweather,” he told her as she danced a tight circle around him, wreathing him in her faintly lavender scent. “It seems ye’ve captivated the ton.”

“That, my lord, I sincerely doubt.” Eliza gazed deeply into his eyes as he took her hand and moved alongside of her. He felt her hand tremble and watched as her gaze darted nervously around the crowd rimming the dance floor. But then she seemed to relax.

“No one is looking at
me,
my lord. Rather, as the new Earl of Somerton all eyes are upon
you
this eve.”

Magnus laughed softly. “While I have my doubts that all eyes are upon me, I do know of one pair that were indeed.”

Eliza lifted her chin in challenge. “Are you referring to me, my lord?”

“I saw ye ogling me from behind yer fan.”

“Are you implying that my study was inappropriate?” She arched a questioning brow.

Magnus raised her hand in the air and turned her around. “Dinna fash, Miss Merriweather, I didna mind in the least.”

Eliza glowered at him, her brief delay causing her to fall behind in the dance. A wash of pink rose into her cheeks. She scurried to catch up with the other dancers.

On the eight-count, she drew alongside Magnus once more and laid her hand atop his. “You are
quite
mistaken in your presumption, my lord. I am an artist. A painter. Artists often study life to inspire their art.”

“That’s right. Yer sister mentioned ye were an artist.” Magnus bit his lip to prevent a grin from taking hold. “I understand now. So … ye were just wondering how I might look without my clothes—for a classical painting, perhaps?”

His jest, however, did not hit its mark. She did not appear the least bit shocked.

“No, I was simply noting your military stance,” she replied. “Which is odd, I thought, as I was certain you had introduced yourself as an earl.”

“My, ye’ve a fine eye, Miss Merriweather. I’ve only recently journeyed from the Peninsula.”

“Really?” She peered at the skin around his eyes, and as if something finally made sense to her, she added, “I see.”

Magnus nodded. “I had just returned to Scotland when I received word of my brother’s death.”

She lowered her thickly lashed eyes. “My apologies, my lord. I am very sorry for your loss.”

He bowed his head in concordance.

As if sensing his shift in mood at the mention of his brother, Eliza took events into hand. “No more talk of sad matters though,” she added quickly, “this is a ball, after all.” She placed her slender hand in his and twirled twice, when once was all the particular dance required.

Her laugh that followed tinkled like bells and she had him again. A pleasurable shiver iced his skin and Magnus’s spirits lifted. Just what was it about this lass that charmed him so?

As Miss Merriweather came round to face him, Magnus caught her hand and stilled her step.

She inclined her head and stared up into his eyes. Their gazes locked for just a moment overlong.

“My thanks, Miss Merriweather,” he said.

“Thanks?” she asked, her chest rising and falling as she worked to catch her breath.