The Last Debutante (16 page)

“Well?” Jamie demanded of them. “Shall we invite the Ransom to dine?”

No one spoke for a long moment. No one made eye contact. When Robbie cleared his throat as if preparing to
speak, all eyes turned to him. “Perhaps . . .” he said carefully, glancing about him, “she’s no’ as bad as we believe.”

That earned him a murderous look from his wife and a look of surprise from his laird.

“Well, she’s made Dougal Campbell happy, aye?” Robbie continued defensively. “And she’s reached the lad Peader, though the good Lord knows how she’s done it. He’s laughing like he’s never laughed before, a different boy altogether.”

“Nevertheless—” Aileen began.

“She’s even taught the wee ones to sing a right cheery song, and if that won’t warm your bloody cockles I donna know what will!”

That was followed by a lively debate over whether the children should be singing in English at all.

But then Jamie said, “There is one more thing I should like to add to this spirited debate. She plays the pianoforte.”

Now all eyes were riveted on him. Eyes wide with surprise and—dare he think it?—hope.

“Laurna! Where is she, then? I’ve missed the lass,” Hamish said as he examined his sherbet with a critical eye.

“The pianoforte,” Robbie said skeptically.

“Heard it myself,” Jamie avowed. “She doesna play as well as Laurna, but she plays well enough for us.”

Jig,
Geordie wrote, his mood brightened by the prospect. He’d always enjoyed a good Highland dance.

“The tune I heard her playing seemed sprightly enough. The only way to know if she can play a jig is to invite her to do so, aye? Well then, what say you? Shall we have a wee bit of music return to Dundavie?”

The answer was a grudging
aye.

Jamie summoned Daria the next morning. She swept into his study in a gown of pale green muslin just behind Young John, marching forward like a woman determined to have a word. Aedus and Anlan trotted behind, Anlan’s nose to the floor as if they were out on a brisk walk. The dogs almost collided with her when she suddenly drew up short to have a look around at the paneled walls, where the portraits of past lairds hung. She seemed a wee bit caught off guard by the history that his study was steeped in, but then quickly remembered herself and said, “I beg your pardon,” dipping a curtsy that he suspected was more out of habit than anything else. “Are these your ancestors?” she asked, peering up at one notorious Campbell, whose tamo’-shanter sat jauntily on his florid head, his belt sliding beneath a wide belly.

“Aye, they are all Campbells of Dundavie.”

“I rather like the look of this one,” she said. “There’s a bit of a twinkle in his eye. He might lead one to believe that not every Campbell laird is dreadful.” She slanted a look at him from the corner of her eye.

“I’m no’ dreadful, Miss Babcock, far from it. If you need convincing, I could demonstrate just how dreadful I could be.”

She clasped her hands at her back. “No, thank you. I will take your word on that score,” she said pertly. “You sent for me? Should I assume the ransom has come? Or there has been word of my grandmother? Or perhaps you were merely looking for your dogs,” she said, and arched a brow.

Bloody useless dogs. “I sent for you because I have considered your request to dine at the Campbell table—”

“Thank heaven!” she said to the rafters, loud enough that both dogs began to wag their tails in anticipation of something great happening. “I will
perish
if I am forced to dine alone one more night—”

“Pardon, lass, but I’ve no’ as yet extended an invitation.”

She blinked. And smiled sheepishly. “No, you have not. But I doubt you called me here to tell me you
won’t
extend an invitation.” She cocked her head curiously to one side. “You didn’t, did you?”

He smiled, tossed his quill down, and stood, moving around the desk. His limp was growing less noticeable every day, thank heaven, and the wound in his side was hardly noticeable to him now. “I intend to invite you to dine at my table, provided we can come to terms.”

“Terms,” she repeated skeptically. “How odd. I cannot recall another time I was invited to dine under
terms.
Another Scottish custom, I suppose. Very well, what would you like? A fatted calf?” she asked, her hands finding her hips. “Or perhaps you mean to humiliate me in some way. Must I declare some oath of allegiance to my liege?”

“That sounds rather appealing,” he said, casually leaning back against his desk.

She gave him a look of exasperation. “What is it about the male sex that requires such adoration? One grows weary from it.”

“You sound as if you’ve done naugh’ but adore men, Miss Babcock. If you are practiced, I will no’ object.”

She snorted. “One can scarcely be a member of my sex
and not be practiced, Laird Campbell.” She said his name as if he were a wee bit shy of a full brain. “This one must be admired for his hunting,” she said, flicking one wrist, “and that one for his prowess at the gaming hells,” she said, flicking the other. Aedus and Anlan seemed to think she was tossing scraps and began to dance around, sitting down on their rumps, their heads pointed up at her when she stopped moving, waiting.

“Those are cynical words for an English debutante.”

“Practical words,” she said confidently.

“I wonder why an English debutante as practical and pleasing to the eye as you is no’ married by now,” he said.

Her blush deepened and for once, the woman looked entirely at a loss. “That is
quite
inappropriate—”

“You broached the subject—”

“I didn’t! You did!”

“Why have you no’ married, Miss Babcock? Do you hope for a title? A London townhome? It must be something of the like, for on my word, you are far too bonny to have been overlooked. And you kiss entirely too well.”

She gasped. He smiled. She gasped again and whirled around, her hands pressed to her cheeks. “That . . . that’s appalling!”

He laughed. “Did you think I wouldna remember, then? Aye, I was a wee bit out of my head, but a man does no’ forget a kiss like that.”

“Oh dear God,” she murmured, looking stricken.

It intrigued him. After all she’d been through, the kiss was the thing to unsettle her? “You didna answer my question,” he said curiously. “Why have you no’ married?”

“Why haven’t
you
?” she demanded, quickly regaining her composure. “You are the laird here. Everyone waits for your heir—”

“Everyone?” he repeated, smiling.

“All of them,” she said, sweeping her arm grandly toward them “all.”

He must have looked surprised because she cried, “Aha! You would very much like to know who. You undoubtedly think a lass or two who would like the honor of being your wife.”

“Are there?” he asked, only mildly curious. He knew very well the speculation about heirs. There had been great hopes placed on his marriage to Isabella, and when that had fallen through, more mothers had hoped for a match with their daughters. He was only surprised that Daria knew it.

“Are there what?”

“Are there lassies who want to be my wife?
Diah,
I will hope they are bonny lassies with wide hips to bear me a passel of children.”

She blinked. Her cheeks bloomed. And then she smiled. “Would you like me to find you a wife, Laird?” she asked airily. “It’s really rather easy. The only virtue a woman here seems to seek is that her future husband be a Campbell.”

He laughed. “I donna need your help, Miss Babcock.”

“Don’t you?” she asked, folding her arms across her middle, drumming her fingers on one arm. “That’s just as well, for I am not inclined to help you, seeing as how you hold me captive here. Even if it would give me a much-needed occupation.”

“My marriage,” he said, “will be arranged soon enough,
donna doubt it. But thank you for your most generous offer to arrange a match for a man whose only redeeming quality appears to be his name.”

She put her hand on her heart and inclined her head in acceptance of his thanks. “Well then, you may as well give me your terms for dining with civilization, and I will think on them.”

He’d forgotten the start of this conversation. “You’ll
think
on them?” He pushed away from the desk and moved so that he was standing directly before her, so close that he could smell the rose scent of her perfume. “You are a clever one,
leannan,
but you have the unfortunate tendency to make demands of me. Donna make the mistake of believing you are in an English salon, aye? I owe you a debt for saving my bloody hide, and for that, I am granting you leeway I would no’ otherwise grant. The terms, which you will accept if you donna want to be restricted to your suite of rooms for the remainder of your stay at Dundavie, is that you will play the pianoforte for my family.”

She stared up at him beneath the V of her brows. “You want me to play the pianoforte?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “You do play, aye?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then we will allow you to dine at our table if you will agree to play the pianoforte.”

“That’s all?” she asked, her frown of confusion deepening.

“That’s all.”

“Only that,” she said skeptically.

The lass hadn’t heard a word he’d said about not arguing. He sighed and resorted to cajoling her. “Miss Babcock,” he said as he casually pushed a loose strand of her hair from her collar, his finger following the line of her shoulder down her arm, “we’ve no’ heard it played since my sister died two winters past. We haven’t anyone who has learned the art and we miss it.”

Her gaze followed his hand as it slid down her arm to her wrist, his fingers tangling with hers. She gave a slight shiver and Jamie knew that he could persuade her to allow him to explore more of her. “My condolences,” she murmured.

He ignored that—he still found it difficult to speak of Laurna’s death. And at the moment, he was far more interested in the small bones he could feel as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, his thumb stroking the soft underside.

“How did she die, if I may ask?”

“In childbirth,” he said simply. “The child as well.” His fingers curled around hers, and with his thumb, he traced a line along her palm. So smooth, so soft. So feminine. With his health returned to him, Jamie was remembering with some urgency how much he missed the feel of a woman beside him. He wouldn’t mind feeling this woman’s body against his in the least, her grandmother notwithstanding.

“My family once employed a maid named Louise. She was my companion as far back as I can recall,” she said, her gaze still on his hand. “She married Tom Higgins, and when she carried her first child, she was so full of light, so happy and eager to have the baby. She’d picked out a name, and my father made her a cradle. But she didn’t survive the
birth.” She slowly lifted her gaze to his, looked him directly in the eye. “I still miss her, too. I think it the cruelest irony that the source of so much happiness and life can also be the source of so much pain and death.”

He was surprised by her empathy, and surprised even more that it moved him. He remembered his sister every day, remembered the happy glow of her pregnancy and how eagerly she had looked forward to the birth of her child.

“What music would your family like to hear?” Miss Babcock asked as she gently squeezed his fingers.

But Jamie could not escape her gaze. He was caught like a fish by a hook, unable to swim away in the fast currents. “Whatever you like.” He had to escape this moment before he did something ridiculous. He leaned forward, his mouth close to her temple, his nose filled with the scent of her. He heard the soft, quick intake of her breath. He felt dangerously close to kissing her, to reclaiming the lips he remembered so fondly from his dream.

“I know a piece that celebrates spring,” she murmured. “I recall the melody, but not the words. I would wager it has something to do with young love.” She smiled sheepishly, lightly laced her fingers with his. “I had a music tutor who was quite fond of the notion of young love.” She turned her head to look him directly in the eye. “I think every song he taught me celebrated it in some way. Will that suit?”

Jamie felt himself on shifting ground. “Aye.” He brushed his lips against her temple. She stilled; he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath his lips. It roused a beast in him, one that would demand to be sated if he lingered.
He untangled his hand from hers and walked over to open the door of his study. “We dine at eight.”

“Thank you,” she said, and began to move toward him. Her hand, the one he’d held, gripped the side of her gown. She glanced up when she reached him. “And I don’t think your only redeeming quality is your name.” She went out, leaving the scent of roses in her wake, the two dogs trotting after her.

Jamie glared at them as they went past, then shut the door and leaned back against it.

What the bloody hell had just happened to him? He felt as green as a boy with his first infatuation. He didn’t care for the feeling it gave him—at sixes and sevens, topsy-turvy, lacking control. All for an English debutante! It went against everything a mighty Campbell laird was.

He limped back to his desk and sat, staring at the paper before him.

Mary, Queen of Scots.

B
ETHIA LOOKED STUNNED
. “You’ve been invited to
supper
?”

“Yes, Bethia,” Daria said. “I will dine on haggis yet again, only formally this evening, instead of in this room by myself, as if I were a leper.” She paused. “It is formal, is it not?”

“We donna have fancy suppers, as if we are a lot of kings and queens,” Bethia snapped, clearly annoyed by this latest bit of news.

“Then I won’t wear my ermine cape,” Daria retorted. “What do you think, the silk?” she asked, holding up a cream-colored silk gown encrusted with tiny seed pearls. “Or is it too rich?”

“I didna say we dress in rags and animal pelts, did I? The gown is bonny enough.”

Daria smiled. “Thank you. That’s precisely what I hoped you’d say.” She was still determined to win Bethia over, but
it was proving a difficult challenge. “Do they gather for wine beforehand?” she asked as she absently sorted through her jewelry.