The Last Debutante (27 page)

She meant that she had asked Robbie about her. That’s what Daria would have done if the situation were reversed.

Isabella turned slightly and gestured to the three men with her. “May I introduce my father, Laird Brodie. My uncle, Seamus Brodie. And my cousin, Charles Brodie.”

Daria greeted each gentleman as if she were in a receiving line—a slight incline of her head, a remark about the pleasure of making their acquaintance. Young John appeared at her elbow, carrying a tray with filled wineglasses. Grateful for the wine, she turned to take one. But when she turned back, Jamie had moved a few feet away, in conversation with one of the men accompanying Isabella and some other men she hadn’t seen before. Isabella had shifted slightly, putting her back to Daria and herself between Jamie and Daria.

Daria sipped her wine, feeling so conspicuous standing there alone that she scarcely tasted it. A touch to her elbow almost sent her glass flying; she turned around to see Geordie.

“Geordie,” she said in a release of her breath. “What have I done now? I’ve scarcely stepped foot inside the room, so I don’t think I’ve had time to offend you.”

He wrote something on his slate and handed it to Daria.
Look difernt.

“Me?” she asked, meeting the hazel eyes that were the twins of Jamie’s.

He nodded.

“I don’t know what you mean. I am the same as I have been for more than a fortnight.” She glanced up at him. “English.”

Geordie smiled. He rubbed the slate clean with his arm and wrote again.
Bonny.

Daria blinked up at him; he gave her a charmingly subtle
wink. She smiled. “Geordie Campbell, are you attempting to flirt with me?” she whispered.

Geordie responded with a smile.

Young John rang a bell and announced that supper was served. Jamie glanced back at Daria—a fleeting look—and then offered his arm to Isabella to begin the procession. Of course he would lead her in; she was an honored guest. But Daria’s heart sank nonetheless. She stood rooted as people began to file past her, following the Laird of Dundavie into the dining hall.

Remarkably, Geordie tucked his slate up under one arm and offered the other to her.

When Daria looked at him, he arched one brow, as if challenging her.

Daria put her hand on his arm. “I cannot say which of us has lost our mind, sir,” she said, smiling, “but I cannot thank you enough.”

They were the last to be seated, at the opposite end of the table from where Jamie sat with Isabella on his right. Daria told herself to look at Geordie. To remember that she would leave Dundavie very soon, and for God’s sake, whatever she did, to put this afternoon firmly out of her mind.

There was quite a lot of talking throughout the meal—all in Gaelic, of course, and Daria was surprised to realize she had begun to pick up a few words here and there. It had also ceased sounding harsh to her. Jamie tried to converse in English, but the Brodies refused it, responding only in Gaelic.

Halfway through the meal, Geordie slid his slate across to Daria.
Donna lik er.

Daria studied it a moment, wondering if he was instructing
her or informing her. She looked up at Geordie. He nodded in Isabella’s direction.

“What do you mean—you don’t care for her?” she whispered.

He nodded, then gestured for his slate. He wiped it off and wrote,
evr.

Why not? Isabella was a perfect match for the laird; even Daria could see that. She glanced down the table and started when her gaze met Isabella’s. She quickly slid the slate back to Geordie.

“Miss Babcock, we were speaking of the great number of tenants leaving Scotland for Edinburra or beyond,” Jamie said. He had finished his meal and was leaning back, his fingers drumming on the stem of his wineglass. “I told our guests that you had offered a solution.”

She had no idea what he meant. “I have?”

He smiled. “Was it no’ you who suggested we drain the bog and plant a crop?”

“Oh . . . yes,” she admitted, noting the skeptical faces about her. “I am acquainted with a landowner who did that very thing in England. He increased his arable land.”

One of the Brodies snickered and said something that had several of them chuckling.

Lord, she felt like a fool, sitting here as if she knew what she was talking about. Had she ever spent a more wretched evening? The infamous supper party at Rochfeld ranked high on her list of wretched evenings, but even suffering the attentions of the drunken Lord Horncastle wasn’t as vexing as this.

Time was standing still by the time the meal was concluded and the party adjourned to the great hall. Daria
dawdled, hoping to make an unnoticed escape. She pretended to fuss with the clasp of her bracelet and trailed behind the group, lingering at the door.

“Miss Babcock?” Jamie said, turning about as his guests crossed the hall into the great room.

She glanced down the hall. If only she had started in that direction, she might have pretended not to hear him. But he was already walking toward her. Daria said, “Thank you for supper, but if you will excuse me—”

“You donna intend to leave us yet. I had high hopes that you might play again, aye?”

Her heart seized. She couldn’t imagine anything more torturous than having to play the pianoforte with Isabella Brodie in the room. “Oh,” she said, wincing a little. “I, ah . . . I am feeling a bit—”

“Please, Miss Babcock,” Aileen said, suddenly appearing at Jamie’s right. “The waltz.” She smiled.
Warmly.
Daria had never seen Aileen smile before this moment. “Please,” she said again.

Behind her, Geordie and Robbie paused, looking back at Daria.

“Laird Brodie is quite good with the flute. He will accompany you,” Jamie said. “It would be a great pleasure for all if you would indulge us.”

Feeling trapped, Daria looked around at the Campbells, all of them looking at her hopefully. She could just imagine it—Jamie teaching Isabella the waltz; her having to watch them over the top of the pianoforte.

Geordie thrust his slate before her face.
Plees.

“Aren’t you all quite persuasive.” She sighed. “Very well.”

“Thank you, Daria,” Aileen said. It was the first time
she’d ever said Daria’s name. Moreover, she sounded truly grateful.

Daria steeled herself and allowed the Campbells to lead her into the great hall, where someone had moved the pianoforte. Aileen hurried ahead, presumably telling them all that there would be dancing.

The Brodies eyed Daria curiously, but someone must have told them about the music, for one of them did indeed produce a flute.

Daria sat down at the pianoforte. She looked at the people assembled, ignored the butterflies in her belly, and began to play a waltz.

Aileen and Robbie were quick to dance, moving with surprising grace and ease around the room. She expected Jamie to stand before Isabella and bow deeply, offering his hand, so she was astounded to see Geordie grab Isabella and begin to move slowly with her around the room. Several others began to waltz, too, to her surprise. The dance was apparently spreading across Dundavie, and she couldn’t help a small smile.

The man with the flute quickly picked up the harmony to Daria’s song, and before long, everyone was dancing and laughing. When she finished each song, Daria tried to pause, but the people pushed her along. After three songs, a man appeared with a fiddle. There was quite a lot of talk between him and the flute player, and then both looked at her expectantly. “Go on, then, lass,” Laird Brodie said. “We’ll follow your lead, aye?”

They were remarkable musicians, really. Daria’s repertoire consisted of five or six songs, and the gentlemen were gifted enough that they could change them all with tempo
and harmony. After a time, though, Daria began to grow weary of playing. Her fingers ached; she wasn’t accustomed to playing for so long.

At the conclusion of the fifth song—played for the third time—Daria put her hands in her lap, stretching her fingers.

Jamie walked toward her. “You deserve a rest.”

“Thank you!” she exclaimed. “I fear my fingers will fall off.”

“Besides, you never taught me,” he said.

“Taught you?”

“To dance, lass. Look at them all, waltzing. And here sits their laird, only recently off the cane.”

She’d seen him dancing while she played, and she eyed him suspiciously. “You wish me to teach you to waltz.”

“Aye.”

“In front of them,” she said, nodding surreptitiously to the crowd.

“Before all of them, aye.” He winked. “Teach this laird to dance. I command it.” His eyes were sparkling with gaiety, impossible to resist.

“Well. If you
command
it.” She smiled.

Jamie gestured for Malcolm Brodie to begin playing anew, then offered his arm to Daria. As he escorted her onto the dance floor, she was aware that everyone was watching them. In England she would have relished the attention, but here she felt conspicuous.

“Well, then?” Jamie asked.

Daria drew a breath and looked him in the eye. “You should place your hand on my back.”

He stepped closer and slipped his arm around her back. “There?” he asked, his hand just above her hip.

“Quite a bit higher.”

He smiled. But instead of moving his hand up her back, he pulled her closer, and gazed down at her with those shining hazel eyes. “There?”

Daria swallowed. “Not there, really, but we’ll make do.”

His smile deepened.

She held out her arm. “You should hold my hand.”

He put his hand beneath her elbow, then slowly slid it down her arm to her hand, closing his fingers tightly and possessively around hers.

Daria’s heart was beating so rapidly, she feared she might take wing. She put her hand on his shoulder. “All right, then, you will begin to your left.
One
two three,” she counted softly.

He was still smiling as he moved to his left uncertainly, and then back again as Daria instructed. He picked up the dance quite easily. Before she knew it, he was moving her about, his lead firm and sure, then spinning her this way and that. He moved so well that Daria began to feel she was dancing on air. The evening slipped away, and she was aware of only the flute, and Jamie. His eyes never left her, his gaze fixed on her face.

“You’ve waltzed before,” she said.

He laughed and spun her about. “Perhaps once or twice.”

“Where? Did Geordie teach you?”

“Geordie!” He laughed roundly at that. “No, I learned in London.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” she laughingly demanded as he twirled her again.

“What, and miss the experience of having the last debutante of Hadley Green instruct me? I’m no’ a fool.” He spun her to the right, pulling her closer. “You are a very entertaining young woman.”

“Because I play the pianoforte? There are squads of debutantes who do.”

“I mean
you,
Daria.”

“Even though I am English?” she asked.

“Even though.”

She smiled up at him. “I think, Laird Campbell, that you hold England in higher regard than you let on.”

He shook his head and dipped his gaze to her décolletage. “There is only one I hold in high regard, aye?”

“Then you should reduce my ransom.”

He twirled her to the left. “Never.”

Daria laughed. “I’d be quite disappointed if you did.”

The flute finally stopped, and a smattering of applause went up around them. Jamie’s hands slid from her body and Daria reluctantly dropped her hands as well. She was still admiring his handsome face when she became aware of someone beside her. She turned around and looked into green eyes.

“You dance very well indeed, Laird,” Isabella said.

Jamie inclined his head in response.

“I beg your pardon, I donna mean to interrupt,” she said, then spoke to him in Gaelic.

The smile bled from Jamie’s face. He looked at Daria. “Excuse me, please,” he said, and moved away.

Daria looked at Isabella.

Isabella smiled thinly. “It is his uncle Hamish. There is a wee bit of trouble.”

“Ah.” Daria stood restlessly, debating how exactly to make her escape.

“A wee bit of barley-bree, Miss Babcock?” Isabella gestured graciously to the sideboard and touched Daria’s elbow lightly.

They moved to the sideboard, where Isabella instructed a footman to pour. She handed Daria a tot, touched her own lightly to Daria’s, then sipped. “You’ll be away to England soon, I suppose.”

Daria wasn’t entirely certain how to respond. She glanced down at the amber liquid.

“Jamie’s told me about the ransom,” Isabella added.

Jamie.
They were close, these two. “Yes.” Daria looked up. “Perhaps you know my grandmother. She lives on the Brodie lands.”

Isabella shook her head. “No.” She smiled. “There are so many Brodies, aye?”

“Yes, that is true,” Daria said absently. Every time she looked at Isabella’s green eyes, she imagined Jamie looking into them. She glanced around, hoping to find a friendly face, someone who might rescue her.

“I think the Campbells will miss you when you’ve gone. They all seem quite taken with you.”

That certainly caught Daria’s attention. “Me?”

“Aye, you,” Isabella said. Her gaze drifted over Daria. “You’re different than we are, are you no’? Rather exotic.”

“Me?”
Daria said again, stunned by what Isabella was saying.

“In the Highlands, life is simple compared to in England,
I think. It’s a wee circle. One is born into the clan, one marries into the clan, one bears children for the clan, one grows old with the clan. Our families are centuries old, aye? It’s right hard for a Sassenach to come into that circle.”

“Pardon?”

“Foreigner,” Isabella said, smiling a little.

English,
she meant.

“Jamie and I will carry on the tradition as our parents did before us. Only this time, we’ll unite two powerful clans.”

So it was decided. Daria tried to ignore the painful, tiny twist in her belly.

“You will return to England to regale salons with tales of your journey to Scotland,” Isabella said lightly. “You’ll undoubtedly attend balls and marry one of your own, aye?”