How to Entice an Enchantress

Lady Charlotte sighed. “Poor Margaret. She hates it when someone criticizes anything that has to do with Floors Castle.”

  Lord Dalhousie smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Apparently even the weather.”

  “Yes. You should have seen her when MacDougal mentioned that a stiff east wind always makes the fireplace in the dining room smoke. You’d have thought he’d insulted the Roxburghe name.” The huge clock rang the hour. “Oh dear, look at the time! My new novel is waiting and if I hurry, I’ve just enough time to read the first chapter before I change for lunch. Miss Balfour, if you and Lord Dalhousie will excuse me—” As she spoke, the tiny lady hurried off.

  Lord Dalhousie chuckled. “Lady Charlotte is right; her grace does not like to hear anything about the castle being less than perfect. Yesterday, during tea, someone dared to say that they thought the garden could use some of their prize roses to ‘fill out the flower bed,’ and that they’d be glad to send some to her grace. She was offended that someone dared suggest that the gardens were not perfect as they are, and it made for quite an awkward moment.”

  “She’s very protective. Still, I understand. It’s very easy to become sentimental over buildings. I’m very fond of Caith Manor, where I grew up, and if anyone says a cross word about it, even if it’s true, I get very defensive.”

  “What style of house is Caith?” Lord Dalhousie asked, looking far more interested than he should have.

  “It’s a hodgepodge—part Tudor, part Gothic, part something else. But to me, it’s the most beautiful house ever.”

  “Oh?” He leaned against the newel post at the foot of the stairs. “What does Caith look like?”

  “It’s not overly large, is rather square, but with a beautiful arched doorway, and a parlor that overlooks the prettiest garden. It’s two stories with an ornate staircase that creaks horribly and—” Dahlia bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to go on and on.”

  “Oh, you weren’t. To be honest, I—”

  Lady Mary and Miss Stewart returned arm in arm, Miss MacLeod trailing behind.

  Miss Stewart cast a blinding smile at the viscount. “Dalhousie, Lady Mary and I were hoping that after lunch, you’d play us in battledore.”

  He sent a regretful glance at Dahlia before he turned a polite smile on Miss Stewart. “I will need a partner, then.”

  “Very true,” Lady Mary conceded. “Perhaps Lord MacKelton would do.”

  “If he can stay awake long enough to play. Why, he must be seventy years old.”

  “Eighty-three. I know, for I asked Lady Charlotte just this morning.”

  Miss Stewart glanced at Dahlia from under her lashes before saying in a challenging tone, “How about Lord Kirk?”

  “Oh yes,” Lady Mary agreed. “With his perpetual scowl and that horrid scar—” She shuddered.

  Dahlia had to unclench her jaw before she could speak. “He cannot help being injured.”

  Lady Mary didn’t look the least regretful. “He can help how much he scowls. I never see him without getting the feeling that he wishes everyone in the room to perdition.”

  “As do I,” Miss MacLeod said. “Although I think him a bit of a tragic figure, like one from a play. There he is, beautifully handsome and yet marred by that scar. I heard he got the scar fighting pirates. How romantic!”

  Dahlia frowned. “There were no pirates.”

  Miss Stewart turned a curious glance her way. “Oh? Do you know how he got his scar, then?”

  “He and his wife were returning from the Indies, and their ship caught fire. They were carrying gunpowder and the entire ship blew up. His wife was killed.”

  “What a tragic story,” Miss Stewart said.

  “Yes, but he has recovered, which is a testament to his character.”

  “Oh my,” Lady Mary said, eyeing Dahlia. “It seems that Lord Kirk is not without his admirers.”

  Surprisingly, Miss MacLeod interjected, “Of course he is not; he’s an intriguing and mysterious figure.”

  “A scar does not add a caveat of mystery, at least not to me.” Lady Mary didn’t look pleased. “The man has a wretched temper; one can see it just by looking at him. If Lord Kirk were to play us in battledore, I’d be shaking in fear so much that I wouldn’t be able to hit a stroke.”

  “Then he is the perfect partner for me,” Dalhousie exclaimed. “I shall ask him immediately.”

  “He is the perfect partner only if you don’t look at him. Although I must say his eyes have a peculiar beauty.” Miss Stewart’s sharp face softened. “The very shape of his—”

  “That is quite enough!” Dahlia almost didn’t recognize her own voice as four shocked faces turned her way. “Pray stop speaking about Lord Kirk in such a way.”

  Miss Stewart blinked. “I was complimenting him.”

  Dahlia’s face heated. “Yes, well, before that you were mocking his appearance.”

  Lord Dalhousie’s smile had slipped, but he rallied. “You’re quite right, Miss Balfour. Lord Kirk cannot help being injured.”

  “We meant no harm.” Miss Stewart looked quite put out. “I did admit that his eyes are lovely.”

  “But he does limp horridly.” Lady Mary sniffed. “If that’s actually a leg. Why, it might be a peg, for all we know.”

  Miss Stewart feigned shocked. “A peg leg! Oh, can you imagine—”

  “No.” Dahlia stepped forward. “Miss Stewart, Lady Mary, if you’d like a game of battledore, allow me to challenge you to one.”

  Lady Mary arched her brows delicately. “Miss Balfour, I feel I must warn you that Miss Stewart and I are excellent at battledore.”

  “So am I. Quite good, in fact.”

  Miss Stewart couldn’t have looked more astounded than if Dahlia had announced that she was the pope. “You can’t play us both. There’s only one of you.”

  “Actually, I can do just that.” She’d played both of her sisters many times, and had won almost every match. “Well, Lady Mary? Miss Stewart? Do you accept?”

  Lady Mary’s gaze narrowed. “You sound as if you were challenging us to a duel.”

  Lord Dalhousie brightened. “Then I claim the honor of being Miss Balfour’s second.”

  Miss MacLeod bounced in place. “I’ll be a second for Miss Stewart and Lady Mary!”

  Dalhousie bowed to Miss MacLeod. “We shall set the details after lunch. We will plan the duel for—shall we say, tomorrow? That will give us time to prepare the rules for our wager.”

  Miss MacLeod curtsied, laughing as she did so. “I look forward to it! We will make certain all is fair.”

  “Then it’s settled. Our fair opponents shall play tomorrow afternoon.”

  “It will also give Miss Balfour time to practice,” Miss MacLeod offered.

  “I shall have no need of it,” Dahlia said, filled with a determination to win. “I look forward to the match.” Suddenly, she was tired of the house party, tired of defending Kirk’s honor, tired of hearing people malign someone they didn’t know—all of it. “If you’ll excuse me, I must change.” She turned and, boots in hand, marched loudly up the steps in an attempt to drown out the excited chatter of what were surely two of the most spoiled women on the face of the earth.

  Nine

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

  The battledore courts have been a rousing success and there have been games nonstop since they were set up yesterday, which is a good thing, for the weather has gotten worse.

  Meanwhile, this morning, I noticed two of my footmen sporting the gaudiest watch fobs I’ve ever seen.

  I shall ask MacDougal to count the silver.

  * * *

  Dahlia winced. “Ow!”

  Freya clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, miss, bu’ if ye wish yer hair to stay oop, then I must brush it guid and well.”

  “I know, I know. But do be careful. No matter how lovely you make my hair, the effect will be ruined if it gives me a headache and all I can do is frown.” Dahlia’s stomach growled and she pressed a hand to it.


  “Ye should take yer breakfast on a tray in the mornings, like the others.”

  “I had a biscuit earlier, when I came back through the kitchen after my walk. And while certain others may enjoy lazing about until noon, I do not.”

  “Och, no. Ye’re oop wit’ the birdies, ye are.”

  “I love mornings. Besides, the more interesting guests are up early, and we’ve had some excellent conversations over the breakfast table. Lady Grantham has been telling me the most fascinating tales of the history of their family seat. And Miss MacTintern raises the most exotic animals—she has two monkeys, both quite tame, and she’s promised to show them to me if ever I visit Edinburgh.”

  A discreet knock sounded on the door.

  Freya put down the box of pins and went to the door.

  A footman holding a silver salver bowed. “From Lord Dalhousie. I’m to wait fer an answer.”

  Freya took the missive and brought it to Dahlia with a mischievous look. “Fro’ Lord Dalhousie, miss.”

  Dahlia’s face heated. She slipped her silver comb behind the seal and broke it, and then opened the missive. The entire page was filled with flowing script.

  Aware of the waiting footman, she scanned it quickly. “Pray tell his lordship that I will be happy to meet him in the portrait gallery at ten.”

  “Aye, miss.” The footman bowed and then left.

  As soon as the door closed, Freya clapped her hands together. “Och, miss! Not here a whole week and already gettin’ love letters.”

  “It’s not a love letter.” However, it was a very nice letter. Dalhousie had invited her to a viewing of the Roxburghe portrait gallery, which he’d planned for their amusement. He was most effusive about the idea, and had closed with “I eagerly await your answer.” She smiled and folded the letter and placed it the dressing table.

  “Viscount Dalhousie is quite a handsome mon.” Freya slid a sly look at Dahlia.

  “He’s very charming.” Dahlia remembered how Miss Stewart had looked at him the day before. “Half of the ladies here are already in love with him.”

  “The duchess ne’er invites someone to her house party wit’oot havin’ a plan fer them. I wonder who she wishes to match to Dalhousie?”

  That was an interesting question indeed. Dahlia’s stomach growled again and she glanced at the clock. “It’s a quarter past nine. I should hurry to breakfast if I’m to reach the portrait gallery by ten.”

  Freya placed two more pins in Dahlia’s hair and then stepped back. “There now. See if tha’ is no’ wha’ ye had in mind.”

  Dahlia tilted her head this way and that. Her thick brown hair had been pinned in a series of loose knots with silken tendrils falling in loose curls at her ears. It was a far cry from the tangled mess she’d come in with after yesterday’s walk, that much was certain. “It’s perfect. I hope it will stay up.”

  “If it dinna, then jus’ come back to the room and ring fer me. I’ll come in a trice and fix it.”

  Dahlia stood. “Thank you, Freya. I must say, I’m excited to see the Roxburghe portrait gallery. Her grace said at dinner last night that some of the paintings were by very famous artists.”

  “So I’ve been told. I’m surprised Lord Dalhousie knows the Roxburghe history enou’ to be a guide fer ye.”

  “I daresay that what he doesn’t know, he will feel free to invent. He has a vivid imagination and a rich sense of humor.” No one made her laugh more than Lord Dalhousie.

  Freya grinned. “Mayhap he’s jus’ tryin’ to get ye alone. He’s a verrah fine gentleman, but I do hear tell tha’ he has a rovin’ eye.”

  “Well, if dalliance is his purpose in inviting me to view the portrait gallery, then he is doomed for disappointment, for there will be footmen placed every six feet or so. How many footmen are there at Floors Castle, anyway? One cannot turn around without running into one.”

  “If ye ask Lillith, the upstairs maid, there is no’ enou’,” Freya said darkly. “When the footmen were setting oop fer the battledore tournament, she wouldna’ leave them alone, commentin’ on their muscles and flirtin’ so much tha’ the housekeeper sent her back to her post!”

  “I daresay she was annoying the footmen.”

  “As to tha’, I canno’ say, fer she’s—” Freya cupped her hands out before her breasts.

  “Ah. She has a figure, does she?”

  “Aye, miss. More tha’ she can handle.”

  Dahlia looked at her own figure in the mirror and sighed. “I’ve always wished I were thinner, for then one can wear the latest fashions without draping oneself from head to foot in enough cloth to hide what one doesn’t wish noticed.”

  “Och, ye are beautiful, miss. E’eryone says so.”

  “You are too kind. By the way, later this afternoon I shall need your help getting ready for the battledore tournament. I’m scheduled to play at two.” Judging by the number of people who’d mentioned the game to her after dinner, there would be quite a large number in attendance. That was fine; if there was one skill Dahlia was certain about, it was battledore.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Freya went to answer it. As she opened the door, a pug scampered between her feet and bounded into the room.

  Freya gave a shout and lunged for the dog, but it was quicker, dodging her grasp and running as fast as it could around the entire room. Finally it collapsed upon the rug before the fire, panting, a silly grin on its muzzle.

  Freya whipped about to glare at the footman. “Angus, ye falpeen fool! Wha’ do ye’ mean, bringin’ tha’ beastie into a lady’s room like tha’? And I’ll ne’er catch tha’ one, fer she’s faster than all o’ the other combined!”

  The footman grinned. “She is, isna’ she? Small and wiry, to boot.”

  “Dinna say tha’ as if it’s funny, fer ’tis no’ funny at all. Especially when the beastie goes to chewin’ on the misses’ shoes.”

  Dahlia looked around at that. “Oh dear. Does she do that?”

  “Aye. And she’s no’ the only one as has tha’ problem, neither.” The maid glared at the footman. “Did ye come jus’ to make trouble, or are ye here on an errand o’ some sort?”

  Recalled to his duty, Angus straightened and held out a salver, a note in the center. “I’ve a note fer Miss Balfour. I was tol’ I dinna need to wait fer an answer.”

  Freya took the note. “Fine, but ye are takin’ tha’ dog wit’ ye.”

  “I’m no’, fer I’ve someplace to be, but I’ll come back later and fetch her when she’s no’ so excited. And, Freya, do no’ chase her aboot. Ye’re bad aboot tha’ and it only makes her harder t’ catch.”

  “Och! Ye’re a fine one to talk, Angus MacLellan! I’ve seen ye chase the pugs all o’er the front lawn, I have.”

  “Only when her grace asked me to. Other than tha’, I dinna take a step toward ’em unless they welcome it.”

  “Why, ye lyin’—” Freya caught herself and, with an apologetic glance back at Dahlia, straightened her narrow shoulders and faced the cheeky footman. “We’ll discuss this another time.” She curtsied. “Thank ye fer bringin’ the missive.”

  “Ye’re wel—”

  She slammed the door. A muffled word came from the hallway, but she ignored it and brought the note to Dahlia, who instantly recognized Kirk’s familiar back-slanted handwriting.

  The maid had the grace to look shamefaced. “I’m verrah sorry fer slammin’ the door, miss. I shouldna’ ha’ done tha’, but tha’ mon is a lazy bit o’ bone and blood, he is. E’er since the duchess asked him t’ be the one t’ carry puir ol’ Randolph oop an’ down the stairs when he refused t’ do it hisself—”

  “Pardon me, but who is this Randolph?”

  “Och, Randolph is the oldest o’ the Roxburghe pugs, miss. He’s ancient, he is, bu’ full o’ life. MacDougal thinks ’tis all a trick and tha’ Randolph can manage the stairs fer all tha’ her grace thinks he canno’. Angus, meanwhile, has been lordin’ it o’er everyone belowstairs, actin’ as
if he’d been crowned king.”

  “King of the pugs, is he? Men can be so infuriating.”

  The note was pleasantly heavy in her hand, as if it held something of great value. So you’ve made arrangements for us to meet privately, have you? She’d wondered when and how he’d manage it. A faint shiver rushed over her, a wave of invisible heat.

  Aware of the maid’s eyes upon her, Dahlia tossed the unopened missive onto the dressing table and said, “I believe I’ll wear the blue slippers.”

  “Aye, miss. They’ll look fetchin’ wit’ tha’ gown. I’ll fetch them fro’ the dressin’ room.”

  “Thank you.” Dahlia waited for the maid to leave before she picked up the missive. Yesterday, when Kirk had suggested that they practice their skills so as not to embarrass themselves again, she’d found herself in complete agreement, swayed by both his reasoning and his presence. But the cool logic of a night spent thinking away the hours had brought to light several flaws with this plan, not the least of which was the impropriety of it. Beyond that, there could be unexpected outcomes from their continued contact.

  As it was, she was having a difficult enough time forgetting their kiss. Those first seconds had been beyond anything she’d ever dreamed, which was why she’d reacted so strongly. So how would she be able to forget a kiss from Kirk that was exceptional from beginning to end? Could she forget it? Would she want to?

  She picked up her silver comb and, just as she’d done to Dalhousie’s missive, she slid it under the flap and broke the seal. She replaced her comb on the dresser and then unfolded the stiff paper.

  The paper was remarkably fine. Only the best for the master of Fordyce Castle. She smiled as she opened the vellum.

  The library at ten. Do not be late.

  Kirk

  She frowned. Short and to the point, with no time taken for pleasantries. Worse, he doesn’t even ask, but announces it as if I’d have nothing to say about it. As could be expected from Kirk, the missive was vastly unsatisfying.

  She scowled at the letter. Why had she agreed to his request to hone her kissing skills with him, of all men? It was ludicrous. She’d come to the duchess’s to find love and romance, something Kirk couldn’t understand, nor did he wish to. Why, even common courtesy seemed to stretch his resources.