A rational woman would have avoided him, and would certainly have never agreed to his proposition. But yesterday, she hadn’t been able to do either.
Something had happened when Kirk had lunged for her bonnet and she’d found herself in his arms. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could feel the split second of heat caused by that innocuous embrace and smell the faint hint of cologne that had lingered on his coat.
Of course, now that time had passed, she realized that his seeming embrace had merely been a way to steady himself. Equally disheartening, she also realized that his scheme to advance their kissing skills—something she would have suspected as an attempt at flirtation had another man proposed it—was exactly as he’d declared it: he wished to avoid another embarrassing moment and he was woefully without practice.
Perhaps it was kind that he thought to include her, but it still confirmed that there was nothing the least bit romantic about his efforts.
As always, Kirk’s request had been based on cold, hard practicality and his own needs, and she deeply regretted agreeing to participate. And yet somehow she had.
But perhaps she shouldn’t be so hard on herself. She’d been raw from their horrid encounter; then after he’d held her, she’d fallen under some sort of spell cast by his dark gaze and the feel of his strong arms about her.
Well, her reason had returned. She would meet with him at ten o’clock and explain why she was no longer interested in “perfecting” her skills.
She tossed the letter on the dresser where it came to rest beside Dalhousie’s longer, more eloquent missive. The viscount had requested the honor of her presence, not rudely assumed that he would have it. There were many other things to recommend Dalhousie’s letter over Kirk’s, as well—his warm tone, the politeness of his request, the time he’d taken to plan an amusement for them both—all of it pointed to a deepness of thought and consideration that was completely lacking in Kirk’s abrupt, demanding missive.
A cold, wet nose touched her elbow.
“Oh!” Dahlia looked down at the pug, who was wagging her curly tail with abandon. “Your nose is like ice.”
Freya stuck her head out of the dressing room. “Och, is she botherin’ ye, miss? I can try to catch her and—”
“No, no. She’s fine.”
“Verrah weel. I mus’ say tha’ I’m glad, fer she dinna take kindly to bein’ chased.”
“None of us do.”
Freya twinkled. “Unless ’tis by the right mon, miss. I’ve found yer shoes bu’ they needed a mite o’ polish. I’m jus’ finishin’ them oop now.”
“Thank you, Freya.”
“Ye’re quite welcome, miss.” The maid disappeared back into the dressing room.
Dahlia regarded the dog sitting at her feet. “I wish you could go to the library for me. If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that Lord Kirk is going to be angry when I tell him no.”
Meenie cocked her head to one side.
“Oh, I know, he stomps about and snaps like a dragon. He meets almost everything with irritation—a change in the weather, a book that has had the corners of the pages folded, a cravat with too much starch—the list is endless. Which is why, when he huffs and puffs, I shan’t pay him the slightest heed.”
Meenie wagged her tail.
Dahlia was heartened by this positive reaction. “Yes. I will simply tell him I don’t need to hone my skills. I need to hone my reaction.” She reached down to pat the pug. Its hair was velveteen soft and made her smile. “You are a sweet one. Come sit on my lap.”
The dog barked once, and then ran away as fast as its legs would carry it, making wider and wider circles around the room until, once again, she collapsed in a panting, grinning heap before the fireplace.
Freya came out of the dressing room carrying the shoes. “Ye canno’ pick tha’ one oop, miss. No’ unless she decides she wishes ye to do so.” She placed the shoes on the floor before Dahlia. “So Lord Dalhousie sounds as if he might be interested in ye, miss. Do ye like him?”
“I don’t know.” Dahlia opened her jewelry box and selected her favorite garnet earrings. “He’s fun and lively and he flirts outrageously, but . . . we shall see.” Compared to Kirk, who didn’t like to do many things at all, Dalhousie was the most attractive of companions.
Still, for no reason at all, she couldn’t help but wonder what a real kiss from Lord Kirk might be like. A kiss born and sustained by passion, one uninterrupted by her own inexperience.
But Lord Kirk has no passion. As he pointed out yesterday, we knew each other before, so naturally we’re comfortable when we’re together and enjoy a feeling of familiarity. Yet there had been that decided flare when he’d held her. That was stronger than mere familiarity.
“Why are ye scowlin’ so, miss?”
Dahlia realized that her maid was watching her in the mirror. “I was just thinking of how difficult it is to know one’s own feelings.”
“Aye. I’ve been thinkin’ aboot tha’ meself of late.” The maid hesitated, and then asked, “Miss, I hope ye dinna mind me askin’, but wha’ do ye think aboot an older mon?”
Goodness, how did Freya know Kirk was— She caught the maid’s gaze and gave a relieved laugh. “You have an older suitor!”
The maid’s face pinkened. “I was jus’ askin’, miss. Sometimes I think it might be well on to have a mon who is experienced in the ways o’ the world, and no’ a young foo’ who’s more interested in makin’ himself happy. Young men know passion, but an older mon knows how to woo a girl proper.”
That wasn’t true about Kirk. He didn’t know how to woo anyone. “Who is this older man?”
“He’s a valet. And verrah nice and—” The maid shook her head and, with a smile, fetched a shawl from the wardrobe. “It dinna matter. Ye’d best be on yer way or ye’ll miss yer meetin’ wit’ Lord Dalhousie.”
Dahlia allowed Freya to settle the shawl over her elbows.
“Off wit’ ye, miss. And let me know wha’ sort o’ nonsense Lord Dalhousie tells ye aboot the Roxburghe family. It might make fer guid tellin’ at the servant’s dinner table.”
“I shall. And remember, I’m to play battledore at two, so I shall need a looser gown.”
“I’ll be waitin’ fer ye at one, miss.”
Dahlia left, pausing to pat the pug one more time. Whatever was going to happen with Kirk would happen, and she’d be ready for it. Straightening her shoulders, she turned and left—ready for come what may.
Ten
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
I expect certain things from my guests: good manners, a pleasant demeanor, a willingness to be entertained—odd as it may seem, these simple skills are not always found where one expects them to be. While I’m certain Kirk would not appreciate my interference, I refuse to allow two spoiled misses to mock a man on such a noble mission. I was prepared to take a stand and bring up the issue, but Lady Charlotte feels it would be best to allow Miss Balfour’s plan to play itself out before I act.
If, as Charlotte hopes, Dahlia succeeds in pointing out the folly of such rudeness, I’ll leave well enough alone. But if I find myself dissatisfied with the outcome, I shall speak—and speak loudly.
It is during these moments that I miss Roxburghe the most, and wish he were here and not out doing the prime minister’s bidding. Roxburghe always knows how to remind people of their obligations with the lightest of words. Meanwhile, try as I might, my words fall like sledgehammers upon railway spikes—loud, forceful, and perhaps, at times, a bit firmer than necessary.
* * *
Although Dahlia would have relished a quiet breakfast before meeting Kirk, she arrived in the breakfast room to discover that far more than the usual dozen early morning guests were gathered about the table. She thought she might slip in and sit off by herself a bit and avoid discussion, but within moments of arriving, Mr. Ballanoch—a gossipy old man much inclined to present himself as an admirer of Lady Charlotte’s, although she never seemed
to notice him—brought up the afternoon’s battledore tournament and (with an impertinently arch look) announced Dahlia’s challenge to Lady Mary and Miss Stewart.
All conversation from that point on centered upon the coming game and battledore in general. Battledore was all the rage ever since soldiers returning home from adventures in India had brought the game with them. The Duke of Beaufort had confirmed the game’s prominence by orchestrating tournaments for his guests.
The game had been a marvelous way for Dahlia and her sisters to pass desultory hours. As they were three girls with no other playmates within reach, they’d played two against one. At first they’d traded teams, but when it quickly became evident that Dahlia was far more talented than her sisters, she was consigned to her own team more and more often, which was how she liked it, anyway.
Judging by Lady Mary’s and Miss Stewart’s smug expressions yesterday, they thought they were quite talented, too. But Dahlia knew a few tricks, and because of the circumstances of their match, she was more than willing to use them. Of course, her determination had nothing to do with the fact that disparaging comments had been made about Lord Kirk, but rather because Miss Stewart and Lady Mary had dared mock someone from Dahlia’s beloved Aberdeenshire.
All too soon, the clock in the breakfast room chimed a quarter of ten, and Dahlia finished her tea and excused herself, slowed by the rounds of hearty good wishes for a successful game. It was odd how enthusiastic the other guests seemed to be. As she hurried down the wide hallway to the library, she mentally rehearsed a very chilly and flat statement about why she no longer wished to participate in Lord Kirk’s flawed plan.
She slowed when she arrived at the library. Two footmen flanked the doors, both standing at attention as if they were palace guards. She eyed the one closest to her. “Pardon me, Angus?”
Surprised she’d remembered his name, Angus sent her a startled glance. “Aye, miss?” He couldn’t have spoken more cautiously if she’d been a Bow Street runner and he a smuggler.
“Lord Kirk asked me to meet him in the library.”
“Aye, miss. He’s waitin’ on ye now. We’re to let ye in.”
“I see. And then what are you supposed to do?”
Angus and Stuart, the other footman, exchanged warning looks. Angus offered a tentative smile. “We’re merely doin’ our duty, miss.”
Stuart nodded vigorously.
“So is guarding the library doors a part of your regular duties? Shall I ask Lady Charlotte how—”
“Och, no! There’s no need, miss. Indeed, I—” Angus gulped and then fell silent. He’d known from the first moment he clapped his peepers on Miss Balfour that she was a sharp one. I should ha’ asked Lord Kirk fer mo’ than a guinea once’t he said we was waitin’ on Miss Balfour. She had her arms crossed now, too, and he could see her slippered foot tapping away as if it was itching to kick his shins. Worse, her expression reminded him far too much of his oldest sister, who was a wee thing, but as mean as a stirred badger.
He straightened his shoulders. “Miss, as ye ha’ surmised, Lord Kirk paid us to stand guard.”
“I see. And once I’ve entered, what are you to do?”
“We’re to keep oot anyone as may wish to interrupt ye.”
“Aye,” Stuart agreed. “Like guards, we are.”
“I see. Do guests often pay you to do such things?”
“All of the time.” Stuart blushed when her brows rose. “Oy mean, er, no miss. Ne’er.”
“Stuart, dinna tell the miss such a tale.” Angus had no doubt she’d see right through any pretense, so it was best to simply speak the truth up front. “It happens all o’ the time, miss. Although no one has ever paid as much as his lor’ship.”
“How nice of him to be so generous. Sadly, I must inform you that you are no longer needed.”
Angus was suddenly glad Lord Kirk had paid them in advance. He had plans for that money, he did. There was a certain pert maid he wished to prove something to, a Miss Freya of the Smart Mouth That Needed to Be Kissed. Or, if she didn’t offer him a few kinder words, he might just spend it all on himself.
He turned to Stuart. “Tha’ is it, then. Miss Balfour says we’re no’ needed, and so we’re no’.”
“Bu’ his lordship—”
“His lordship will understand how ’tis. Now open the door fer Miss Balfour and leave it open, and then we’ll be off. I’ve a notion, anyways, tha’ I will be needed to carry the auld pug oop the stairs soon, fer Lady Charlotte was takin’ it wit’ her fer a walk.”
“Verrah weel.” Looking unhappy, Stuart opened the door wide and then stood to one side.
Dahlia took a steadying breath and, trying to still her racing mind, she entered the library. Now was the time to stand firm. She only wished her heart didn’t ache so, as if she were hurting it herself.
She stepped onto the ornate rug and paused. It was a cloudy morning, leaving the pale swath of light that entered the terrace doors gray and wan. No lamps had been lit, so the only other light in the dark room came from the fire, which snapped and crackled cheerfully, as if aware it had to put forth more effort.
And yet the air remained gloomy, and Lord Kirk was nowhere to be seen. Dahlia took a few more steps into the room, her shoes silent on the thick rug. All about her, shelves of books—normally the most welcome of all sights—loomed. The library was an impressive part of Floors Castle
She was just about to call Kirk’s name when the large wing-backed chair before the fireplace creaked and she caught sight of his left hand as he gripped his cane and rose. He saw her, and then glanced at the pocket watch he held in his other hand. “You’re late.”
Dahlia’d just bent her knee in a curtsy, but at his words, she froze and then slowly straightened. “I beg your pardon, but did you just announce that I’m late?”
Kirk opened his mouth to answer, but the flash in Dahlia’s gaze made him pause. He’d arrived in the library a good half hour early, as eager for their meeting as a callow youth waiting for his first tryst. He’d spent the time imagining how he wished the events to play out, what her reaction might be, how he might best draw her to him—every thought lighting his already heightened awareness. But none of his imagining had included Dahlia staring at him with such a martial light in her eyes.
He slipped his watch back into his pocket. “I was merely commenting on the time. It’s ten after.”
Her gaze narrowed.
He hurried to add, “Not that it matters, of course.”
“No, it doesn’t. Kirk, before you say anything more, I must inform you that I’m not here because you commanded me to be.”
Kirk frowned. “Commanded?”
“Your note—if I can even call it that—was as rude and insensitive as the remark you just made about my being late.”
“I merely gave you the time and place. It was as all notes should be—informative and to the point.”
“It was informative, for it allowed me to see that this”—she waved a hand in a circle—“scheme of yours, or whatever you wish to call it, is a waste of time. My time.”
Ah. So she’s getting cold feet, is she? I should have expected as much. “Fine. If you feel that way, then there is nothing more to be said.”
His capitulation seemed to surprise her, for she frowned. “So you think it is the case as well?”
“No, but—” He shrugged. “If you are decided, you are decided. I would never—” He narrowed his gaze. “You are rubbing your arms. Are you chilled?”
“A little,” she admitted. “As large as this castle is, I daresay it is impossible to keep it warm in the winter.”
“It’s cold outside, and getting more so, and you can feel it. Here, let me stir the fire.” He grasped his cane and started to turn.
“No, no. There’s no need.”
“Don’t be foolish.” He made his way to the fireplace. When he bent to pick up the log, he had to hide a grimace caused by his aching leg. His morning sessions with MacCreedy were more
painful than he’d expected, despite the warnings the valet had given him. He tossed in the log and straightened. “There.”
“Thank you. That is very kind.”
“It’s not kindness to do what should be done.” Dusting his clothing, he turned to face her. “That should warm the room up soon enough.”
“I can already feel it.”
“Move closer to the fire and you’ll feel it even more.”
She glanced toward the door as if it called her.
“Come, Dahlia. We know each other too well to leave things unsaid. If we do so, we’ll only mull it over until we can’t sleep. We’re the sort of people who think, often too much. A good conversation now could give us both a better night’s sleep later on.”
She smiled. “My father has accused me of over-thinking.”
“Many, many people have said the same of me. So we must talk.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She walked around the settee and came to stand near the fire. “I’ve no wish to cause you to lose any sleep.”
“Good.” He watched as she held her hands out to the flames. Such delicate hands, too. Hands he’d seen caress a book as if it were human. His body tightened at the thought, and he had to put his weight on his aching leg to refocus his wayward imagination. “Let me make this easier: you no longer wish to participate in my ‘scheme,’ as you put it.”
She flushed. “You are going to speak very baldly, aren’t you?”
“You would have me speak through a filter of politeness?”
“No, not at all. Pray continue.”
“Thank you. I did make a suggestion, but it was no scheme. I’d no wish to experience that sort of awkwardness again, and I assumed that neither did you. Or don’t you want to find a mate?”
She grimaced. “I hate it when you use the term ‘mate.’ It sounds so vulgar.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing? Two peacocks preening before the opposite sex, hoping one or another will notice us?” He flapped his arms as he talked.