How to Entice an Enchantress

  Dahlia smiled at Freya. “I need to change into something that allows me to move easily. Somewhere in my wardrobe is an older gown of gray muslin that barely reaches my ankles. I hung it there a day ago when I got back from a traipse through the north fields. The higher hem doesn’t drag on the ground as much as some of my others.”

  “Aye, miss. I’ll look now.” The maid hurried to the wardrobe and peeked inside. “ ’Tis kind o’ ye to wage a battle o’ honor o’er Lord Kirk.”

  “I suppose you could call it that, although I very much doubt Lord Kirk would think it so. He does not know yet of the wager. I hope he never finds out, though that may be a vain hope.” She dropped into the cushioned seat before her dressing table. “I must win.”

  “I’m sure ye will, miss.”

  Dahlia fidgeted with her silver backed brush. “Lord Kirk might be very angry if he ever found out.”

  “How would ye know if he was angry or no’, wha’ wit’ his scowlin’ and growlin’?” At Dahlia’s surprised look, Freya flushed and hurried to add, “No’ tha’ he’s no’ a nice mon, fer I’m sure he is, but he dinna wear happiness as oft as one might wish.”

  Dahlia had to chuckle. “That’s very gently said, Freya, but the truth is, he’s a curmudgeon and a grump. He’s always been that way.” But when he smiles . . . She could picture the rare twinkle in his eyes, and the way his face transformed, and she found herself smiling, too. “Whether he gets angry about my assistance or not, I’ve committed myself to doing this.”

  Freya held up the gray gown. “Is this the gown ye wished, miss?”

  “Yes! Thank you.”

  The maid started to bring the gown, but then something caught her eye and she frowned. “Och, there’s a bit o’ mud on it. It shouldna be hangin’ dirty in yer wardrobe.”

  “It’s only a little muddy, and I planned on going for another walk in the morning, so there was no sense in asking you to clean it just yet. Pray bring it here.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Soon Dahlia was dressed in the plain gown, her feet encased in a pair of worn leather boots that fit her feet perfectly. She held one out for Freya to examine. “They may not look like much, but they fit like a glove and lace over my ankles.”

  “They’ll do ye well during the match, miss.”

  “Very well. Better than slippers, which I expect my opponents will wear. Slippers may be prettier, but they fall off when one leaps.” She tucked her foot back under her skirts before turning back to the dressing table. “Now, my hair. I cannot play without having it well secured.” She met the maid’s gaze in the mirror. “I shall place myself in your capable hands for that.”

  “Och, miss, I’ll make certain ’twill no’ fall.” Beaming, Freya pulled out the crystal jar that held the hairpins and began to work her magic.

  Dahlia, meanwhile, reviewed every game she’d ever played with her sisters. What tricks might her opponents resort to? What plays might help her win her cause? She wished she hadn’t allowed her pride to goad her into spotting the other side with five whole points.

  Dahlia’s jaw firmed. She would not lose this game. For her own sake, as well as Kirk’s, she couldn’t afford to.

  * * *

  Six hours later, a spontaneous round of applause met Dahlia as she entered the dining room. Guests crowded around her, offering their congratulations and making jocular comments.

  Mr. Ballanoch, ever ready for a good snippet of gossip, pushed through the crowd and took her hands in his. “My dear Miss Balfour, what a match! It shall go down in the annals of battledore.”

  Mrs. Selfridge patted Dahlia’s shoulder. “And that lunge at the very beginning of the game—masterful, my dear! I told Lady Hamilton that you were like Diana the huntress, and no amount of wild parries would force you to give up the shuttlecock.”

  Lady Hamilton added, “The play that stands out in my mind was the final one. It was simply spectacular. There you were, waiting for the shot.” She stepped back and stared into the sky, an invisible paddle in her hands. “It came, but went awry, flying wide to your left.” Lady Hamilton jerked to her left, her eyes following the imaginary shuttlecock. “Anyone else would have allowed it to fly by, but you knew it was the winning point. You had to hit it. So you stretched out as far as you could, and leapt full into the breach and—” Lady Hamilton lunged to one side and swung her imaginary paddle, almost knocking over a footman holding a tray of drinks. “Pop! You got it!” Lady Hamilton clasped her hands together. “Ah, sweet success!”

  “That was a perfect shot,” Mr. Ballanoch agreed. “You returned it right between Lady Mary’s eyes. She didn’t have a chance to raise her paddle in defense.”

  “I didn’t mean to hit her with the shuttlecock.” Dahlia’s ears still rang from the screams. “I’m glad it only made the faintest of marks.”

  “Oh, it’ll bruise, I’ve no doubt, for I was on the other side of the room and I heard it hit.” He shrugged. “But those are the chances one takes in such an endeavor. It was a brave victory!”

  “So it was!” Lady MacKintoch nodded, all three of her chins wagging in agreement. “Brave indeed, though your opponents were none too happy with the outcome.”

  “I’m certain Lady Mary didn’t mean anything she said after the match.”

  “Not after her grace got through with her.” Mrs. Selfridge giggled. “Of all the house parties I’ve attended here, I’ve never seen her grace take anyone by the ear and march them from the room as if they were a child of six—but by God, that’s what she did!”

  Mr. Ballanoch leaned closer. “Tell us, Miss Balfour, is it true that your wager with Lady Mary was for her to stop speaking so harshly of Lord Kirk ever again and—”

  “The wager is a private matter between Lady Mary, Miss Stewart, and myself,” Dahlia said quickly, glad Kirk was nowhere in sight. It had dawned on her that, had she thought it through, she would have arranged to meet with him in private right after the match and explain how the wager had come about, but she hadn’t had time to think properly. “I would rather not discuss the wager.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “You should be lauded for standing up for poor Lord Kirk. Such a pity about his face.”

  Mr. Ballanoch grimaced. “I shudder every time I look at—”

  “As I said,” Dahlia interrupted in a frosty tone. “I will not discuss the wager. In fact, I don’t plan on mentioning the match again. I’m quite fatigued.”

  “Of course you are,” Miss Spencer agreed, taking Dahlia’s arm and leading her to one side. “Come and let’s find some champagne. The duchess ordered it especially after your match and—” She came to an abrupt halt as a tall figure blocked their path.

  Dahlia knew without looking up which broad-shouldered male now stood before her, too close for comfort and sending off palpable waves of fury. Oh dear, he’s every bit as angry as I feared. Gulping back a wince, she glanced up at him and forced a smile.

  Miss Spencer was quicker. “Lord Kirk, there you are! Have you come to thank Miss Balfour for performing such a duty to your good name?”

  Wincing inwardly, Dahlia peeked at him through her lashes. His face was white, his lips pressed into a straight line, his eyes ablaze as he leaned upon his cane. “No,” he said in a blunt tone. “I didn’t come to thank her. She did nothing in my interest.”

  Lady Hamilton’s smile faded. “You’re quite wrong. She—”

  “Lady Hamilton,” Dahlia said quickly, “please don’t bother explaining things to Lord Kirk. He will make up his own mind about events; facts do not interest him.”

  Kirk’s expression darkened. “Pardon us.” He reached out and captured Dahlia’s wrist and limped away, pulling her after him, his cane thudding furiously on the carpeted floor.

  Dahlia had to scamper to keep up with her captor. “Blast it, Kirk, you can’t just pull me around like a horse!”

  “Be glad you’re no horse of mine.” He reached the wall, pulled her around to face him, and then released her.
“You have a lot of explaining to do.”

  She rubbed her wrist. It wasn’t sore, for although he’d tugged her along, he hadn’t held her too tightly. Still, her skin tingled where his long fingers had been. “I have nothing to explain.”

  “Oh? Then what in the hell was that blasted game about? And don’t tell me it didn’t concern me, for I know it did.”

  She shrugged. “It was just a game.”

  His eyes blazed anew. “It was not just a game. Every person in this room placed a wager on it.”

  They had, too. She’d been astounded when she’d seen the amount of notes changing hands after the final stroke. “I didn’t expect that. We were just playing a friendly game of battledore and—”

  “There was nothing friendly about that game.” His gaze narrowed. “What were the stakes?”

  She found it suddenly difficult to meet his gaze. “The conditions of that particular wager are private.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” He bent closer until his eyes were level with hers. “I know damn well what you wagered, all of you.”

  She sighed. “I had hoped you wouldn’t hear.”

  “Your hopes have been dashed. I may be horridly scarred, and as lame as a three-legged dog, but my ears are excellent.”

  There were other parts of him that qualified as excellent, too. Even blazing with anger, his dark brown eyes were beautiful, the lashes ridiculously long. Why was it that men always seemed to have a surplus of eyelashes, which they most expressly did not need, while women—who longed for thick, long lashes—often had the scrimpiest ones on earth? She bit back a sigh. “I didn’t expect to be thanked—”

  “You’re not delusional, then.”

  She wished she wasn’t so aware of the sensual curve of his firm mouth. It was perfectly made, carved as if from a statue of a Greek god, and made her ache for his touch. The scar that ran to the corner of his mouth and beyond merely accentuated it. With supreme effort, she pulled her gaze from his mouth. “While I didn’t expect to be thanked, I did expect you to be understanding.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of my lack of control once my temper was raised. You, of all people, should understand the consequences of that particular flaw.”

  He frowned. “What does your temper have to do with this wager? From what I heard, Lady Mary and Miss Stewart were mocking me, not you.”

  “They were and it made me angry, so I took care of it.”

  His mouth went white. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “Pity? For you? Don’t be ridiculous. I just hated that they felt they could freely malign someone they don’t even know. I’d have done the same had they been mocking anyone else I know. You’re not a special case.”

  He didn’t look as if he believed a word, and she let out a frustrated sigh. “Oh for the love of— Kirk, Lady Mary and Miss Stewart do nothing but mock people. Heaven knows whom else they talk about, although I suspect the answer is simply everyone. I can’t stop them from doing that, but I was able to keep them from mocking you, at least while they are under this roof.”

  “What will you do now? Challenge them each and every time they talk about someone you know?”

  “If I must, yes.” She allowed herself a small smile. “Although after today, they will not be so quick to accept my challenge.”

  He didn’t return her smile. “I didn’t ask you to stand up for me, Balfour.”

  “You didn’t have to; I did it of my own accord.”

  “And now everyone is talking about it, and me, and how I am indebted to you.”

  Dahlia looked past him and found that almost every eye in the ballroom was upon the two of them. Her heart sank. She’d known her wager would cause some interest, but nothing like this. She shifted a bit, putting a little more space between them. “Kirk, my disagreement with Lady Mary and Miss Stewart had very little to do with you; I merely wanted to put them in their places. And now I will look forward to hearing their fawning pleasantries over the next few days, knowing what it will cost them.”

  “Fawning pleasantries? Do not tell me that was part of this ridiculous wager.”

  “Well, yes. I thought the least they could do was be especially nice to you.”

  Kirk muttered a curse under his breath. “You—” He cast a glance around and then grabbed her wrist once again, and limped toward the door.

  “Kirk, stop! Everyone is watching and will think—”

  “I don’t give a damn what anyone bloody well thinks.” He pulled her out of the door, through the foyer past two startled footmen, and into the Blue Salon. As soon as they crossed the threshold, he kicked the door closed, tossed his cane onto a chair, grasped her arms and yanked her to him, their chests now touching.

  Dahlia’s breath caught, acutely aware of the strength of his hands where they encircled her arms, of the warmth of his chest where it rested against hers, of the way her toes barely touched the ground as he held her in place as if she weighed no more than a feather.

  Through clenched teeth he snapped, “Damn you, Balfour, I will not be pitied! Neither Lady Mary nor Miss Stewart nor their vapid words would ever embarrass me the way you’ve done so through this stupid wager.”

  “I admit that it’s caused far more talk than I envisioned, and for that, I’m sorry. But you cannot keep accusing me of pitying you, for nothing could be further from the truth. If there’s one person I don’t feel sorry for, it’s you. You’re wealthy and independent, and can do anything you wish to: how could anyone pity a life like that? No, there is only one person who feels sorry for you, and that’s—” She poked his chest.

  “Me?” He looked astounded, as if she’d just said the sky was green and the grass blue. “You think I feel sorry for myself?”

  “Why else have you eschewed society for the last seven years, hiding away and pretending you wouldn’t be accepted?”

  “I didn’t pretend. People were not kind after my accident.”

  “They stared. So what? I can’t believe you really care about such fustian.”

  “I have my pride, you know.”

  “Too much pride, if you ask me.”

  If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black, he didn’t know what was. “I was also in mourning. Have you forgotten that?”

  “That reason suffices for the first year, perhaps two. After that, it was nothing but self-pity that shackled you to Fordyce Castle and your books.”

  Kirk didn’t know whether to shake the senseless words out of her mouth or kiss them away.

  “Well?” she asked. “Are you going to admit that you’ve been feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “No, I’m not, because it’s not true. I’ve never felt pity for myself.”

  Her brows rose.

  He flushed. “Not after the first few months, anyway.” He suddenly realized how tightly he was holding her arms, and he slowly lowered her to her feet and released her. Red fingerprints marked her arms, and he winced. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “They’re not bruises; it will be back to normal in a moment. Had you held me too tightly, I would have said something. I’m not shy, you know.”

  For some reason, that almost made him smile. “No, you’re not shy. Far from it, damn you.” He found himself wishing he hadn’t released her, but had pulled her into his arms instead. Now that he’d released her, he felt oddly bereft. God, what a mull. “I saw your blasted battledore match.”

  Her gaze flew to his. “You were there?”

  “Yes.”

  Pink stained her cheeks. “And?”

  “It was magnificent.”

  Her plump lips curved. “Thank you. My sisters have trained me well.”

  “I’m sorry I lost my temper, although I’m not happy with what you’ve done. I was unprepared to discover the nature of your wager.”

  “I stupidly hoped you wouldn’t even hear about it. Then it very quickly grew into a public matter and I knew—” She wet her lips nervously. “As I said, I’m sorry for that part of it. It
was supposed to be a far more private matter.”

  He found himself staring at her lush mouth as a pang of pure, hot desire flashed through to his core. Bloody hell, my passions are surface high today.

  “However, since we are here, there is one thing I wish to know.” She slanted him a look from under her lashes. “It’s rather personal, though.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve no secrets, especially after your little wager.”

  “Do you think of her often?”

  “Think of who?”

  “Your wife.”

  The suddenness of the question almost floored him. Why does that matter? “Not as often now, no.”

  “But you loved her.”

  “Yes, but that was long ago and I was someone quite different then.” He raked a hand through his hair, trying to pull his wayward thoughts from her lips and back to her words. “Dahlia, why are you asking about Elspeth?”

  “I didn’t play that game out of pity for you, but in your honor. I played it because I know you are a good person, no matter how rude you might be. But even I must admit that you sometimes refuse to follow the dictates of society, as if you’re angry with everyone.”

  “And you think that’s because of the death of my wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps it’s something simpler—a refusal to bend my knee to a society that doesn’t accept me as I am now, scarred and ‘maimed.’ I’m not in mourning, Dahlia. I haven’t been for a long, long time. Nor am I flattered you don’t think me capable of dealing with nobodies like Lady Mary and Miss Stewart.”

  “They’re not nobodies. People listen to them.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Then no one I care about will pay heed to a word they say.”

  She flushed, but quickly rallied, a light in her eyes. “If you don’t care, then you should. You are looking for a wife, aren’t you? Whoever that is might care a great deal about what is said about you.”

  She had him there, and for a moment, he couldn’t think of a response.

  Dahlia smiled. “I’m right, aren’t I? Admit it.”