How to Entice an Enchantress

  “Oh my.” Lady Charlotte leaned forward.

  The duchess did the same. “And?”

  “And so I proposed to her again.”

  “Good for you!” her grace said.

  “No, not good for me, because once again, she refused me.” He threw up his hands. “And damned if I know why! When she told me she wished I would ask, and not just order her to marry me, I asked her right away.”

  The duchess’s brilliant blue eyes narrowed. “Hold a moment, Lord Kirk. How, exactly, did you ask her to marry you?”

  “I said nothing about her family.”

  “But?” she prompted.

  “I merely pointed out that she needed to marry me.”

  “Needed to? Why?”

  Because I compromised her. But he couldn’t say that, so instead, he said, “Because that’s the way it is—she must marry me.” That wasn’t a lie, either. She had to marry him. She must. He didn’t know how or why, but it had to happen or the rest of his life would be the way it was this instant, colorless and cold.

  “ ‘That’s the way it is’?” The duchess pressed a hand over her eyes. “Lord Kirk, pray tell me you didn’t use quite those words.”

  “Actually, I believe I used exactly those words.”

  Lady Charlotte groaned. “Lord Kirk, after all of the work we’ve been doing!”

  Her grace dropped her hand from her eyes. “We don’t need to ask Miss Balfour’s reaction, as we can already guess.”

  “She was angry,” Lady Charlotte said.

  “And perhaps sad,” her grace added.

  “And hurt,” Lady Charlotte added.

  “And definitely disappointed.”

  Kirk grimaced. “That’s exactly what she was. She thought the poem I read was about her, but of course it wasn’t, and that started things off poorly.”

  Lady Charlotte stopped knitting. “Wait, it wasn’t about her? You didn’t select it because it reminded you of her?”

  He shrugged. “It was short.”

  Her grace and Lady Charlotte exchanged glances before her grace said, “And you admitted that.”

  “I’m not going to lie to her.”

  Her grace sighed. “No, of course you aren’t. Though there are times I wish you would.”

  “Surely you can’t mean that.”

  “Perhaps. So you told Dahlia the poem wasn’t about her, that you only selected it because it was short, and that you only changed the eye color because Lady Charlotte thought it might strengthen your suit.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh dear. Lord Kirk, let me explain something to you about women: we like to be asked for things.”

  “I did ask.”

  Her grace lifted her brows.

  His face heated. “Fine. I could have asked first, and not demanded, but my intent was the same. I wished to be with her for the rest of my life. Besides, she doesn’t really have a choice, not after—” He caught Lady Charlotte’s surprised expression and hurried to add, “That is, she needs to be reasonable. We would suit better than anyone else; she must be aware of that. The problem is that she has this idealized concept of what a marriage proposal should be, like something from a novel.”

  Lady Charlotte patted the book on her knee. “Novels are lovely.”

  “They’re not realistic.”

  “Not every scene, no—it would be boring to read about what someone wants for breakfast or whose shoelaces were broken. Books focus on special moments, which we all have. And a marriage proposal should be special enough for a book.”

  Her grace nodded. “We’re not talking about Dahlia’s expectations for everyday life, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting an occasional romantic moment. Why not?”

  Kirk considered this. Perhaps that was the difference right there—he didn’t differentiate one moment from the next. With Dahlia, they all seemed to be special. With her, life would be. He sighed. “Why do those moments matter so damn much to women?”

  “They just do—and that’s all you need to know about it.” There was a note of finality in the duchess’s voice. “Lord Kirk, what would you think about being married to someone who didn’t regard your opinion as important?”

  “Or didn’t laugh at your jokes?” Lady Charlotte added.

  “Or disliked your taste in drink so much as to disallow it in the house?”

  “I wouldn’t like it at all. But those are items of comfort.”

  “They’re also items of respect. When you dismiss Miss Dahlia’s wishes as if they aren’t important, you’re in essence telling her that she isn’t important.”

  Lady Charlotte nodded, her lace cap fluttering. “That’s how I’d see it.”

  “Damn it, she’s not so foolish as to believe that,” Kirk said heatedly. “I’ve proposed to her twice now. She has to know I respect her and—and care for her, and all of that.”

  “She doesn’t ‘have’ to know anything—unless you tell her.” The duchess reached out and placed her hand over his. “Tell her, Kirk. And for the love of God, stop being so selfish and this time, use some pretty words.”

  She noticed how his gaze narrowed as he considered what she said.

  “You’re right.” He stood, grasping his cane lightly, a look of determination blazing across his face. “As soon as I’m able, I’ll fix things with Miss Balfour. Thank you for your advice.”

  “It’s our pleasure.” Margaret waved a hand. “Now, off to your bath. We’re so low on company that I’ve planned a very light lunch, and we’re serving dinner at the ungodly early hour of six. To make up for it, there will be whist afterward if we still have enough guests to make up some rubbers.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll play.”

  “Oh, but you will. And I shall make certain you are very, very happy with your partner. That will give you time to talk to Miss Balfour.”

  He grinned, his face transforming so that Margaret almost gasped. “Thank you, your grace. I appreciate your assistance.”

  “It’s the least I can do. Now off with you. Lady Charlotte and I have much to discuss about the Spanish flu and whatnot.”

  He bowed and, with one last pat on Randolph’s gray head, he left.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Charlotte picked up her knitting. “He can’t seem to stop proposing.”

  “It’s impulsive. The second she signals in any way that she finds him less than repulsive, he blurts out a command that she marry him.”

  “Love is a difficult beast to tame.”

  “I’m not convinced he even knows he is in love. Yet when he looks at her, it’s as if he could devour her whole and still not be satisfied.” Margaret had to smile. “It’s actually quite adorable.”

  “If only we could get him to translate that look into words.” Charlotte’s book slipped off her lap, but she caught it and returned it to her knee. “Sadly, Dahlia is much younger in spirit than Lord Kirk, and she possesses a strong romantic streak. Perhaps too strong.”

  Margaret nodded thoughtfully. “Heavens, what a mull. I fear we’ll have to allow fate to have its way, at least for now. Meanwhile, you and I must discuss our ball.” She scooped up Meenie, who was staring at her with sad eyes, and settled the pug in her lap. “So. Shall we have the ball? Or shall we not?”

  * * *

  “There. Ye’re as fine as five pence, me lor’.”

  Kirk glanced at himself in the mirror, dressed in the requisite black and white required of dinner at the duchess’s, and grimaced. “I don’t see why her grace insists on such formality. We’re in the country, for God’s sake. She should think of her guests’ comfort.”

  “Indeed, me lor’. I’m surprised the weight o’ yer clothes hasna broken yer broad shoulders and crumbled yer guid leg, too.”

  Kirk sent a hard look at MacCreedy, who grinned unrepentantly.

  Randolph, who’d been snoozing on the bed, twitched in his dreams and whimpered, his paws flailing about.

  Kirk placed his hand over the dog’s head,
instantly calming the sleeping mutt. “Leave the rabbits alone.”

  The dog’s eyes opened and he wagged his tail, then sleepily rolled to his tummy.

  “Och, dinna be spoilin’ him, me lor’. Her grace’s staff is all too willin’ to do tha’ now. Not only are they carryin’ him oop and down the stairs, but he’s started pretendin’ he canna eat his food, so now they’re givin’ him the choicest meat fro’ the table.”

  “He’s not a dog, but an actor.”

  MacCreedy agreed. “A shameless one, me lor’. As we all are upon occasion.”

  “I shall pretend I don’t think you are speaking about me.” Kirk scratched the dog’s gray chin. “Randolph, do you see what impertinence I am subjected to? My motives questioned without remorse.”

  The valet grinned. “Och, Randolph, dinna ye believe a word his lor’ship be sayin’. ’Tis a faraddidle when he says he dinna like to wear fine clothin’, fer he enjoys lookin’ so elegant fer his miss.”

  “I don’t have a miss. Yet.”

  “Ye will, me lor’. Ye will.” MacCreedy took the clothes brush to Kirk’s shoulders. “Tonight ye’ll play her at whist and whisper into her ear, and all will be right.”

  A boom of thunder made Randolph jump to his feet and bark. Rain suddenly pelted the glass. MacCreedy shivered. “It do sound horrid outside, me lor’. ’Tis glad I am no’ to be travelin’ today.”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Pardon me, me lor’.” MacCreedy opened the door and stepped outside. Low voices could be heard for several moments before he returned and closed the door behind him, a worried look upon his broad face.

  Kirk frowned. “What is it?”

  “Tha’ was MacDougal, me lor’. Miss Balfour’s maid is frantic wit’ worry. Apparently the young miss ne’er returned from her mornin’ walk.”

  “Bloody hell! And no one noticed it until now?”

  “Miss Balfour has been helpin’ nurse Miss Stewart. Ever’one thought she was there, but she’d left midmornin’. MacDougal just requested tha’ grooms be sent out to look fer her.”

  Kirk cursed and tugged at his cravat, yanking it free before he threw it on the bed. “Get my buff breeches and blue coat. Fetch my overcoat, too.”

  “The grooms will find her, me lor’.”

  “I doubt it.” Kirk dropped his coat and evening breeches onto the bed. “They have no idea where to look, but I do, for I’ve seen which path she takes.” Kirk swiftly changed his clothes, stomped his feet into his boots, and then knotted a tie about his neck. “Chances are, she stopped to read and didn’t notice the weather changing. She gets lost in a book the way some people get lost in a forest.” He took the overcoat MacCreedy held out.

  “Be careful ridin’, me lor’. Yer leg is much improved, but an active horse could undo all your work.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that. I have to find Miss Balfour.” He picked up his hat and cane and limped out the door. “With any luck, I’ll have her back before dinner.”

  Kirk made his way downstairs as quickly as he could. “MacDougal, I’m off to the stables to procure a mount. I’m going to find Miss Balfour.”

  “Me lord, there’s no need fer ye to go out in this weather. We’ve sent twenty men ridin’ oot to find her.”

  A sharp crack of lightning boomed through the sky and made the floor tremble.

  “I’m going,” Kirk repeated. “Have Miss Balfour’s maid prepare a hot bath. She’ll be frozen through if she’s gotten caught in this downpour.”

  With that, he limped toward the doorway. Two footmen sprang forward to throw the huge oak panels wide, and rain and wind swirled into the foyer.

  Kirk fixed his hat more firmly on his head, tugged his collar higher around his neck, and strode outside.

  Nineteen

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

  Since our talk with Lord Kirk, I’ve been remembering the various proposals I’ve received over the years. Some were romantic, some not. Some were honest, some not. But oddly enough, I can remember each and every one, ending with the proposal from Roxburghe, who lightened the moment with a bottle of rare champagne and a ring that still feels too heavy upon my hand. But it was his smile that made me say yes.

  If there’s one thing you can trust, it’s a man’s smile.

  * * *

  Lightning flashed across the sky in a jagged race with the howling wind. The rock ledge where Dahlia had taken shelter didn’t provide much protection, for it sloped the wrong way, welcoming the water in long puddles, but it kept the worst of the wind and rain off her.

  As the rain increased, so did the flow of water, threatening the meager fire she’d built close to the wall. The flames, weak as they were, offered far more comfort than she’d expected, for the wall of rain kept in the heat. Sadly, it also kept in a good bit of smoke, making her cough every few moments.

  She’d coughed so much that her chest ached. Her shoulders and back also protested as she huddled against the wall in the one place where the puddles couldn’t reach. All in all, she was thoroughly miserable, but dry. So far.

  A gust swirled through the rain, making the small fire sputter. Dahlia drew her arm over her face and coughed hard, wincing as her chest protested yet again.

  Finally able to catch her breath, she slumped against the wall, tugging her cloak closer. She must have been more tired than she realized for she’d actually dozed most of the afternoon, waking now and then to stir the fire and add from her dwindling stack of damp sticks.

  She wasn’t certain what time it was now, though the sky was getting dimmer. She coughed at the smoky air, rested her head against the rock wall, and closed her aching eyes. She’d been a fool to go for a walk this morning, but her mind had been so full of thoughts of Kirk, her heart so pained with her unhappiness, that she’d forgotten the cold, forgotten the impending bad weather, forgotten everything except how she could resolve the hollowness that had taken the place of her heart. She’d felt that, by walking, she might find the answer somehow, somewhere. An answer that eluded her still.

  A shiver wracked her, and she tucked her gloved hands under her arms and wondered if there was any way she could be more miserable. I doubt it. I’ve reached a new level of miserableness. One only found in certain fables and legends.

  Lightning flashed, the brightness making her peek through her lashes. Through the unremitting gray, she saw something moving through the pouring rain—a huge horse, by the shape of it. On its back was Kirk.

  For a second, she didn’t believe her eyes, but then he climbed off the horse and dashed through the rain. “Dahlia! Are you injured?”

  She wondered vaguely why he was yelling. Oh yes. The rain is loud. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Are you injured?”

  She shook her head, or thought she did.

  His face showed concern. “Come with me!”

  She should get up and run into his arms, but her legs were heavy, and her head hurt an amazing amount. “It’s raining too hard. We should wait until it lets up,” she said faintly.

  He crouched before her, water dripping on the cave floor as his gaze flickered over her face. “I see you’ve made a fire.”

  “Of course.” Dahlia gestured to the dry spot beside her. “Sit down. We’ll leave once this passes.”

  He crouched beside her, his broad form dwarfing her little cave. “It’s dry in here.” He sounded surprised. “I was picturing you alone and cold and frightened.”

  “I am cold.” So cold that her shivers were growing, and she couldn’t stop them. I’ve never been this cold.

  He brushed a curl from her cheek with his gloved hand. “I should have known you’d take care of things.”

  “I don’t need a keeper.” Or a “compatible companion,” either. The thought almost brought tears, so she added instead, “I used to light all of the fires each morning at Caith Manor.”

  He smiled approvingly. “It’s a bit smoky, but it’s much warm
er.”

  She thought to nod, but her aching head protested, so she pressed a hand to her forehead and rested it there. As she did so, the horse stuck his head inside their cave and sniffed, as if looking for a carrot. She eyed the huge animal. “Surely you didn’t get that horse out of the duke’s stable.”

  “Where else would I have gotten it?”

  “A tanner’s yard.”

  He laughed. “It’s the oldest nag there. Neither of us is a rider, and I didn’t want a horse that might bolt at thunder.” He removed his gloves and then reached out and patted the horse’s nose. “I was told that even were I to scream in its ears, it wouldn’t startle. He’s the perfect horse for us.”

  Dahlia supposed she should feel offended by that, but she was caught in the grip of a lethargy so deep that her shoulders were weary from it. What’s wrong with me? I can’t seem to think well, and my head aches so. She closed her eyes, willing the pain away.

  She wasn’t certain if she fell asleep or if time simply stopped, but suddenly, long cool fingers grasped her chin as Kirk tilted her face toward his. She found herself looking into his eyes. He had the most beautiful eyes. She could drown in those eyes. Lose herself completely to—

  He pressed a hand to her forehead, his brows snapping down. “Damn it, you’re burning up.”

  She struggled to follow his words. Burning? No, the fire was burning. She was just cold. It was cold outside, for she could see her breath. Or was that the smoke? She wasn’t certain anymore.

  “Damn it, I have to get you home. We’re leaving right now.”

  But she was so, so tired. What’s the hurry? she wanted to ask, but he had already kicked out the fire, the smoke carrying the scent of damp peat.

  A cough caught her by surprise, shaking her until she thought she couldn’t breathe. When she opened her eyes, Kirk was back out in the rain, untying something from the horse’s saddle. She thought it was his cane until he unfurled an umbrella and brought it to the ledge. “Come.”

  She looked up at the umbrella. In the back of her mind, she heard Lady Mary say, One day, I would like to meet a man who wants to hold my umbrella.