“It’s made over,” Isabella said, sounding apologetic as she rearranged folds in the overskirt for the dozenth time. “There wasn’t time to fit you for anything new. But I think the effort was worth it.”
“Of course it was.” Ainsley, as fair and gray-eyed as her brother Sinclair, winked at Bertie, smiling wryly at Isabella’s worry. She held out a pair of delicate high-heeled boots in white leather. “Try these, Bertie. We went through our wardrobes to see what might fit you. Eleanor and you seem to be of a size.”
Bertie’s eyes widened. “You are all being so kind, but I can’t wear a duchess’s shoes.”
“Yes, you can.” Eleanor followed Ainsley to join in the admiration. “I bought these long ago but never found occasion to wear them. No reason to have them collecting dust lying about in my dressing room. Not that they are dusty—I cleaned them off and polished them to every inch. Or my maid did. I tried to, but she took them away from me, telling me I couldn’t possibly go down to the ball with boot polish under my fingernails. Not that there isn’t photographing chemicals under my fingernails—there always is, but that seems to be fine with her. But boot polish, heaven forbid.” Eleanor threw her hands up in mock horror.
Ainsley guided Bertie to a chair and sat down in front of her. “She means, please wear them, Bertie. Someone ought to.”
Before Bertie could stop her, Ainsley had pushed Bertie’s skirt to her knees and thrust first one boot than the other on Bertie’s feet. Bertie reached down as Ainsley started to lace them.
“Here, you can’t do that,” she said nervously.
“Of course, I can,” Ainsley answered, not stopping. “I’ve been lacing boots for ages. If you bend too far forward, my girl, you’ll wrinkle the dress and Isabella will have apoplexy. The maids are busy, and here I am. There, it’s done.”
Ainsley helped Bertie to her feet and walked her to the mirror again. The McBride and Mackenzie wives gathered behind her in a sea of silks and jewels.
The height lent by the boots made the skirts fall cleanly to the floor and thrust Bertie’s bosom out a little. She laughed at herself.
“I look like Cinderella.”
“And we’re your fairy godmothers,” Isabella said, straightening the skirt again.
“Not your wicked stepsisters,” Eleanor said.
“And you don’t have to be in by midnight,” Juliana said, fluffing out the lace on Bertie’s sleeves. “In fact, it would be rude to leave Hart’s ball early.”
“You won’t lose your slipper either.” Ainsley smiled at her in the mirror. “I laced those boots quite firmly.”
Eleanor looked thoughtful. “I never did understand the part in the story where the sisters cut off bits of their feet to fit into the shoes. Surely the prince’s emissaries would notice them bleeding all over the floor. Unless the sisters had enormous corns, and that’s what the writer meant.” She grinned at Bertie, the gleam in her eyes belying her prattle.
Cat, who’d been invited to come down and watch the proceedings, sat with her head down over her notebook, her pencil moving. Bertie had hoped she’d take an interest in the pretty dresses, but she only glanced at the ladies in their splendid gowns before returning to her notebook.
When Bertie came across the room to kiss Cat good night, Cat slammed the book closed. Bertie caught a brief glimpse of what was in it, but couldn’t decide what she’d seen.
Cat quietly followed the nanny who’d come to fetch her out, and the ladies called Bertie back to try to make her wear a circlet of pearls. Bertie won the argument and stuck with her mother’s locket. She needed one familiar thing with her on this mad night.
They’d done something to her. Sinclair gazed at Bertie across the duke’s giant ballroom, unable to take his eyes off her. His sister and the ladies had fussed over her, dressing Bertie’s hair in whatever style women liked these days, and lacing her into a costly gown. Very pretty. Women enjoyed that sort of thing, but Bertie looked as though she’d swallowed a poker.
Sinclair’s brother Elliot handed him a glass of whiskey, breaking his line of sight to Bertie. “Your taste is improving.”
Sinclair accepted the whiskey gratefully. “Taste?”
“In women. The last time I stood with you at a supper ball, you had your eyes on a jaded widow eager to drag you off to bed. Your governess has more love for life.” He sipped whiskey. “Vibrant, that’s the word.”
“She’s not my governess,” Sinclair said, his gaze going back to Bertie as the ladies moved her through the room like a current pushing a drifting boat. The Mackenzie and McBride ladies wore plaid, making Bertie’s blue and ivory stand out all the more.
Steven McBride, Sinclair’s youngest brother, and one of Hart’s many aristocratic guests paused next to the brothers as Sinclair spoke. The Englishman, elegant and polished, said, “I say, McBride, don’t dismiss her so quickly. Some men like that sort of thing.”
Elliot, his sun-bronzed face creased with the remains of white scars, scowled at him. “What sort of thing? Beautiful women?”
“Governesses.” The Englishman gazed too appreciatively at Bertie. “So ready with their discipline.” He caught Sinclair’s eye. “Not that you are such a man, of course.”
Sinclair didn’t answer. He didn’t know the gentleman, and didn’t want to. He fixed his gaze on the Englishman, pinning him as he would a lying witness in the box. Sinclair didn’t dare speak, because he knew nothing would come out of his mouth but a foul-worded snarl.
The Englishman looked back and forth among the three brothers, took in their hard faces, and flushed. “Gentlemen, I meant no offense. You Scots are a bit funny about your ladies.”
“We’re very protective of them,” Elliot said, his accent becoming broad. “You’d be wise to remember that, m’ friend.”
“Right.” The Englishman looked Sinclair up and down, then sniffed. “Gratified to have made your acquaintance, Captain McBride,” he said to Steven. “Thank you.” He nodded at Steven then moved off, bending his body to slide through the crowd.
“You’ve lost yourself a client,” Steven said. He plucked a whiskey from a tray carried by a passing footman and took a deep drink.
“Client.” Sinclair dragged his attention back to his brothers, trying to calm his murderous intentions. “What are you talking about?”
Steven took another sip of whiskey. The youngest McBride looked much like his brothers—fair and sunbaked, but ten years younger. He wore a pleased-with-himself look now that he’d found his Rose, only last month that had been. “Chap was in the market for a barrister,” Steven said to Sinclair. “Wouldn’t tell me why. Looking for the best. Wanted to meet you.”
“He should have applied through his solicitor, not directly to me,” Sinclair said with a growl.
“He knows that. He wanted to size you up.” Steven grinned. “I guess he did.”
Sinclair’s anger roiled. He was famous for being calm and cool even in the face of the nastiest criminals, but at the moment, he knew he either had to redirect his temper or follow the Englishman and beat his face bloody.
He thrust his half-finished glass of whiskey at Steven. “Excuse me, little brothers,” he said. “I’m going to dance with my governess.”
Chapter 21
Bertie watched Sinclair come at her, parting the crowd like a determined barge.
Juliana McBride was on Bertie’s arm. “Good heavens,” she said, watching her brother-in-law draw near them. “What fired off the volcano? He’s usually sweet as a lamb.”
Didn’t Bertie know it? But she’d also seen Sinclair plenty of times red-faced and snarling, his Scots anger stirred to rage.
Sinclair stopped in front of Bertie, looking her up and down, and not in an admiring way.
“What’s wrong?” Bertie asked him in alarm. “Has something happened?”
“Of course it hasn’t. This is
a ball. We will dance.” He held out his hand.
“Now, you wait just a minute, Mr. High-Handed McBride—” Bertie’s words choked off as Sinclair seized her and started dragging her toward the middle of the ballroom. Bertie looked around desperately for Juliana, but Juliana had vanished.
Sinclair drew Bertie around in a graceful circle, the fine dress sweeping as it should. His hand went to her waist, and he drew her close.
“Stop!” Bertie said in a frantic whisper. “Or this will be a disaster!”
“Why?” His gray eyes held the severity of Basher McBride, the flint-hard gaze pinning her.
“Because I don’t know how to dance. The ladies, they were sweet to dress me up, but it’s only show.” Bertie gestured to her gown, a lovely thing, but she’d spent all the time she’d been in it so far worried she’d tear or stain it. “Like a shop window with a fancy display, but there’s nothing inside the shop.”
“It’s a waltz,” Sinclair said, tightening his grip on her waist. “Three steps. Here we go.”
He pushed her right foot backward, then her left foot to the side, a little pause, then her left forward, following the music. His hand was firm on her waist, his other hand warm on hers through their gloves. Sinclair pushed her through the pattern again, rumbling the steps in his fine Scottish baritone.
Memories stirred in Bertie’s head. She was a little girl again, she and her mother in their tiny parlor, her mother smiling as she pushed Bertie around the floor. One, two, three; one, two, three—there, you have it, my lovely.
Bertie’s eyes stung, and her step faltered. Sinclair’s brows snapped together. “Don’t cry, Bertie. I’m in a foul mood, but it’s not your fault. You’re doing beautifully.”
“It ain’t . . . it isn’t . . .” Bertie swallowed her tears. “Never mind. Don’t stop dancing.”
Sinclair pushed her around with more exuberance, turning with her in a wide circle. She saw why the uncomfortable skirt had been made the way it was—it floated out behind her, as Sinclair took her around and around the ballroom.
The room began to swirl—it was as though Bertie stood in place, in the arms of the man she loved, while the ballroom whirled around them. Colors flashed, the glittering lights ran together, but Bertie was safe, Sinclair’s strong arms holding her. She’d never fall. The boots Ainsley had laced so tightly clung to her feet while Sinclair spun her through the ballroom. Bertie threw back her head and laughed.
“Stop that,” Sinclair said, scowling.
“Why?” Bertie floated on pure sweetness, and she wanted to dance and dance. She was Cinderella in truth, and Sinclair was her handsome prince.
“Because it makes me want to kiss you,” Sinclair said, his gray eyes stormy. “I want to kiss you, Bertie Frasier. I want to haul you into my arms and never let you go.”
Bertie went hot, dizzy. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
“You would mind it, when you understood, lass.”
He was wrong. Bertie wanted to stay inside this bubble—like a scene in one of the snow globes Cat had. They’d be dancing, frozen in time, while the rest of the world went on around them. Bertie and Sinclair would remain together forever, and this joy would never end.
“Happy Christmas!” someone shouted.
The orchestra ceased playing, and cheers erupted through the ballroom. The crowd rushed to the huge foyer, where the flowers Bertie had helped fold were being released, the light things floating down from the landings above. Sinclair caught one and handed it to Bertie—pink, one of the ones Beth had done. Bertie took it reverently, as though it were the most precious thing in the world.
The guests streamed outside—into the freezing cold and snow, no less—to watch fireworks bang and sparkle against the sky. The children, allowed to watch from windows in the gallery, shouted from above, and the dogs, somehow freed from their kennels in the stable yard, barked and flowed among the guests.
This was the perfect time for Sinclair to turn Bertie around in the dark and kiss her, but they were jostled apart. Bertie was swept away by excited ladies she didn’t know, who didn’t notice there was a governess in their midst.
Bertie looked around for Sinclair and saw him captured by his brothers, Steven’s hand on his shoulder. They made a fine sight, the three McBride men in black coats and blue kilts, fair hair pale in the darkness.
Sinclair caught sight of her and smiled. Didn’t matter how much space was between them, the smile said. They were still dancing, pulled tight together, while the world rushed by, doing things that were of no consequence at all.
No one had told Bertie that being a lady of luxury could be so exhausting. She crawled in bed in the wee hours, knowing she had to be up again soon. The children would be celebrating their Christmas morning in the nursery, with all the families, and Ainsley had said Bertie should be there. Andrew and Cat would be disappointed if she didn’t come.
All the beautiful and strange clothes had come off, taken away by Isabella’s maid, while Ainsley’s maid had collected the shoes. Unlaced and uncorseted, Bertie took a deep breath and fell facedown onto her bed. One of the kind maids pulled blankets over her and then left her alone.
Bertie expected to lie awake in her excitement, reliving the dance with Sinclair. She’d not been able to have another one with him, with all the Christmas fireworks, games, and the fairly silly skits some of the ladies and gentlemen had put on. The Scottish families had not done much—the English had done most of the celebrating. Ainsley had explained that in Scotland, Christmas wasn’t the important holiday—New Year’s was. At that time only the family stayed at the castle, but the whole village came up for the festivities, and the revelry would be unlike any Bertie had seen.
Bertie dropped off to sleep almost immediately, however, her body having spent its resources.
She woke again when a strong, warm hand landed on her back. The smell of whiskey and wool assailed her, and the bed creaked, as a man in a kilt sat down on it.
“Happy Christmas, Bertie.”
Sinclair’s voice was low and rumbling. He stroked her hair, now in a loose braid, and slid a tissue-wrapped box under her hand.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. “I didn’t get you nothing.”
His laughter was soft. “You didn’t have to, minx. I thought you might like this.”
Bertie’s curiosity rose as she tugged at the paper. “You shouldn’t give me presents. All the posh people at this do will gossip like mad.”
“Open it, Bertie,” Sinclair said, impatient. “It’s a private gift between us.”
Bertie tore off the paper then opened the lid, looked inside, and drew a sharp breath.
A photograph in a slim frame rested among the tissue paper, a picture of Cat and Andrew. Caitriona sat primly on a chair, every hair in place, her legs in white stockings crossed at the ankle. Her doll smiled serenely from her lap. Andrew sat on the floor with his arm around a large dog—one that lived here at Kilmorgan Castle. Andrew was grinning, and slightly blurry, as though he hadn’t held still during the exposure. But the camera had caught him as he was—sunny-natured and busy, while Caitriona’s smile was quietly pretty.
A sob caught in Bertie’s throat. “It’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it always. Thank you. I love them so much.”
Tears came from her eyes. Sinclair gently took the photo from her and closed it into the box, setting it on her night table. “Shh, lass.” He gently rolled her over, the rough wool of the kilt warm through the covers. “Damn it; I keep making you cry. I want to make you smile.”
“You do.” Bertie wiped her eyes. “You always do.”
“Shall I tell you what you do to me?” He lowered himself to her, his body warm with his clothes. “I’m a bit drunk, so I might say too much. I tamed myself, so I could have a family, do everything right. But it went too far, and there was nothing left of me. And then you charged into my life. You r
ipped the lid from the powder keg. You lit the match. Now I, the model widowed father, want to run rampant like a crazed youth. If you think Andrew unruly, he has a long way to go before he surpasses me.”
Bertie started to smile. “I’d like to see that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve made me live again, Bertie, you wonderful, beautiful woman.”
He kissed her mouth, a swift, rough kiss before he pulled Bertie up with him and yanked away the blankets. She hadn’t bothered with her nightdress, so she was bare, nothing between her and the wool of his kilt.
The kilt held his warmth, but didn’t keep out the fact that he was hard underneath it. Bertie, as she kissed him, wormed her hand under the wool, until she found the length of his shaft.
“Damn.” Sinclair lifted his head, frowning fiercely, but he kissed her lips again. “What are you doing to me?”
“What you do to me.” Bertie stroked his cock, loving the way he groaned as though he couldn’t stop himself. “You make me want you.”
“And I want you.” He made another sound in his throat, and shifted his position so she could reach more of him. “Tonight, I wanted to dance you into a corner and peel off that pretty dress, didn’t matter how many people were in this bloody house.”
“Did you think it was pretty?” Bertie asked, wistful.
“I thought you were beautiful. But we don’t need the dress.”
“It’s gone.”
“Good.”
Sinclair broke her hold of him, but only to strip off his coat, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt. Bertie’s hands roved his bare shoulders, finding every curve of muscle, tight under his skin.
She thought he’d take off his kilt, but Sinclair only tucked the plaid around her, giving her a wicked smile as he slid himself on top of her.
“Oh.” Bertie let out her breath as he pushed inside her, spreading her. He was large and thick, and everything that was good.