Within minutes Winnie and Bella had found friends. Agnes looked for Ilsa, and then Mr. Duncan, but saw neither. Finally she spied Sorcha White by the far fireplace, surrounded by gentlemen. Sorcha was Ilsa’s friend, but Agnes had met her several times.
“Agnes!” cried Sorcha as she drew Agnes to her side. “You must all meet Miss St. James,” she told the gentlemen around her. “Someone fetch her some wine.”
Almost instantly someone presented her with a glass, making Sorcha laugh in approval. Agnes sipped, feeling bold and daring.
“Is Ilsa here?” Agnes wanted to thank her for the tickets.
“I’m sure.” Sorcha gave a coy glance at the nearest man—an officer, from his coat. “There will be dancing, and everyone adores a country dance, don’t they, Captain?”
“They do, Miss White.” Openly admiring, the officer seized Sorcha’s hand. “I shall adore it even more if you stand up with me for the first set.”
Sorcha agreed, which spurred another gentleman to beg the second dance. Forgotten, Agnes scanned the room. With a start, she saw her sisters holding no fewer than four gentlemen enthralled. Winnie was three years younger than Agnes at twenty-one, and Bella had just turned nineteen. Perturbed, she finished her wine.
“Captain Aytoun!” Sorcha plucked Agnes’s glass from her hand and held it up with hers. “We are out of wine!”
Grinning, the officer stopped a passing waiter and handed full glasses to Agnes and Sorcha. Agnes hesitated, then accepted it as Sorcha raised her own glass in salute.
Ilsa arrived, which increased the merriment of the group considerably. When the musicians took their places and the first dance was called, Ilsa and Sorcha were promptly led out. Agnes realized she had finished her wine again.
“I say.” Mr. Hansen, who had been promised Sorcha’s second set, cleared his throat. “Miss James? Would you care to dance?” His eyes kept flitting toward Sorcha.
Agnes contemplated her empty glass, then gave a philosophical shrug. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”
She enjoyed the rollicking country dance, even though Mr. Hansen’s conversation was desultory queries about her family and the weather. He barely finished the figure before charging off to join Sorcha.
But someone else soon asked her to dance. By now the wine had hit her, and she felt giddy and very merry as they went through the figure. When it was over, Agnes found herself, breathless but happy, at the opposite end of the room from where she’d started. Her partner, Lieutenant Murray, brought her a glass of punch and she took a grateful sip, surprised to taste rum. No wonder the Assembly Rooms were so popular.
“She’s your sister, is she not?” asked the lieutenant.
Agnes glanced at him. His admiring gaze was on Winnie, who did look beautiful tonight in a cream dress, her red-gold hair in perfect curls. “Yes.”
“I say,” he began, “you’re a splendid girl. Would it be too forward to beg an introduction? I’ve been watching her all evening, and…” He trailed off sheepishly as Agnes lowered her punch.
“Lieutenant,” she asked, “did you ask me to dance to secure an introduction to my sister?”
“No,” he protested. “You’re jolly fun to talk to.”
Jolly fun. Agnes sighed. “How did you know she was my sister?”
Now color rose in his cheeks. “Hansen told me.”
That dented her pride. “If you wish, sir.”
He beamed at her and resumed watching Winnie with a glazed, happy expression. When the dance ended, Agnes led him over and made the presentation. Her smile grew fixed as Winnie’s face grew bright with interest, and took the lieutenant’s arm as soon as he asked her to dance.
And then she stood by herself and watched them join the set, the lieutenant’s face lit with an animation that hadn’t been there during her dance with him.
She sipped the punch, barely noticing the warmth of the rum. Her first visit to the Assembly Rooms, and here she was, stranded alone at the side of the room. Agnes knew she wasn’t rich like Ilsa, a beauty like Winnie, or vivacious like Bella. Was it her age?
Her gaze snagged on Sorcha, who was a year older. Sorcha’s partner looked as though he might fall to his knees and propose marriage right there in the midst of the dance.
It must be her face. Or perhaps her demeanor.
Rebelliously Agnes gulped down the rest of her punch. She was here, she might as well see the famed rooms. Leaving the glass on a table, she set off to explore.
She reached the saloon between the staircases, where they had come in, without seeing anyone she knew. Every space was crowded and overheated, and she began to feel disenchanted with the place.
“Miss St. James,” exclaimed a familiar voice. “Good evening.”
“Oh, Mr. Duncan!” Relief surged through her. “How splendid to see you!”
He looked happily surprised at this effusive greeting. “The pleasure is mine. I hoped to see you here tonight.”
Happiness bubbled up inside her. He was uncommonly attractive in evening clothes, and completely interested in her alone. “Here I am, at long last,” she replied gaily. “And the rooms are every bit as magnificent as you said.”
He laughed. “I’m delighted to be a reliable source. But it’s very crowded tonight! Last week it was easier to talk.”
Of course; he must have a subscription, and come regularly.
“Then perhaps we should dance,” she said, astonishing herself as much as him.
“We should indeed. But first—” He had a flask, hidden beneath his jacket. “A friend has just become a father,” he confided. “We meant to—er—toast his new son.”
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “May I also congratulate him?” The wine had made her as bold as Sorcha.
“Aye, by all means.” He offered his arm and Agnes took it.
The crowd pressed them together as they made their way back into the ballroom. Agnes found she didn’t mind, and when one large fellow jostled her rudely, Mr. Duncan growled and put his arm protectively around her.
She didn’t mind that at all.
He led the way toward a few gentlemen clustered in a back corner. Agnes sized them up: well-dressed gentlemen about her brother’s age. It was perfectly acceptable, she told herself. She stole another glance at Mr. Duncan’s firm jaw and broad shoulders. Very acceptable.
At their approach, one turned and hailed Mr. Duncan. “There he is! Bring the naftie, man.” He flushed as he spotted Agnes. “I beg pardon, miss.”
“May I present Messieurs Crawford, Ferrior, Hunter, Gillespie, and MacDougal. Gentlemen, this is Miss St. James,” announced Mr. Duncan, pouring whisky into the glasses they discreetly produced. “Her brother is a captain in the army and an old schoolmate of mine, so mind your manners.”
Mr. Hunter bowed. She recognized him from the coffeehouse. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir.” She smiled. “I understand there is a celebration.”
“Aye, Gillespie’s son.” Another fellow beamed in proud acknowledgement as the men beside him pounded his shoulders.
“To fatherhood!” said someone, and they all drank.
“My warmest felicitations to you and Mrs. Gillespie,” Agnes told him.
“Thank ‘ee, miss.” He put out his glass, and Agnes realized this was far from their first round of toasts, as Mr. Duncan obligingly refilled the glasses.
On impulse, because she was still feeling bold from the wine and because it felt daring but also safe to stand in a secluded corner with these gentlemen—including one of her brother’s friends—Agnes asked, “May I?”
Mr. Duncan glanced at her in surprise. “Aye,” said Mr. Crawford. He produced another glass and Mr. Duncan tipped his flask over it.
“To Gillespie,” said MacDougal. “Not that he did any hard work birthing the babe.” Everyone laughed as Gillespie shook his head like a wet dog.
Agnes tossed back the dram with the rest of them. It made her throat burn and her ey
es water, but tonight she loved it. She’d had whisky before; it was her mother’s standard treatment for monthly female aches.
“To the babe,” declared someone. “May he inherit his mother’s handsome looks.”
“Aye.” Mr. Gillespie was visibly, happily drunk. “Poor lad if he takes after me.”
Mr. Hunter poured this round. Agnes held out her glass with everyone else. Mr. Duncan shot a look at her, but said nothing.
“To Mrs. Gillespie,” declared Agnes, feeling very gregarious now. “The true heroine of this tale.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Crawford. “A double toast to her! She married Gill, after all, she’s earned it!”
“Aye, she has.” The new father hiccuped. “And the dog. He wouldna—he wouldn’t leave Betsy’s side the whole long while she labored, d’ y’ know that? ’Tis a damned good dog,” slurred Gillespie, now leaning on the man next to him.
“There’s no finer companion than a loyal dog,” agreed Agnes.
“To the dog!” declared Mr. Ferrior—Agnes thought she had leaned all their names by now. She held out her glass. Mr. Ferrior hesitated, but Agnes gave him a saucy wink, and he poured.
“And to Miss St. James,” proposed Mr. Hunter with a gallant flourish. “A most charming young lady.”
She smiled and curtsied, but somehow lost her balance and ended up clinging to Mr. Duncan’s arm as the gentlemen chuckled and raised their glasses.
“Will you give me that dance now?” murmured Mr. Duncan in her ear.
She gave him a wide smile and tossed back her whisky. “Of course!” She thought she could fly right now, let alone dance. A little bit of whisky was bracing stuff, but it got better and better the more one drank.
He guided her away. Agnes leaned on his arm. Goodness, he was tall and strong. And remarkably handsome. What a brilliant night this was becoming.
“Here.” He opened a door behind the gentlemen still toasting the Gillespie birth. “Take a moment to catch your breath.”
It was a small chamber, dim and cool and quiet when the door closed behind them. Agnes exhaled in relief, realizing how loud and stuffy the ballroom was. “What is this?”
He looked around. “I think it’s a passage to the supper room—or will be, when the room is finished.”
There was another door opposite them. Agnes walked over and tried it.
“Let’s try the second ballroom,” he said. “It’s always less crowded.”
Agnes wasn’t listening. “Oh,” she breathed, walking into the unfinished supper room. The walls were still unpainted and ladders stood around the room. The only light came from the tall, bare windows opposite them, lending a ghostly moonlit glow to the furnishings waiting in neat ranks at the side of the room.
She spun around, arms out wide. This wasn’t like her—she knew it, somewhere in her tipsy brain—but it did feel glorious. “We shall be the first to dance in here!” Her voice echoed off the walls.
“Shall we?” He followed, watching her warmly.
Agnes stopped whirling, clutching a ladder for balance. His attention was focused on her. He admired her. Slowly, a bit unsteadily, she went up to him.
“Would you mind that?” She tipped her head back to see him. “Or do you want to go to the other room and squeeze in amongst the crowd?”
His blue gaze skimmed her face. “Perhaps…not yet.”
“No?” She poked him in the chest, then again. She flattened her palm against him, marveling at how solid he was. “Why not?”
His chest expanded under her hand. “We undoubtedly should,” he said in a low voice that sent tingles down her spine.
And over her skin.
And made her nipples stand up hard under her stays.
He was so handsome. She plucked a button on his coat. “Do you want to?”
He swallowed. “Want to?”
Agnes fought off a silent fit of giggles. “Dance. In here.”
“Oh. Aye, I do.” He caught her hand and took a formal step away. Another giggle shook Agnes, but she followed his lead and straightened her spine. Competing strains of music from the ballrooms filtered into the room, but they made it through the first few steps. At the places where other dancers would take their turns, Mr. Duncan waved his hands in the air like an energetic musical conductor, making her laugh again. She almost tripped as they clasped hands and skipped down the imaginary row. By the time they should have cast off, she couldn’t stop giggling and forgot entirely which way to go, and turned away instead of toward him.
He laughed. Agnes realized her mistake and hastily swung around, only to collide head-on with him. With a startled inhalation he caught her, and Agnes, breathless and exhilarated, flung her arms around him.
“Steady,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
He did. Held close to his chest, she felt sheltered, protected, safe. She closed her eyes and pressed closer.
Tentatively his hands moved on her back. His breath warmed her temple. “’Tis glad I am to see you tonight.”
Something hot and effervescent shot through her. He wasn’t asking to meet her sisters, or passing the time until Sorcha would dance with him. He came to the coffeehouse to see her, and talk to her. And the expression in his eyes made her feel beautiful and daring, bold and confident, nothing at all like the practical, responsible girl she was supposed to be.
“I’m pleased to see you, too,” she whispered, letting her head fall back so she could see his face. “Are you going to kiss me?”
He stopped breathing. His gaze settled on her mouth with an intensity that made her heart flutter. When his head dipped and his arms tightened, she all but jumped to meet him.
The result was a more physical and passionate kiss than either intended, but neither he nor she retreated. Instead Agnes wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back deeply and hungrily.
“My God,” he rasped, pressing more kisses down her neck. “Agnes…”
She arched her neck in blatant encouragement. Mindlessly she pulled his copper hair free of the tie holding it, plowing her fingers into the crisp waves. A shudder went through his shoulders.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed. “Clever and bold and splendid.”
A wild thrill shot through her. Winnie was the beauty, Bella the adventurous one. “Really?” She gave a long shivery sigh as his mouth touched her collarbone, right at the curve between neck and shoulder.
He rested his forehead against hers. “I spend half my life lurking in Agnew’s coffeehouse, hoping you’ll appear.”
An astonished but delighted smile curved her lips. She slid one hand up his chest to tug the end of his neckcloth. “Do you, now?”
He grinned like a guilty boy caught in a secret. “Did you not notice? We’ve even spoken there, a few times…”
A startled giggle choked her. Somehow her hands had got beneath his coat, wandering over his shoulders. “Aye, I noticed. How could I not, when you bring me plates of soft, warm buns, crying out for a dab of butter? Just seeing you makes me hungry…”
His smile fled. He stared at her, his eyes burning bright. “Aye,” he said thickly. “I know the feeling.”
He kissed her again, more forcefully this time, his tongue in her mouth and his hand cupping her head. And Agnes thrilled to it.
She spread her hands on his back. He was so big, so warm, so strong… she couldn’t stop touching him. The slide of his tongue, hot and possessive, made her stomach flutter and her knees give way. When she almost fell, he cursed even as he laughed, and swept her up in his arms—stumbling into the ladder with another curse, louder this time, making her giggle and kiss his ear, only to get distracted by the smell of his jaw and somehow, inexplicably, bite him there.
“Christ,” he gasped, staggering. “Stop!”
“Stop?” She had her arms around his neck, nuzzling the whole side of his face. He smelled so good. Did all men smell this good? Surely not.
“Just for a moment…” He turned and fell backward, landing on o
ne of the sofas with her across his lap. Agnes laughed, clinging to him, and this time his mouth landed on her bosom.
She went still, panting, as his tongue traced delicately along the edge of her bodice, and when his big hand reverently smoothed up her chest to cover her breast, she inhaled so hard it was a miracle she didn’t pass out.
It was a fairy tale come to life. This handsome, charming, wonderful man—her brother’s friend, whom her papa called a good lad—was holding her, looking at her with unconcealed desire, touching her, kissing her, making her burn with wanting.
“Do you like this?” he whispered, his gaze fixed on her bosom. Agnes watched his fingers, foreign and yet very welcome, feather reverently along the swell of her breast.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
His palm settled over her breast and his thumb stroked her skin. Her breath stopped as she watched his hand, transfixed, feeling as if the world stopped turning as his thumb gently tugged down her bodice.
“Oh…” She couldn’t speak as he turned, letting her slip from his arm until she lay against the elegantly curving arm of the sofa, her legs still draped over his. He twisted too, looming over her and lowering his mouth to her bosom again.
Agnes threw back her head and gripped his shoulders; now she was flying. His tongue was so soft, so hot. Goosebumps rippled across her skin and she had the wild thought that it would feel so good if he licked her everywhere.
“Felix,” she sighed, gripping his head to her.
“Say it again, love,” he murmured, easing down the front of her dress. The scooped neckline gave way easily under his touch. And then his hand—so big, so warm—cupped her entire breast and his mouth closed on her nipple, and Agnes drew up her knees at the exquisite sensation.
He lavished attention on both her breasts until she was writhing in agony. “Oh, don’t stop,” she gasped, when he did. “Why did you stop?”
He looked down at her. In the moonlight he was silver and gold, his hair in waves about his taut face. He looked wild and hungry for her. “Ye could drive a man mad,” he growled before kissing her again, hard, driving his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of whisky, and the flavor revived her own taste for the spirit. She kissed him back, mimicking what he did to her, biting his lower lip and sucking on his tongue until he shuddered above her.
How the Scot Was Won Page 3