by Anna Bradley
She peeked up at him through her eyelashes, her lip caught between her teeth, far more interested than she should be in his reply.
“No.” That rare smile twitched at his lips. “She had fair hair, and blue eyes.”
He stopped moving then, but his smile scattered her wits, and she hardly noticed.
Goodness. What in the world was wrong with Mary Mackenzie that she’d walk away from a man with such a smile as that, over a pair of split breeches?
“Miss Somerset?”
“Yes?”
“The dance is finished.”
* * * *
Lachlan had endured any number of awkward experiences in his life.
Mary Mackenzie and the split breeches was only one example. There was the time he’d emptied an entire bottle of his father’s best whiskey down his throat, and woken the next morning with his face in a puddle of his own sick. Or the afternoon he’d stumbled upon Ciaran with a girl from the village, and witnessed a feat of anatomy that still made him cringe when he thought about it.
But nothing was more excruciating than leading Hyacinth Somerset through a dance while every damned aristocrat in London gawked at them, as if this were a bloody cockfight instead of a waltz. At one point, when her fingers had gone slack in his hand, he’d been certain he was going to lose her to another swoon.
Lachlan glanced down at the top of her shining head, and waited for the last note of the waltz to fade before he released her, and drew back a fraction so he could get a better look at her.
Golden hair. Fine, pale skin. A slender, graceful figure, and curved lips so pink and plump they made a man’s mouth water. Columns or no columns, these Englishmen were daft if they could overlook a lady with such a face.
Aingeal.
But he didn’t have any business lingering over her face. Her face, or any other part of her, no matter how tempting those parts were. He’d sworn he’d treat her just as he treated Isla—that he’d take care of her for the duration of the season as if she were his own sister. He wasn’t her suitor or her lover, but her brother, and from this point on, he’d allow himself to think only brotherly thoughts about her.
And no more sneaking glances at her bosom, either.
He cleared his throat, and offered her his arm. “Shall I take you back to Lady Chase?”
She rested her fingertips on his coat. “Yes, I think that would be best. I wish I had more acquaintances in London to introduce to Isla, but between my grandmother and I, we should be able to ensure she isn’t obliged to sit out a dance, and—oh! Look, Mr. Ramsey.”
They’d reached the edge of the ballroom, but she’d turned back to look at the couples assembling for a country dance. Lachlan followed her gaze to find a tall, aristocratic-looking gentleman taking his place opposite Isla in the set.
“He’s Lord Sydney,” Hyacinth murmured. “The Earl of Sydney, that is.”
Lachlan studied the man with narrowed eyes. “He’s a decent sort?”
“Oh, yes, and quite respectable. I believe this is his first ball since his father died last year.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“I don’t know him well, but he’s always been friendly to me. He’s rather lively, and very fashionable, but not at all affected, like so many gentlemen of the ton.”
They all looked affected to Lachlan—the gentlemen, and the ladies. He watched the couples twirling across the floor, and wondered idly which of these chits was this season’s belle.
Whoever she was, she didn’t compare to Hyacinth.
He glanced over the crowd, but not a single one of them stood out. It was like looking over a meadow of white daisies. They were pretty enough, but unremarkable, and each indistinguishable from the next in their pale-colored gowns. There was one auburn-haired young lady who’d do for the belle, or perhaps that girl in yellow, with the chestnut-colored hair. She looked likely enough, but none of them were anywhere near as beautiful as—
“Miss Somerset. How do you do this evening?”
Lachlan and Hyacinth both turned at the low, throaty voice.
A young lady with sparkling dark eyes and gleaming ebony locks piled atop her head offered Miss Somerset a shallow curtsey, but when she raised her eyes, she wasn’t looking at Hyacinth at all.
She was looking at Lachlan, her full lips tilted into an inviting smile.
Lachlan quirked an eyebrow at her. No pale daisy here, but a showy rose in full flower, the single bloom that stole all the water and sunlight until every other flower withered on the vine. Curved red lips, white shoulders rising from the low neckline of a pale pink gown…
She was the belle.
“How do you do, Lady Joanna?” Hyacinth’s tone was perfectly courteous, her curtsey proper and polite, but the flatness in her voice gave her away.
Hyacinth didn’t like Lady Joanna.
Lady Joanna either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. Her gaze was fixed on him, and she hardly spared Miss Somerset a glance.
Whatever Hyacinth might feel about Lady Joanna, she was far too polite to fail to make the introductions. “Mr. Ramsay, may I present Lady Joanna Claire? Mr. Ramsey is recently arrived in London from Scotland.”
Lady Joanna dipped into a graceful curtsey. “I daresay you didn’t receive quite the welcome you expected when you arrived, Mr. Ramsey. May I take it from your being here tonight you aren’t, after all, a murderer?”
Lachlan stared at her. Christ. That was plain enough. He was tempted to tell Lady Joanna she could take his presence however she liked, but any rudeness on his part would reflect on them all, so instead he forced a tight smile. “You may.”
This short reply was just on the edge of incivility, but Lady Joanna shrugged it off. “But Miss Somerset doesn’t defend you, sir. I do hope she doesn’t mean to imply with her silence that you have, in fact, committed a murder?”
Hyacinth paled, and sucked in a quick breath. “No. Not at all. I, ah…made an unfortunate mistake the other evening.”
Lady Joanna’s eyes narrowed. “Pity you should have said such a thing in front of all of London then, isn’t it? One would think, Miss Somerset, you’d be certain before you made such a grave accusation.”
Hyacinth’s fingertips dug into his arm, and she had that stunned, frozen look of a fox who realizes it’s been cornered, right before the hounds tear it to shreds.
She didn’t offer a word in her own defense.
“It was a misunderstanding, nothing more,” Lachlan said evenly. “Anyone else might have made the same mistake. Even you, Lady Joanna.”
“Oh, I doubt it.” Lady Joanna tittered. “But you’re very kind to defend Miss Somerset, Mr. Ramsay. For as long as I’ve known her, Miss Somerset has been rather a slave to overactive nerves. A bit of a frenzied imagination, I think.” She tapped Hyacinth’s arm playfully with her fan, as if they were the best of friends. “I’ve never seen it cross into outright hysteria as it did the other evening, though. Are you quite well, Miss Somerset? You look a bit peaked, even now.”
“Very well, yes.” But Hyacinth’s voice was faint, and her gaze was darting around the ballroom, as if she were looking for an escape.
“I’m vastly relieved to hear it. You’re so pale. I thought you might be on the verge of a swoon. Another one, that is.”
Lachlan’s jaw went hard. Lady Joanna put him in mind of a lazy, malicious cat, taking one swipe after another at a nervous mouse, toying mercilessly with it before ending it with a single deadly slice of its sharp claws.
With a little effort, even the most timid mouse could sink a tooth into its tormentor, but he could see by Hyacinth’s blank expression she’d already retreated into herself. She held her tongue, and like all cats, Lady Joanna grew bored of her game when her prey ceased to squirm. “Is that your sister, dancing with Lord Sydney?” she asked, turning back to Lachlan.
“It is.”
“Yes, I thought so. And that must be your brother, on the other side of the ballroom, with Lady Chase and Lady Atherton. My goodness, Mr. Ramsey. If you were an affectionate brother, you’d save him from such an awful fate as that.”
Lachlan gave her a cold look. “You’re aware Lady Chase is Miss Somerset’s grandmother?”
“Oh, I’m aware, and of course Lady Chase is excessively diverting, but surely your brother would rather dance than stand about chatting with old ladies and wallflowers.” She let out a tinkling, brittle laugh that made Lachlan think of glass shattering. “Do call him over, Mr. Ramsey. Oh, and look, here are my dear friends Miss Barton and Miss Tilbury, so anxious to meet you and your brother.”
The two simpering misses who’d joined Lady Joanna batted their eyelashes at him, but aside from brief nods in her direction, they both ignored Hyacinth. Before long, it became clear to Lachlan that Lady Joanna and her gaggle of dim-witted friends were intentionally excluding her.
The longer it went on, the more furious Lachlan grew. A few more gentlemen and ladies joined them, but they took their cue from Lady Joanna as well, and after a few shallow bows and cool smiles, they also dismissed Hyacinth, chatting and laughing with each other as if she weren’t there.
Lady Joanna kept him engaged with an endless stream of blather, but at last Lachlan managed to free himself for long enough to take Hyacinth’s arm and draw her aside. “What the devil is going on?”
“Nothing. That is, it’s all right. Just take me back to Lady Chase, won’t you?” She didn’t meet his eyes, and her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and misery.
“Hyacinth, tell me why they’re being so rude to you.”
She glanced fearfully back at the knot of people behind them, which was growing larger by the second. “I can’t explain it all now, but Lady Joanna bears a grudge against Iris for some business that happened last season. It seems she’s decided to vent her ire on me in Iris’s stead.”
“Then we’ll both return to Lady Chase at once, and stay there.”
He drew her arm through his elbow and tried to lead her away, but she dug her heels in to stop him. “No! Listen to me, Lachlan. Lady Joanna is the belle of the season, and her friends—they’re the most fashionable young aristocrats of the ton. All of Isla’s best prospects move in Lady Joanna’s set, including Lord Sydney. You can’t afford to alienate them. Just take me to Lady Chase and fetch Ciaran to come back here with you.”
Lachlan didn’t give a bloody damn who they were. “No. I won’t just abandon you—”
“Please, Lachlan. I…I prefer it, really.” Her blue eyes were pleading. “I d-don’t want…I-I c-can’t stay here another moment.”
Lachlan ran an agitated hand through his hair. Damn it, he didn’t like this, but she looked frantic, her stammer had returned, and she was growing more agitated by the moment. “It’s all right. I’ll take you back to Lady Chase, if you wish.”
“T-thank you.” She was trembling as he escorted her across the ballroom to her grandmother. He laid his hand over hers, and even through their gloves, he could feel the iciness of her skin.
“Ah, my dear. There you are. Lady Atherton was just telling me…” Lady Chase’s voice faded as she got a close look at her granddaughter’s face. “Hyacinth? Are you unwell?”
“N-no. Just fatigued, Grandmother. Mr. Ramsey was kind enough to escort me back to you to rest. I see Isla’s found a partner, and Lady Joanna has asked for an introduction to Ciaran. It’s all going very well, I think.” She managed a wan smile. “Mr. Ramsey, won’t you introduce Ciaran to your new friends?”
Friends? They were no friends of his. “I don’t want—”
“Go on, Mr. Ramsey.” Lady Chase waved him off. “The dance is over, and Lord Sydney is leading your sister off the floor. He’s an earl, you know, and it looks like he admires her. You must go and make his acquaintance at once.”
Lady Atherton was staring curiously at him, and they’d attracted the attention of Ciaran’s wallflowers, as well. Lachlan had no choice but to bow, and lead his brother off to meet Lady Joanna’s fashionable set of featherbrains and peahens.
The evening dragged on endlessly, but never more so than when Lachlan was obliged to invite Lady Joanna to dance. Ciaran was charming to everyone, but much to Miss Tilbury’s and Miss Barton’s disappointment, he danced only with those ladies who’d been obliged to sit out. Isla danced every dance, and was singled out for Lord Sydney’s exclusive and admiring attention.
Hyacinth didn’t dance again. Not even with Lachlan or Ciaran, though they both pressed her to. No other gentleman asked her. All three of the Ramseys made a point of returning to her side throughout the ball, but no one else approached her in her solitary corner.
Then, she disappeared entirely.
Lachlan searched the ballroom for her, and had Isla check the ladies’ retiring room, but they didn’t see Hyacinth again until the end of the evening, when Lady Chase appeared with her hand tucked into her granddaughter’s arm, and informed them she’d called for the carriage to take them all home.
Hyacinth hadn’t needed any columns. She’d found another place to hide.
Chapter Eleven
Hyacinth knew how to disappear. She’d had many years of practice.
But when she crept back into Lady Bagshot’s ballroom at the end of the evening and saw Lachlan Ramsey’s scowl when he caught sight of her, she knew she was about to face a reckoning. When he gruffly informed her he’d sent Isla and Ciaran ahead in Lady Atherton’s carriage, she realized it was coming sooner rather than later.
Good Lord, he looked grim. She’d rather face a dozen Lady Joannas than that black scowl.
“Where is my grandmother?” She tried to suppress a shiver as he settled her wrap around her, and his big fingers brushed her shoulders. “Surely she didn’t leave the ball without me?” Her grandmother could hardly be persuaded to leave a room without her, much less Lady Bagshot’s ball.
“She’s in the carriage, waiting for us. She’s fatigued. I tried to send her with Lady Atherton, but she refused.” His tone was clipped.
Hyacinth let out a relieved breath. She wouldn’t be alone with him for the drive home, then. There was one witness, at least.
But when Lachlan handed her into the carriage, Hyacinth found her one witness half-asleep, the green feathers in her turban fluttering wildly with each nod of her head. By the time they drew away from the curb, Lady Chase was snoring contentedly.
Lachlan looked anything but content. His jaw was hard, his mouth tight. He’d crossed one long leg over the other and thrown a massive arm across the back of the seat, but his casual posture didn’t reassure Hyacinth.
This was not the man who’d led her so carefully through the waltz this evening—the man who’d made her laugh with his stories about his boyhood with his brother. No, right now he looked more like the man who’d used that same brother’s face as his punching bag on a dark night in an Aylesbury inn-yard.
Hyacinth squirmed in her seat. Goodness, this was awful. Not just because he looked angry. That is, he did look angry, but he also looked…
Troubled. Disappointed, even.
Well, that made two of them, but then she was so accustomed to that vague, niggling discontent whenever she went into company, she hardly even noticed it anymore.
Except tonight. Tonight, she noticed it.
It had been a long time since she’d had anyone in her life to disappoint. Her family had long since accepted her shortcomings as simply the way she was, and she had, too, but now…
Was it his disappointment in her that hurt the most, or her disappointment in herself?
A chill washed over her, and Hyacinth gathered her heavy wrap tighter around her neck. She turned to look out the window so she wouldn’t have to see the disillusionment on Lachlan’s face, but despite her efforts, her g
aze was drawn back to him again and again, until she could stand it no longer. “Mr. Ramsey, I believe I owe you an explanation for my—”
He silenced her with a single shake of his head. He didn’t say a word for the rest of the ride to Bedford Square, but he never took his eyes off her. When the carriage rolled up in front of the entryway, he opened the door without waiting for the driver, descended, and held out his hand to her.
Hyacinth hesitated, but his eyebrows shot up in challenge, as if he were perfectly willing to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to…well, she didn’t know where he’d carry her, but it didn’t seem wise to find out.
She laid her fingers in his gloved palm and let him help her from the carriage. He closed the door quietly behind her, then led her by the hand through the front door and into the entryway.
Hyacinth drew in a deep breath. It was as good a place as any to explain herself. She’d never once heard Lachlan raise his voice, but if he did have a mind to shout at her, it wasn’t as if he do it in the middle of her grandmother’s entryway. “Lachlan, I—”
She gasped as he backed her up against the door behind her, and moved so close she could see the tiny gold flecks in his eyes. “Where did you disappear to tonight, Hyacinth?”
“Disappear?” She cringed at the telltale croak in her voice. “I didn’t—”
He took her by the shoulders. “Yes, you did. You stayed with your grandmother and Lady Atherton for a while, but by the time I returned from my second dance with Lady Joanna, you were gone.”
“Yes, well no good ever came from dancing with Lady Joanna.”
Oh, no. Dash it, she’d gone and blurted that aloud, like a jealous, sniping shrew. Her eyes went wide as that thought took hold.
Am I jealous, over Lachlan Ramsey?
No, surely not. That is, her belly did leap with joy when she coaxed a smile from his lips, and perhaps once or twice she’d imagined what it might be like to kiss him, but that didn’t prove a blessed thing. She thought of him as a brother, nothing more, and he’d made it clear he regarded her as a sister, so there could be no question of jealousy between them.