Highlander Undone

by Connie Brockway

  “Ah, Mrs. Hoodless!”

  Paul Sherville was at her side, his gaze greedily devouring her. “And who are you masquerading as, dear lady?” he mocked. “It is a masquerade ball, if you recall.”

  Her nascent self-confidence teetered in the face of his leering derision. But just for a moment. In the next, she saw him for what he was: a weak, malicious man, so ineffectual in his own mind that he needed to taunt others to convince himself of his own superiority. How pitiful he was! As, she thought with sudden acuity, had been Charles.

  “Why, Major Sherville, I didn’t feel the need to masquerade as anyone. I am quite happy with who I am. But let me see, whom might you be portraying tonight in all that black cloth? Wait.” She paused and let her gaze travel insolently over him before snapping her fingers lightly. “I have it. The Marquis de Sade!”

  In answer, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them so that he towered over her. “You are feeling very brave tonight, Mrs. Hoodless. But I would have a care. One can think oneself invulnerable . . . until one isn’t.”

  She had no idea what he meant. He really was ridiculous with his theatrical pronouncements and his threatening mien.

  “Major Sherville, the only thing that shall disappear is you. When I turn my back,” and, suiting action to word, she moved easily past him, walking sedately into the throng.

  Several times on her way to greet her hostess, she was hailed by former acquaintances, both people she’d known as a young girl and people she’d met through her brother. For the first time in years, she found herself looking about her with a sense of pleasure at seeing familiar faces rather than trepidation at encountering one of Charles’s cronies.

  And when she was finally, as she knew she would be, greeted by one of Charles’s casual military acquaintances, she was gratified by how easily she responded to his polite conversational gambits and, with a touch of surprise, discovered he was not a monster but simply a tongue-tied young man in a red coat.

  But she was not yet so confident in her newly rediscovered self-assurance that she was entirely comfortable with him. And she could not deny her relief when he bowed politely after escorting her across the room to where Lady Merritt held court and Addie found herself pushed to the front of the queue to greet their hostess. As she caught sight of Lady Merritt, her mouth twitched.

  A huge construction of peacock feathers and life-sized gilded snakes rose a full two feet up from the top of Lady Merritt’s head. What appeared to be the remnants of a Persian carpet were suspended from her shoulders, flanking an enormous—and highly polished—sheet of metal. With a start, Addie realized it was a breastplate. Beneath this she wore a skirt so stiff with Oriental elements it could easily have stood by itself.

  “Ah, Addie, m’dear. Queen Zenobia gives you greetings!” Lady Merritt held out her heavily beringed fingers.

  “Queen Zenobia?”

  “Yes, you silly chit!” Lady Merritt’s gracious greeting eroded into peevishness. “That is the problem with our society, the horrendous deficiency in young people’s education. How can you fail to recognize one of history’s most flamboyant queens?”

  “To be sure,” Addie managed to say. “Queen Zenobia. Of course. Have you seen Jack?”

  “No, I haven’t. He had Wheatcroft playing valet to him for quite a long time. I can hardly wait to see what he is impersonating.” Her gaze traveled in perplexity over Addie’s gown. “Who are you tonight, m’dear? I can’t quite put my finger on it. Helen of Troy? Guinevere?”

  “Addie Phyfe.”

  Lady Merritt’s smile was fond. Taking Addie’s hands, she pulled her close for a quick embrace, the sharper points of the breastplate digging into Addie’s skin.

  “Your hair is stunning,” Lady Merritt said sotto voce. “And that dress! Your brother’s hand, no doubt.”

  “Her brother had nothing to do with it,” Ted said from beside her. “Though I warrant I know who did.”

  Addie turned to her brother. He was outfitted in severe black, his dark red locks brushed forward on his high forehead. Byron, he had informed her earlier this evening, also limped. “Oh, I doubt that, Ted.”

  “I was referring not to the actual dressmaker,” Ted said, “but to the person who inspired it.”

  Lady Merritt impatiently flapped a hand in Ted’s direction as Addie blushed. “Ted, why must you always be so oblique? Can you not simply say a thing?”

  “It’s much more amusing this way.”

  “Ted lives to be amused by the foibles of us mere mortals,” Addie said, her gaze passing over her reprobate brother. “But I have a notion that he shall shortly find himself much more involved in secular entertainments.”

  “How kind of you to invite me to your party, Lady Merritt!” Zephrina Drouhin trilled charmingly in her unmistakable accent. As usual, her appearance was foreshadowed by the phalanx of red-coated army officers who invariably escorted her. They opened ranks to allow her to waft forward in a cloud of white-netted tulle, feathers, and seed pearls.

  She curtsied prettily to her hostess and turned to Addie, a momentary frown marring her lovely features before recognition dawned in her wide blue eyes. “Mrs. Hoodless! How delightful to meet you again.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Miss Drouhin,” Addie said sincerely, watching her brother with a twinge of malicious amusement. She had decided that the infatuation Ted had claimed Zephrina had for him was not all one-sided. It did her heart well to see her preeminently self-controlled brother put off his stride by this petite, disdainful little wretch.

  Sure enough, Ted’s animation disappeared behind a bland mask of indifference as he bowed formally in his client’s direction. No one could be that cool. “Miss Drouhin.”

  Zephrina arched a thin brow. “Good evening, Mr. Phyfe. Gentlemen”—she turned to her little coterie—“Mr. Phyfe is the artist who is painting my portrait. He is a strict disciplinarian. ’Tis he who makes me decline all your vastly intriguing propositions to sit for hours posing for him in his studio.” Scowls were immediately directed in Ted’s direction.

  “Pray, Miss Drouhin, do not allow my painting to interfere with any—even seemingly incidental—aspect of your social life. Please,” Ted said, seemingly all graciousness.

  Addie held up her hand to hide her smile but did so too late; Zephrina knew she’d been bested. She snapped her fan open, frowning fiercely behind the long white ostrich plumes.

  “I suppose you will want to begin my sittings all over again now that you have seen me in my swan guise.” She sighed heavily as her escorts all murmured hearty concurrence.

  “Good heavens, is that what that is?” Ted asked. “I’d thought you were emulating a disemboweled pillow. You know: insubstantial, lightweight, delightfully inconsequential?”

  Addie couldn’t stand there any longer. If she did, she risked breaking out into laughter. She turned her chuckle into a cough and, avoiding Zephrina’s suspicious glare, made her apologies, saying she needed a refreshment.

  Only when she was well away did she peek over her shoulder. Ted’s reputation for blandness in the face of anything was undeniably being threatened. His countenance was darkening perceptibly. Zephrina’s was already red. They were squared off, facing each other, smiling determinedly through clenched teeth, those around them obviously forgotten in their concentration on each other.

  Addie laughed again. Ted had apparently found Waterloo. Now it only needed time to determine who was to play Wellington and which unfortunate would be cast in the role of Napoleon.

  “If you are laughing at my kilt, I am afraid I shall have to challenge you to a duel. We Scots take our plaids seriously,” a deep voice drawled.

  She looked around, her heart racing, to find herself face to face with Jack. She returned his smile eagerly, like a young woman on spying her beau after a prolonged absence.

  A flicker of puzzlement crossed his features.

  “Ah! The dress. It is new,” he murmured. He barely afforded her new sumptuous gown a
glance before his gaze returned to her face. “You are so beautiful, Addie.”

  He’d barely noticed her gown, hadn’t commented on her hair, her jewels. He thought she was beautiful.

  A sudden shift in the crowd jostled them apart, allowing Addie to see Jack wholly. Her eyes widened. True to his word, Jack was dressed in a plaid—a Scottish plaid regimental uniform.

  The red jacket he wore open over a pristine white cambric shirt served as a foil for his extraordinary good looks. The elegant fall of the lace jabot and cuffs only emphasized the blatant masculinity she’d somehow never noticed earlier on in their friendship. Over one broad shoulder was draped the plaid, a dark blue and green with a yellow stripe that matched the pattern of his kilt. A sporran hung from his waist, and in his stockings the hilt of a ruby encrusted sgian-dubh glittered.

  He looked uncannily at home in the garb, more poised than she’d ever seen him before. His stance seemed broader, his posture straighter. His calves were muscular, a deep scar crossing one knee. Only his hand, balled into a fist near his hip—where Addie knew officers wore their swords—seemed awkward, as though he was used to resting that strong hand on something other than his hip.

  The implication was subtly unsettling, and she moved back. Then she remembered his father had been a Gordon Highlander. “Raid the attic trunks, did we, Jack?” she asked. The archness she strove for sounded more like an entreaty.

  “Not at all,” Jack said. “These are my clothes.”

  “Of course they are,” she agreed quickly. “As are mine. How silly of me to think anything that fit so superbly could be rummaged from a trunk. But I wouldn’t let any of these officer chaps know you had a dress uniform made up as a costume. They believe their regimental dress is nigh-on sacred.”

  He was silent a moment before finally saying, “Your concern is duly noted, Addie. But I doubt that anyone would take exception to my wearing this—”

  “As you will,” she cut in quickly, uncertain why she’d interrupted him. All she knew was that she didn’t want to talk about Jack’s regimental uniform. She’d thought herself nearly over her discomfort about military types. Apparently she wasn’t. Not quite yet. “But we could stand here chatting about costumes all evening and, as you know, fashion is hardly one of my chief interests.”

  She recognized a lilting tune issuing from the ballroom and turned eagerly toward the sound. “The dancing has started?”

  “Yes. But, Addie—”

  “I haven’t danced in five years.”

  A crooked smile lifted the corners of his beautifully molded lips and he bowed. “Mrs. Hoodless, would you consent to joining me in this dance?”

  She dimpled. “Are you not afraid I am as competent in dance slippers as I am in skates?”

  “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Should the need arise, I can always carry you.”

  His tone was light but his gaze was hot. The tactile memory of his strong arms lifting her effortlessly, his body, hard and warm, pressed against her, flooded her thoughts. He held out his forearm.

  “Shall we?”

  She placed her gloved hand on his forearm, stunned by the electricity that shivered through her at such casual contact, even through so many layers of cloth.

  He clearly felt the attraction, too, for he kept his gaze riveted ahead, escorting her wordlessly through the churning crowd. The lights from the electric sconces, shimmering off his golden hair, touched the scar at his temple. At the ballroom, he took her hand and turned her to face him.

  And then they were dancing, swirling in graceful rhythm through a clutch of Cleopatras and Harlequins, Little Bo Peeps and Bonapartes. Jack never looked away from her. His attention was focused entirely on her.

  The intensity of his regard made her heart pound madly, out of tempo with the music. She cast about for something to say. Something that would allow her to catch her breath and buy time for the blood to retreat from her overheated cheeks.

  “Mr. Wilde is here tonight,” she said.

  “Yes?” he murmured.

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s quite a nice man. Very witty.”

  “Oh.”

  “But he does rather like to tweak society’s cheek. Have you seen what he is dressed as?”

  “No.”

  “A sunflower.”

  He took a misstep. “You are teasing.”

  She grinned. “No. He really is. A big yellow and green sunflower with huge, floppy petals ringing his neck.”

  Jack threw back his head and laughed. It was a booming sound, relaxed and genuine.

  “I would have thought you would seek his acquaintance. Ted says many of your bons mots have been pilfered from Mr. Wilde’s plays.” She peeked at him from beneath the fringe of her lashes.

  “Ted is right.” There was no apology in his voice. He smiled. “But the very best bons mots were mine.”

  “Of course,” she said, responding to his good humor. “Still, I am surprised you haven’t sought him out. I can arrange an introduction.”

  “That isn’t necessary. I’m sure he’s excellent company. But there is only one person in this room I want to talk to and be with and that is you.”

  His voice had grown husky, the flavor of his Scottish accent pronounced. She could not answer the silent demand in his voice with words. Instead, she moved a shade closer to him to bask in his heat, to pretend that the arms so carefully holding her had forgotten restraint and were crushing her against him. With a sigh of pleasure, she let her eyes close and drifted, the music and the sense of being in his embrace working an intoxicating magic on her.

  They executed a quick turn and the couple behind them bumped against Jack’s back. He caught her close and she opened her eyes, surprised by a strained, hungry expression on Jack’s face.

  “We have to leave,” he said tightly, doing nothing to reinvent the proper distance between them.

  “But, Jack—”

  “I cannot do this any longer. Addie, you have to come with me. Now.” The tension was palpable in the lean body pressed close to her.

  She nodded. He let loose the breath he’d been holding and, taking her hand, led her off the dance floor.

  “We must thank Lady Merritt before we go, Jack,” she said.

  “What? Yes. Yes, of course.” He craned his neck, looking around for their hostess. He shouldered his way through the crowd, drawing her gently after him to Lady Merritt’s side.

  Her ladyship smiled vaguely past them, her gaze traveling restlessly over the crowd, searching for someone until, with a start, her gaze swung back to them. She stared in horror at Jack’s garb.

  “Jack? How could you?” she demanded in a fierce whisper.

  “Could I what, ma’am?”

  “Wear . . . that!”

  “It was all I had to wear, ma’am.”

  Darting quick, displeased looks about her, Lady Merritt leaned forward. “No, no. You don’t understand. Merritt has returned. He is to be here. Tonight! He sent a message. Though why he should feel this urgent need to see me after all these years . . .” She trailed off, her cheeks turning a brilliant crimson.

  Beside Addie, she saw Jack tense. “My felicitations on your imminent reunion. But what has my great-uncle’s arrival to do with my wardrobe?”

  “Don’t be willfully obtuse, Jack.” Lady Merritt’s brows lowered ominously. “You should be dressed differently. As something else entirely. Like a . . . a lily.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You should be dressed in the mode of Mr. Wilde. It’s what I expected. If Merritt sees you dressed as some Highland savage, he’ll assume—It will rob us of the element of surprise! Damn. He’ll be here at any moment.”

  “I’m sorry to have disappointed you and that my appearance has proved inconvenient. So you’ll be happy to know that Addie and I are leaving. Now,” Jack said roughly.

  “You are?” Lady Merritt’s heavily rouged cheeks fell and she drummed her fin
gers impatiently against her steel breastplate. “Yes. Yes. I suppose that’s best. We’ll just have to wait until later. Well, Jack, be quick about it! Begone! And wear velvet knee breeches tomorrow.”

  With no need for further encouragement, Jack ushered Addie away. Each moment the urgency that drove him seemed to grow. At the front door he barked out an order for her cloak to be fetched and a cab to be called. He waited impatiently, her hand still held tightly in his, only relinquishing his hold to wrap her tenderly in the thick, velvet folds of the cloak before leading her to the waiting carriage.

  In the dark interior of the cab, he settled her on the overstuffed leather seats. His face was turned and she indulged herself by studying his fallen-angel profile: the firm cut of his lip, the strong line of jaw and throat, the high slant of cheekbone, and the intriguing bump on his formidable nose. He caught her looking, turning suddenly so that their eyes locked. Without volition she swayed forward, wanting to test the texture of his lips. His jaw snapped shut and his throat worked. With a strangled sound, he dropped into the seat opposite her.

  Without hesitation, Addie crossed the short span of the carriage and settled in next to him, snuggling close. Their breath, in the chill, dim interior of the hansom, mingled like phantom spirits. He groaned. She smiled. What chance did his noble intentions stand? She was, after all, the woman he loved.

  It was going to take far too long to reach Addie’s townhouse, but then five minutes would have been too long. He couldn’t speak here, now. It wouldn’t be fair to confess his duplicity where she could not send him away. And regardless of all his hopes, that was exactly what he expected her to do.

  But the warmth and weight of her body nestled intimately against him; the cool silken texture of her hair on his cheek was undoing his best intentions.

  It was more than a physical craving: He wanted all of her. Forever. The self-confidence that had been growing in her for months had burst into full bloom tonight. Open and warm, brave and canny, exuberant and more than a shade mischievous, she was absolutely irresistible.