“If tha’ is a shortcomin’, then all of the females o’ the world and half o’ the males share it.”
“Bloody hell, I hope not,” Kirk growled. “I hope her madness—for I can call it little else—will resolve itself once our courtship has concluded.”
MacCreedy didn’t look convinced. “I dinna think tha’ will be enou’.”
“It will have to be. I shall capitulate long enough to give Dahlia the romance that she wishes—or what I’m able to stomach, anyway—during the courtship phase. Once that’s done and we’re wed, we can then return to a less dramatic and far more peaceful manner of living.”
MacCreedy shook his head. “Lor’ love ye, bu’ ye dinna know much aboot women.”
“I know Miss Balfour, and that is enough.”
The valet rubbed his chin, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “She do seem to be a sharp one, I’ll give ye tha’. Jus’ look wha’ she’s done already. She had ye turnin’ sail and runnin’ fra’ port wit’oot firin’ so much as a shot.”
“Oh, she fired a shot. Several, in fact.” One of those shots had been her kiss, right before it had gone so horribly awry. There had been one blissful moment when her lips had been soft and pliant under his, so sweet and so innocent . . . a flush of heat wracked him. I must have her. And if I leave now, some other man will enjoy her kisses, damn it all. His jaw firmed. “But no matter what, I must stay and fight.”
MacCreedy beamed. “Tha’ is the spirit!” He collected the rest of Kirk’s tossed-aside clothing and carried it to the wardrobe. “The only question now is how.”
“You were right before; I shall need a strategy of some sort. One that will win the war and not just one battle. My goal is for Miss Balfour to surrender, completely and without hesitation.”
“Now ye sound like his grace.” MacCreedy nodded his approval. “The duke would tell ye to plan yer campaign fer the long run, one peppered with encounters and battles, all leadin’ to the ultimate victory o’er yer enemy.“
Kirk quirked a brow at the valet. “Miss Balfour being the enemy.”
“In a manner o’ speakin’, she is. She’s an enemy to ye havin’ a day o’ peace.”
“Sadly, that is true. She does break up my peace.” And stirs my blood. Before he’d come to the duchess’s house party, he’d convinced himself that what he felt for Dahlia was practical, and that it had nothing to do with passion. I was lying to myself. I want her in my house, and in my bed. Especially in my bed. And that kiss proved it. “She’s both enemy and prize.”
“Exactly, me lor’.” MacCreedy hung up the coat and waistcoat in the wardrobe. Then he dropped the shirt and neckcloth in a neat pile beside the door to be taken downstairs for washing.
Kirk leaned back in the tub. “So the question is, what do I do next?”
The valet picked up Kirk’s boots, collected a small can and a soft white rag from a small box in the bottom of the wardrobe, and sat on a stool beside the fireplace, where he could easily see the tub. “If ye were the king o’ a country and ye wished another country t’ submit t’ ye, what would ye do?”
“I would offer a treaty of some sort—a cease-fire so that we could converse without fuming and fighting.”
“Tha’ is the spirit, me lor’.” MacCreedy opened the small canister and dipped the rag into it and began polishing the boots. “An’ wha’ would ye offer to entice such a lovely hostile nation t’ put down her arms and allow ye o’er the border?”
Kirk considered this as he washed his arms. Finally, he nodded. “Food.”
MacCreedy blinked. “Food?”
“Something she—the other nation, I mean—likes, but cannot find. Like pears. She loves pears.”
“Och, the duchess loves pears herself, so ye’ll see them at many meals here at Floors.”
“Damn. They will not be special, then.” Kirk considered what he knew of Dahlia. “I’d planned on giving her the books you purchased in town. She’ll enjoy those, although there are only three.”
“Surely three is enou’ to begin wit’.”
“No. I want her to know that I’m serious about this endeavor. Three books will not be enough. We’ve been at war for months. I want my first endeavor to carry some weight.”
MacCreedy polished the boot’s toe. “Fra’ wha’ little I know of women—and ’tis a monstrous lil’ amount—they like it when ye do something as shows a bit o’ effort.”
“Effort, eh?”
“Aye. Perhaps if ye add tha’ to the books, then ye’ll ha’ somethin’ worth offerin’ fer a treaty.”
“But what sort of effort? I can hardly show her my skill at chess or backgammon, and I damned well am not able to write a poem, though the duchess thinks that all one needs is a pen and an idle hour.”
“Perhaps ye can read Miss Balfour a poem, since ye dinna write them. Ye’ve a fine voice.”
Now, that idea held some promise. He used to read to Dahlia when she visited him and she’d always seemed to enjoy it, so that wouldn’t be difficult at all. “To make it even better, I would read her some of the poetry she’s so mad for.”
“Do ye know her favorites?”
“Yes. I’ll have to pretend I enjoy them, though, which will be difficult.”
“Which is why ’tis an effort, me lor’.” The valet dipped the rag back into the blacking mixture. “Och, a poem along wit’ those three verrah expensive books—how can she say no to tha’?”
Kirk grinned, but then winced and touched his bottom lip. “Someone needs to teach that woman how to kiss.” And who else should do that? “Hmmm. That would take some effort, too.”
MacCreedy chuckled. “Ye think ye can convince her to let ye do tha’?”
“Perhaps. It’ll be tricky, for I can’t just walk up to her and announce, ‘You don’t know how to kiss, but I can show you.’ ”
“Tha’ does sound a wee bit off-puttin’.”
“More than a wee bit. I’ve already insulted her once. She won’t be happy if I do so again.”
They were silent a moment, and then the valet said in a cheery voice, “I’m certain ye’ll find a way, me lor’.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” Kirk said in a dry tone.
“Och, I know ye will find a way, fer if ye dinna teach Miss Balfour how to kiss, ’tis highly likely someone else mi’ do it fer ye.” The valet caught Kirk’s expression and threw up a hand. “Dinna look so! I’m only tellin’ ye the truth.”
Kirk growled, and then held his breath and plunged underwater. When he came up a moment later, he pushed his hair from his face and reached for the soap. “I will teach her how to kiss.”
“Tha’ is verrah wise o’ ye, me lor’.” MacCreedy finished polishing one boot and set it before the fire before he picked up its mate. “ ’Tis a pity ye canno’ find it in yerself to answer some o’ her other wishes. Mayhap I can write some poetry fer ye.”
“Can you write poetry? Good poetry?”
The valet pursed his lips. After a moment, he asked, “Wha’ rhymes wit’ ‘raven tresses’?”
“Pink dresses.”
MacCreedy beamed. “There ye go, then! There once was a lass name Balfour, who—”
“No. And her hair’s brown mingled with golden, not raven.”
“ ’Tis more dramatic as ‘raven.’ ”
“I think I prefer your previous plan where I just read some of her favorite verses, hopefully without laughing aloud.” Kirk rinsed the soap from his hair. As he straightened, his placed his feet against the tub to stabilize himself. Instantly, ice-hot pain shot through his calf to his knee.
MacCreedy tsked. “ ’Tis yer leg?”
Kirk nodded, willing the pain away. Slowly, it subsided, assisted by the warm water. He rubbed his shin, eyeing the thick, ropey scar. “MacCreedy, you said you could help my leg? Make it more flexible?”
“Aye. Yer injury is like many o’ the grievous wounds caused by cannon injuries tha’ I saw in Spain. When ye were hurt, yer muscles drew up, tryi
n’ to protect the ones as weren’t injured. When ye returned home, yer leg pained ye when ye used it, so ye dinna move yer leg. So all o’ yer muscles lost their strength, e’en the healthy ones.”
“My physician warned me not to use my leg. He said the muscles were weak and should never be taxed.”
“Aye, whilst they were healin’. But ye didna stretch yer muscles back oot after they’d healed, so they stayed short and tight. And now they dinna remember wha’ ’tis like to be healthy.”
“Damn my physician.”
The valet shrugged. “If he dinna work wit’ war wounds, then he had no way o’ knowin’.”
“I suppose so.” Kirk propped his leg on the side of the tub and glared at the red scar that traveled from his calf, around his shin, to end at his knee. “What if I exercise it now?”
“As it’s been a while, ’twill hurt like ye’ve ne’er hurt before, but wit’ time, the muscles will stretch and strengthen again.”
“How long would it take?”
“To get back to full strength? A full year, mayhap more.”
“What can you do in two and a half weeks? Before the duchess’s Christmas Ball?”
MacCreedy whistled. “Tha’ is no’ much time.” He looked at the injured leg thoughtfully. “Bu’ ye walk a good bit, so there still be good muscle. If ye worked hard, ye would see a difference in those two weeks.”
“Could I go without the cane? I can walk short distances now, but my knee gives out and I fall.”
“We can strengthen tha’ muscle, we can.” He nodded. “Ye should be able to leave yer cane behind.”
“And I’ll have more mobility?”
“Tha’ ye will. Wit’ time ye’ll be able to do many things ye canno’ do now. Ye could ride, hunt, and stride aboot like anyone else. Ye may limp, but no’ much, and eventually e’en tha’ may disappear.” MacCreedy put the second boot before the fire with its mate and closed the can before he regarded his employer with a long, level look. “Fer quick results, ye’d ha’ to work hard, ye would.”
“I’m willing.”
“E’ery day wi’oot fail.”
“Of course.”
“It’ll hurt ’til ye think ’tis afire.”
“Damn it, stop trying to talk me out of it. We’ll start in the morning.” When MacCreedy didn’t answer, Kirk added firmly, “At dawn.”
The valet grinned and stood. “Tomorrow ’twill be a loverly day fer war.”
“It had better be, for a major campaign has just begun.” And he wouldn’t stop until Dahlia was his.
Seven
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
It has been two days since Kirk and Miss Balfour stopped speaking to one another, and I still haven’t found out why. After dinner last night, desperate to discover the true state of affairs, I even attempted to pull Miss Balfour aside and speak with her. But Lord Dalhousie would not give up his position at her side, so the effort was a total loss.
I suppose I should be glad of that, but while he’s an acceptable parti, he’s not Lord Kirk. Furthermore, the viscount’s presence did nothing to satisfy my growing curiosity.
Humph.
* * *
Dahlia paused on the crest of the hill, glancing up at the sun where it hid behind the clouds, well above the horizon. The sun had barely been up when she’d slipped from her warm bed, so she surmised that she’d been walking well over an hour, perhaps even two.
The chilly wind tugged her hair free from the brim of her bonnet, sending a loose curl across her cheek. She shoved the thick strand back into her bonnet and wished she’d pinned her hair more securely. The wind was stronger now than when she’d left the castle, strong enough to stir her skirts even though they were weighted down by a wet and muddied hem.
She shivered and rubbed her arms, and then tucked her mittened hands back into her pockets and walked down the hill toward the castle. Though it was quickly getting too cold for comfort, she’d needed this walk. An endless circle of painful, cringe-worthy thoughts and half-remembered dreams had shoved her from her warm bed at dawn, bundled her into her best wool walking dress and thick woolen coat, and hurried her out of the castle as if pursued. She’d stopped in the kitchen only long enough to tuck a biscuit in her pocket before she’d hurried off, walking as fast as she could without actually running.
But try as she might, it was impossible to run away from her own thoughts. Ever since her unfortunate kiss with Kirk, she’d been unable to stop thinking about that moment, restlessly going back and forth between all the painful memories she wished to forget: the anger in his eyes, the pain when their mouths had bumped, the harsh words they’d exchanged. Yet like a moth to a flame, she found herself reliving the moment over and over.
Why, oh why, did I kiss him? she asked herself yet again. She’d never wished more that the ground would open up and swallow her whole than at that moment. Her first kiss, and she’d ruined it. He must think me every kind of an awkward fool.
The thought burned, yet she couldn’t stop rethinking it. Before Kirk had botched things up with his horrid proposal, she’d enjoyed his company and had grown to value his opinions. During her visits to his library, they’d discussed books and authors, politics and religion, culture and history—he knew something about almost every topic. Over the course of those discussions she’d come to respect him and his intellect, which was why it had hurt so much to discover his low opinion of her and her family. His arrogance should have killed her growing feelings for him, but her reaction to their botched kiss had made her realize that, ludicrous though it was, she still cared what he thought.
The whole episode made her angry: she was angry with Kirk for being so ill-tempered and rude, and she was angry with herself for allowing her inexperience to show so clearly. What he must think of me— She grimaced. Oh, just stop thinking about it! Just. Stop.
But she couldn’t.
She’d had a glorious walk over the green hills and through the yellowed leaves, the ground spongy and fragrant, but although she was now chilled and pleasantly tired, it still wasn’t enough to quiet her thoughts. Scowling, she hurried on, tucking her chin down so that her coat collar provided some shelter from the wind.
Perhaps the reason she cared about Kirk’s opinion wasn’t because of some hidden morass of feelings, which was a ridiculous idea, but because of something far simpler. She knew him better than anyone else at Floors Castle, so in a way, perhaps he represented home.
She paused on the pathway and considered this. That actually made sense. Finally, a thought that is helpful! I should also remember that, despite his ridiculous reaction, I didn’t permanently maim the poor man, either.
For her imagination had gone that far and beyond. She’d actually been relieved when he’d come limping into the foyer on his way to the breakfast room the following morning, looking only slightly the worse for wear. True, his lip was slightly swollen, and she saw him wince when he sipped some orange juice, but other than that, his limp was no worse than usual, nor did he appear with a black eye or any other horrifying mark from their kiss.
The true tragedy was that the kiss, so wretched and imperfect and horrid, had been her first kiss ever. She’d dreamed about that first kiss, and yearned for it, imagining every moment to be perfect, lovely, and breathlessly sweet. Never once, in the thousands of times she’d imagined it, had she seen herself grievously injuring the man who’d kissed her.
Dahlia grimaced and tried not to reimagine his exact expression, which seemed to be burned into her memory. What was I thinking, to allow that kiss to begin with? But she hadn’t been thinking. Not even a little. He’d kissed her, and the last thing she could do was think, so she’d kissed him back with every drop of enthusiasm she’d possessed.
Now that she thought about it, that bothered her even more than her humiliation. I liked his kiss. But how can that be? I don’t even like him. He’s rude and opinionated and— She shook her head. He’s also handsome, and intelligent, and even funn
y when the mood strikes him. Heavens, why is this so complicated?
The wind picked up, rustling the grass and making her shiver as it tugged at her bonnet. She hurried on down the path, glancing up at the sky. During her tramp the clouds had gathered, pushed by a growing wind, and the distinctive taste of snow was in the air. The unusual warmth they’d been blessed with during the earlier part of the week was gone, and the bite of winter nipped at her nose and cheeks.
She crossed a small rise and came up behind the castle, the beautiful sweep of lawn glistening like a discarded ribbon of green silk. On one side was a sparkling lake, topped now with small whitecaps as the wind teased it. The trees on the island were almost bare of leaves, so she could see a glimpse of a folly. Leading up to the small lake, a winding river sluggishly rolled, disappearing into a thick wood. Here and there, the duchess’s army of gardeners had placed gorgeous flower beds and trees that exquisitely augmented the natural slopes.
Dahlia’s gaze moved back to the castle, her trepidation returning.
She’d avoided Kirk since their unfortunate kiss, but it was only a matter of time before he found an opportunity to speak to her. And he wished to do so; she could tell by the way he watched her. Fortunately, the duchess had planned activities for practically every minute of every day—pall-mall one afternoon, followed by a pleasant evening of whist, and a carriage ride the next afternoon to see the ruins of old Roxburghe Castle, followed by a late tea beside the maze. Although guests were encouraged to partake of only the events they’d enjoy, Dahlia had attended every one. To her surprise, Kirk had done the same, and each time seemed bent on speaking to her. She’d made certain he hadn’t, though, for she had no desire to discuss something she wasn’t even certain she understood.
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