Mrs. Ross snorted. “You’ll have the male population of Scotland falling at your feet. Do you think it a matter of congratulation?”
“A masterly set-down of the male population of Scotland. Let us go, Mrs. Ross, and count them as they fall.”
Her host and hostess, regal and instantly recognizable even in their masks and domino cloaks, claimed not to recognize her as they welcomed her to the ballroom.
Decorated with flowers and greenery and brightly lit by chandeliers—even at dusk—the room seemed a perfect setting for the Roxburghs and their bright, unidentifiable guests. Although hardly a “crush” by London standards, the ball was clearly one of the best attended social events of the year, and the masked aspect gave it just a hint of pleasant wickedness. A frisson of excitement whispered around the room.
Masked gentlemen advanced upon her with varying degrees of predatory intent, which would have been exciting had Mrs. Ross not constituted herself as dragon for the evening. Etta soon found herself largely surrounded by matrons and very young girls, until she murmured a civil excuse and headed for the champagne table.
Again, gentlemen detached themselves from all corners of the room and swarmed in her direction. This was better…
Until Mrs. Ross caught up with her. “You’ll be wanting some lemonade.”
“I’ll be wanting some champagne to lighten my evening,” Etta retorted, seizing two glasses and thrusting one into Mrs. Ross’s unwilling hand. “Enjoy. And since you know everyone, perhaps you’d point out Mr. Robert Ogilvy.”
Mrs. Ross blinked. “What do you want with him?”
With difficulty, Etta refrained from casting her eyes to heaven. “I want to seduce him.”
Mrs. Ross nearly dropped her glass. A faint moan issued from her lips.
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Mrs. Ross!” Etta exclaimed, only half laughing. “I’ve never even met the man! I wish to discuss with him the possible purchase of Ardbeag. I heard he might be interested.”
“Oh no, he couldn’t do that,” Mrs. Ross said. “He has no money.”
“Well, if you’d be so good as to introduce us, I can discover the truth for myself.”
“He won’t be here. He never attends social events.”
“But the Duke told me he was coming.”
“Really? Well…” Mrs. Ross looked around the room, and eventually nodded toward a brown-cloaked figure with his back to them. He seemed quite young, with a narrow back and red hair slightly askew over the strings of his mask. “That might be him. But we’re not on such terms that I could introduce you. Why don’t you wait for the unmasking?”
Under Mrs. Ross’s repelling stare, two of the nearest approaching gentlemen effaced themselves.
“What is the point in our being here,” Etta burst out, “if we are to dance with no one and speak to no one?”
“I’m protecting you from yourself as much as from them,” Mrs. Ross said loftily. Through the slits of her puce velvet mask, her eyes gleamed with righteous determination. “You may not be aware that your reputation has preceded you. Here, you’re like fresh blood to a swarm of midges, and I’d not have you bitten.”
For an instant, Etta stood speechless. Indignation, outrage and disappointment choked her. But she was damned if she would be ashamed.
She bit her tongue to prevent a devastating retort, for she was still aware that Mrs. Ross spoke and acted through kindness, however misguided.
Etta swallowed. “Midges,” she managed at last. “That is not an analogy I care to continue.” She swung away from the older woman to do what she should have done from the beginning—separate herself completely from her self-appointed and quite unnecessary duenna.
However, as she spun around, she almost collided with a man standing behind her. Her gaze travelled up, and up, over a tall, broad-chested, red-cloaked figure. His mask, black and unadorned, gave him more the appearance of a bandit than a gentleman in disguise. And his large, dark eyes, after a quick pass over her body, fixed on her face.
Since he didn’t speak, or even move, Etta said, “Well, he doesn’t look much like a midge to me.”
His dark eyes didn’t waver. She had never seen anyone stand quite so still before.
Unaccountably flustered, she inquired as lightly as she could, “May I help you, Sir Red Domino?”
As though pulling himself together, the stranger gave a jerky but not ungraceful bow. “Perhaps I may serve you instead.” He offered his arm.
Mrs. Ross glared. “I don’t—” she began.
“Perhaps you may,” Etta said, deliberately laying her hand on the gentleman’s arm. Without looking at Mrs. Ross, she murmured, “Excuse me,” and walked away. She caught the scowls of a few gentlemen, aimed directly at her savior, who, however, paid attention to no one but her.
“How exactly may I serve you?” he asked.
“You already have,” she replied lightly. “Even when I was seventeen, I never had a more repelling duenna.”
“And yet I’m sure you could have shaken her off more quickly if you’d tried.”
“I believe it would have required a degree of rudeness that is still beyond me. Besides, it’s only now the orchestra has begun a waltz. Do you waltz, Sir Red Domino?”
“Badly. But if you’re prepared to take the risk, so am I.”
Etta’s lips twitched. “It’s not the most gracious invitation I’ve ever received.”
“The invitation was yours.”
Etta laughed. “So it was. Are you offended by my forwardness?”
“Not in the slightest. And even if I were, I’d blame Mrs. Ross.”
“Oh no, you saw through her disguise. Do you see through mine, also?” She knew she was flirting too much for such a short acquaintance, but in escaping Mrs. Ross, she felt a little like an arrow released from a bow. Besides, there was something about this abrupt stranger that intrigued her. He was too easy to flirt with.
“Yes,” he said with a trace of grimness that took her by surprise, but his arm encircled her waist at that moment, swinging her into the dance. Her stomach gave an excited little lurch. It had been a long time since a man’s nearness had given her such butterflies at a first touch.
Of course, he had a fine body, tall and broad, almost too large. She had to crane her neck to meet his intense gaze. His black hair was too long to be fashionable, and beneath the cloak, his black coat and knee-breeches looked a little faded. His cravat was white enough, but it had been carelessly tied by a man immune to fashion.
“Then you have me at a disadvantage,” she said. “I’m fairly sure we have never met.”
“We haven’t,” he agreed. “Lady Derwent.”
“Hush, you’re giving me away!”
“Everyone can spot a stranger in this part of the world. What brings you here?”
“It’s a ball. I was invited.”
“I meant to Scotland.”
“I know you did. I…” She broke off as the stare of a nearby dancer caught her attention. As she met his gaze, he smiled with delight. Even in the black mask half-covering his face, his identity was obvious to her. George Beddow. “Good Lord.”
“You have found an acquaintance,” her partner said without emphasis.
“I believe I have.”
“You seem surprised.”
“Oh no, very little surprises me. Except you.”
He blinked. “Me? How?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
He stepped forward in the dance, moving her backward, and as they turned, he held her closer than before. The heat of his body combined with his clean, earthy male scent. The arm around her was strong, his bare fingers rough against her fine gloves, like the hands of a working man. And yet he spoke like a gentleman, a bare hint of soft Scots in his accent. Even as he intrigued her mind, desire thrummed through her, hot, insistent.
“Then I ask again,” he said softly. “How may I serve you?”
Keep dancing with me, unmask me, kiss me in the moonlight…
Sweep me off my feet and into bed… And God, he would be good. Passion, wild and untamed, blazed in the intensity of his eyes, lurked behind every controlled movement as he stepped and turned.
Control. A twinge of fear twisted through her, for she sensed that with this man, she was not in control. Self-preservation dragged her back to reality. This was not an attraction she should indulge. It should remain mere fantasy.
She drew in her breath, remembering why she was here. “Perhaps you might indeed help me. You’re a man who sees through disguises, after all. When our dance is finished, could you possibly introduce me to Mr. Robert Ogilvy?”
Finally, she had surprised him. He blinked, and let a full second pass before he said, “What do you want with him?”
“Then you know him?”
“Aye.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“God, no.”
Etta frowned. “You don’t like him much, do you?”
“He’s nobody. Why would you want an introduction?”
“I have a proposition for him.”
The man stared at her. He stopped dancing just as the music came to a close, though Etta wasn’t sure the two events were connected. He didn’t release her. If anything, his fingers tightened on hers. It was she who, baffled, stepped away from him.
And then two men almost hurled themselves between them, both pleading for the next dance, until a third appeared and begged her to ignore them and accept him instead. And when she had an instant to look for her erstwhile partner again, he had vanished.
Chapter Two
I have a proposition for him.
No doubt, the first meaning Robert Ogilvy attributed to those words said more about his own lustful thoughts than the lady’s reputation. Because, of course, the famed beauty was hardly so short of conquests that she needed to make men offers. And even if she were, why would she pick a stranger, a nobody with little wealth, land or influence? She wouldn’t, of course, and so her proposition had to involve something other than her bed, although dancing with her—just looking at her—had driven most other ideas from his head.
Rob Ogilvy had never been short of female companionship when he’d wanted it. He liked women in every way, from friends like the Roxburgh ladies, to mature seductresses and willing young maids. They’d understood his intentions perfectly, and vice versa. But as the throng of male admirers separated him from Henrietta Derwent, he felt as though the ground of his certainties were rocking beneath his clumsy feet.
He turned on his heel and walked away, trying not to wish that her gaze followed him across the floor. She had no reason to look at him.
No, her proposition had to be something else entirely, more likely something to do with George Beddow. She must have known of George’s connection with him and want to buy his silence, or his support. He was almost sure her surprise upon seeing George during the waltz had been genuine. Except she’d taken it all in her stride, as if her lover’s presence here was of no great moment. Which was not what Euphemia’s letter had implied, at all. Which meant either he understood nothing, or Lady Derwent was a far better actor than most.
And what the devil did it matter? He should never have gone near her in the first place, except that Chastity, the Duchess, had let slip the identity of the lady in the blue domino, holding her own against the formidable Mrs. Ross. When he’d caught sight of her again near the refreshment table, he’d been curious enough to approach her. He’d been aware only of a trim figure and a manner at once vivacious and graceful, which had made him wonder at Mrs. Ross’s interest in such a woman.
Until she’d spun right into his path and he’d gazed down at her masked face. Her large, lustrous eyes had sparkled with anger, her luscious lips slightly parted to release her quickened breath. In barely suppressed fury, she was magnificent, but it was the genuine distress he read in her eyes that truly caught his attention. And then, masked or not, her beauty had slammed into him, knocking aside his wits, and he’d understood perfectly how this woman had eclipsed George Beddow’s duty to some insipid debutante barely out of the schoolroom. After all, she was pretty much eclipsing Rob’s own duty to his sister.
No, he shouldn’t have gone near her. He should have stuck to his original plan of collaring George and sending him back south. He’d even asked the Duke to point him out with that very intention.
A hasty glance found George restoring his erstwhile waltz partner to her mother and then swerving almost immediately toward the ante-room where card tables had been set up. Purposefully, Rob followed him, determined not to let his eyes stray to Lady Derwent. His encounter with her had left him surprisingly rattled.
Although not a great socializer, Rob recognized many of the masked card players whom he’d known since childhood. Some, of course, were more easily identified, since, away from the ballroom, they’d torn off their masks to play in comfort. One of those was George, who lounged at the faro table, smiling, his mask dangling from his careless fingers as he watched the play.
Rob strolled closer, in time to hear one of the younger men say, “I had the pleasure of dancing with your wife earlier, Beddow. You are a lucky dog.”
Rob stared. Wife? His fingers curled into fists at his side. Dear God, he was too late. Beddow had not just ruined his chances with his heiress, he’d married the widow! He couldn’t quite understand his fury at that, for it really had nothing to do with him. Yet somehow, the idea of that beautiful woman married to this smug little fatwit was an abomination that he took personally. No wonder she hadn’t looked too pleased to see George. She’d probably discovered what a disastrous mistake she’d made.
“Oh, I am,” Beddow agreed. “Ten thousand pounds, I assure you. And not only that, I’ve just seen the divine Henrietta under this very roof. I am indeed blessed.”
Ah. So, he’d married the heiress, not the widow. But distaste at George’s attitude drowned Rob’s inexplicable relief before it was properly born. He acted from sheer instinct, even as one of the young men said admiringly, “On your wedding trip, too. You are a bounder, Beddow.”
Rob pushed forward and grasped George by the shoulder. “What a pleasure,” he said with barely disguised sarcasm. “I’m your kinsman, come specially to make your acquaintance.” He hauled the stunned young man to his feet.
“Kinsman?” George said in alarm. “Sir, I don’t—”
“Let us become acquainted,” Rob said between his teeth, marching George away before he could collect his scattered wits. After a stunned few trotting steps at his side, George pulled back, but Rob merely tightened his grip. “Don’t, or I’ll throw you across the room and be done.”
“Sir, I don’t know who the devil you are, but you are no kinsman of mine!”
“I only wish that were true.” Still holding his arm, Rob pushed open the hidden door in the ante room wall and dragged George through. He hadn’t run wild about this house with the Roxburgh children for nothing.
“Oh God, are you some relative of Amelia’s?” George said in dismay as Rob shoved him along a narrow passage and into a half-lit room used by the servants. “It was only jest, you know. I’d never so dishonor my wife. I assure you, I’d never touch another lady in these circumstances, not even the divine Henri—”
“You,” Rob interrupted with contempt, “are too damned free with lady’s names.” With which, he swung back his fist and struck his nephew in the face. “Watch your mouth.”
George staggered back and fell against a sideboard, rattling crockery and trays full of glasses. As Rob followed purposefully, George raised his hands in terror. “Wait, wait!” he pleaded.
Rob bent and wrenched the black domino off George’s person. “Only until tomorrow morning, when you and your wife will leave here. Go north or south, I don’t care which. But trust me, if you remain anywhere near Inverness, you’ll be sorry.”
With that, Rob strode from the room. How had Euphemia managed to bring up such a paltry little dirty dish? She hadn’t, of course. Lord Beddow was
to blame. At any rate, Rob was fairly certain he’d taught him one lesson at least… But damn Euphemia, did she have to sit on her letters for so long before sending them? Couldn’t she have written another to tell him the wedding had actually taken place?
As for Lady Derwent… Had she really hoped to use him to facilitate her liaison with George? What the devil did she see in the boastful little bounder?
Rob reached the main part of the house, which was quiet since everyone was in the ballroom. Still carrying George’s bundled domino, he strode into one of the smaller reception rooms. There, the old Duke had always kept writing materials for callers to leave messages when the family was not at home. Thankfully, the tradition remained.
On some level, Rob was aware he should stop and think. He wasn’t consciously planning any of this and he knew from experience that this was how he landed himself in all sorts of trouble. But he had no desire to stop now. He wanted to hurt himself. Or the seductive widow. Both. And he had no idea why.
***
Free of the quelling Mrs. Ross, Etta’s evening improved dramatically. She was in her element, dancing and chatting and flirting. And if the odd, abrupt stranger in the red domino troubled her thoughts too often, well that was exciting, too. Despite her knowledge that it was impossible in this too-close-knit community, she craved a little dalliance…although she had the feeling that there would be nothing “little” about any dalliance with that particular gentleman.
A frisson of desire and fear shook her. But she knew an intrigue with him was only fantasy, a delicious background to her enjoyment of the evening, the company and the dance. She would not indulge her attraction here, though she might well have been tempted to do so in London. The Scottish Highlands just did not supply the necessary anonymity for an affaire.
The unexpected presence of George Beddow was the one blot on Etta’s evening. Once, she’d found his mixture of youth and confidence charming and compelling. She’d even contemplated a night of love with him, until she’d discovered his engagement. But her rejection hadn’t stopped him from spreading rumors of his imagined conquest, and Etta had absolutely no desire to cause the new Mrs. Beddow embarrassment. Fortunately, she saw no more of him after he entered the card room, so she felt quite at liberty to enjoy herself.
Scandalous Lords and Courtship Page 22