Chapter Eleven
Penelope dabbed at Flora’s cheeks with her red-coated fingertip.
“Just a touch of rouge,” she said. “Too much and you’ll look like a harlot…or as if you have some dreadful illness.”
Flora brushed off the intrusive thought that ‘harlot’ was an adequate word to describe her. Instead of giving in, she began digging through her jewelry box atop the dressing table and put on some heavy pearl earrings and a matching choker that she hoped would lengthen her neck.
“Those go well with the silks,” Penelope told her, closing up the jar of rouge. “I’m glad we decided on this blue striped gown. Rather more interesting than the ones without a pattern.”
“You don’t think it strange?” Flora felt the dress suited her, but she didn’t wish to stand out too much.
“I was just in Paris and I know for certain that stripes are in the height of fashion.”
“I do hope you’re right.” Flora stood and stepped into her slippers. “I’m glad that gloves are no longer the fashion. I’ve always hated them.”
“Truth be told, so did I. I have a pair of spectacular hands and it’s a pity that they had to stay hidden.”
Flora giggled and took one last look in the mirror before following Penelope out of her bedchambers. Andrew was already standing in the parlor, his face white and his mouth a firm line. At first, Flora wondered if he were ill. But when she reached the landing, she saw Conner leaning against the doorway of the sitting room, polishing his already clean dirk with a faded piece of flannel.
“Aye,” Conner said evenly with a nod, his eyes set on Andrew’s frozen frame. “This wee blade has butchered many a hog. I’ve even used it to castrate some o’ my animals. Do ye ken much about castration, Philips?”
“No, my lord, I can’t say that I do.” Andrew’s voice was deep and clear, but Flora suspected he was much more frightened than he let on.
“Well, I’d be more than happy to show ye how—”
Flora placed her balled hips upon her hands. “Conner, this is not the time nor the place for you to be doing this. We all know you’re compensating with that ridiculous knife.”
“Ach, lass.” Conner chuckled. “Philips and I were just gettin’ to know each other. Isn’t that right, Philips?”
She rolled her eyes and brushed past Penelope, who was watching the goings-on with unveiled amusement. “Are we ready to go, Andrew?”
“Yes,” he said, putting on his hat. “The carriage is outside.”
“Lovely.” Flora put on her cloak and looked over her shoulder at Conner. “Goodbye. I’ll possibly be late, so don’t fret.”
Conner muttered something in Gaelic. She could barely hear him, but she did hear the words, “kill,” “fancy lad,” and “join a convent.” She ignored him and stepped out into the cold night air. The first inhale chilled her lungs, but she smelled snow and the possibility of seeing the white powder covering the busy city of London thrilled her. It was even more true since it was still late fall, which only ever held the eventual promise of snow.
Once they were settled in the carriage, Flora allowed herself to relax. But she noticed that Andrew sat poker straight, his hands folded in his lap.
“I hope Conner didn’t abuse you thoroughly.”
“Not at all. He just spoke to me of the joys of wielding the broadsword and how he once hung a man for mishandling a woman in a nearby village.”
Flora groaned. “I’m so sorry. How humiliating.”
“It’s quite all right. I’ve never been threatened by a laird before. Rather novel experience.” He grinned. “Thankfully, there will be so many people at my uncle’s, no one should pay us any mind and I won’t be tempted to share my new knowledge about castration.”
Flora had put a great deal of effort into her dressage, and it would be a pity if no one took in her fabulous gown. Come to think of it, Andrew hadn’t said a word about her looks since she found him on the landing, looking white as a ghost. She crossed her arms and decided to give him some time to get over being threatened with bodily harm by Conner before she added her own hidden dirk to the mix.
Andrew’s uncle’s home was a fine manor, tucked into the edge of London. Lanterns lighted the front gardens and men in white livery helped them from the carriage the moment it stopped before the wide front doors. She took Andrew’s arm and allowed a maid to take her furs as she looked about at the fine gathering before her. She noticed several ladies from the season before, her first in London. But they were all married now, many sporting baby bumps, hidden by the folds of their fashionable gowns. Flora placed a hand on her own flat stomach, momentarily thankfully she wouldn’t be in their position until she was truly prepared.
“Champagne, sir?” a butler asked Andrew, offering him his pick from a silver serving tray. “And for your wife?”
“Oh!” Flora felt her cheeks heat. “We’re not—”
“Thank you.” Andrew passed her a glass before taking one for himself. “Cheers, wife.”
Flora giggled. “Cheers, husband.” She clinked her class to his before taking a sip.
“Look, the snow’s begun.” He nodded upward to the domed skylight above the ballroom, which was frosted with the newly fallen flakes. “I hope it doesn’t impede our journey home. But of course if it does, my uncle will be sure to host us for the night.”
“I love snow,” Flora murmured, a faint childlike feeling building in her breast. “When we were young, all us girls would mistreat Conner most horribly. He’d be out with our father training, and we’d throw snowballs at him from the balcony above. Then we’d hide from him in the secret cubbies.”
“Secret cubbies?”
“The castle is full of them. There are tunnels, trap doors, and concealed chambers. Conner thinks he knows them all, but I know for her certain there are at least three he isn’t aware of.”
“How marvelous!” he exclaimed, drawing closer. “Are the hidden places a new addition? Or were they there from the moment of construction? How many secret corridors are there? Do people get lost within them?”
Flora laughed at his enthusiasm. “I’m not sure when they came to be. I’m assuming they’re from all different times. The MacLeod keep was originally built around 900 AD, but there have been many expansions and renovations since then.”
“How I’d love to get my hands on a map.”
“Conner has several in his study in Scotland. I’m sure he wouldn’t be adverse to allowing you a look.”
“Are you inviting me to Scotland?” he asked with an air of pretend innocence.
Flora drained her glass. “You’re a fool. No one wants to go to Scotland, even the Scots! We’re a dying breed.”
“And who told you such nonsense?”
“The headmistress at the Chesterfield School for Ladies.”
“Isn’t that in York, England?”
She nodded at an older woman she recognized from Penelope’s wedding before turning back to Andrew. “Yes, all my sisters and myself were educated there. My mother thought it better than being taught by a tutor at the castle.”
“Ah, I always wondered why you didn’t have an accent.”
“I do…but only when I’m angry,” she confided with a wink.
“And what makes you angry?”
“When I’m invited to a ball by a gentleman, and he neglects to ask me to dance.”
“On your orders.” He gave both of their cups to a passing footman and drew Flora to him, pulling her toward the twirling couples.
She laughed as he flung her about, much to the disgrace of the other dancers. “You didn’t even properly ask me!”
“Too late for that now, I think.”
Andrew wasn’t a refined dancer. He lacked the simple grace that many of the men possessed as they followed the correct steps at the correct moments. But he had a certain lightless on his feet and as he spun her about the room, they both laughed loudly with delight. Normally, she would have found the simple pleasure of a f
inely executed dance enjoyable, but Andrew’s wide dimpled grin and his hands on her waist made her wish that every dance could be so good for the rest of her life.
She panted as they came to a stop several songs later, by the edge of the crowd. She had dropped her fan somewhere during their fun, and she wished she had it then. Andrew looked a bit flushed a well. He passed her a glass of iced punch before drinking two in succession.
Flora’s gaze drifted around the room toward an open side door, where she could see drifts of snow. “Andrew, how would you like to cool down the Scottish way?”
His auburn brows rose. “The Scottish way?”
“Come.” She grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him through the throngs of people and out to the doorway. She inhaled a deep breath and shivered a bit as a light breeze brushed her face. The sight of untouched virgin snow in the darkened gardens was almost magical. It glowed in the light of the full moon.
“Yes, the fresh air feels nice.”
She lifted the hem of her gown to keep it from growing damp, feeling the goose bumps rise up her legs and prick her bare arms. “It’s lovely.”
“What are you doing?” he asked from behind her. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
“Nonsense. I’m a Scot. We thrive in the cold,” she retorted, taking her first steps into the pristine snow. Each one made a delightful crunch beneath her slippers. Flora was glad the snow wasn’t too deep, as she was sure it would freeze her feet right through her shoes and stockings.
Andrew shifted from side to side, glancing over his shoulder at the brightly lit ballroom. “Flora, where you going?”
“Come on, Andrew, we’ll be the first people to ever touch this snow.”
“I can’t return you to your brother sick. He’ll stab me or have be pulled apart by wild horses.”
Flora pouted and dropped her dress, letting the hem touch the white sheet below. “He’ll be even more cross with you if I wander off in a blizzard alone and die.”
“This isn’t a blizzard,” he told her, stamping over to meet her. “The snow is barely falling now.”
“But isn’t it marvelous?” Flora lifted her eyes toward the sky, watching each tuft fall down from the heavens. “It reminds me of home.”
“It is marvelous.” Andrew wasn’t looking at the sky, but at Flora.
From the corner of her eye, she watched him observe her. He was studying her, but not like a specimen as some British girls did, and not like a fine meal as Jasper had, but like something delicate and beautiful—a glass vase or porcelain statue. She barely felt the snow grazing against her cheeks until a warm brush of fingers brought her face toward his.
Andrew stood before her, his palm gently cupping her jaw. Flora closed her eyes, involuntarily leaning into his touch. Then his free hand found one of hers and he intertwined their fingers. She wanted to open her eyes, to look at the man who had shown her such unconditional kindness and understanding. But she was afraid—afraid of hoping for something that could never be, afraid of what their locked gazes could do, afraid of him seeing what she really was beneath the silks and pearls.
“Flora,” Andrew started quietly. “Please, look at me.”
She forced herself to follow his instruction. His hair had been tousled by the wind and snowflakes clung to his lashes. Flora found it hard to keep her eyes on his. Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift over his face, which was dimly lit by the full moon, making his features seem more rugged and strong. He had always been a handsome man, but at that moment, she didn’t think she had ever seen anyone more striking.
Andrew took a deep breath. “Flora, I know that my feelings toward you aren’t exactly hidden. But I still feel the need to say them aloud.”
She felt her breath leave her body. “Andrew, I—”
“Just listen to me,” he pleaded. “I know that talking is your particular specialty and hobby, but if I don’t speak now, I fear I never will.”
She merely nodded, focusing on the steady warmth of his hands.
“I am not a duke, nor a lord, but I will be a barrister. My uncle’s made it clear that he’s going to have me take over his London practice next month. It will be fully my business and responsibility.”
Flora bit her lip. Andrew was starting a new life and while she was pleased for him, her kind had no place in his world. “Congratulations. That’s very exciting.” She tried to force a smile, but her mouth felt dry and her wounded heart wouldn’t allow her face to obey.
“I’m not finished. I will never be titled or own a castle, but I’d give you a good life, Flora. A life of mystery novels and dancing and dresses and standing in the snow like utter fools because it reminds you of Scotland.” He released her, then drew his hand around her waist, pulling her against him. She could almost feel the strong beating of his heart beneath the palm of her hand, which now rested upon his breast. “I know that Scotland will always be where you’re from, but I would like your home to be with me.”
He dipped down then and pressed his lips to hers. The motion was soft and tender and warmed Flora to the bones. She leaned hungrily into his mouth and threw her arms about his neck. The soft caresses of skin were nothing like the kisses she had before. There was a different kind of longing that spread through her body, not one of lust, but one of grasping need that felt as necessary as air. They melded into one being, protected and preserved in a sea of falling snow.
When he pulled away, Flora felt almost lightheaded, floating in a sea of haze.
“I don’t know the ways of women or any honey coated words of wooing, but I know that I care for you so deeply. Flora, it might be a little late to ask this…but I would like your permission to court you. I want to make my intentions with you known and go about things the proper way.”
“Your intentions?” she asked, content to stay in the snowy bubble they had created.
“Yes, my intentions to one day marry you.”
“Marry me?” Flora shrieked, twisting out of his arms. “No!”
Andrew blinked several times. “Well…not this moment, no…but with the law practice and your brother being in London…I thought…” He ran his fingers through his hair then suddenly straightened his posture, his face unreadable. “I’m so dreadfully sorry that I misinterpreted our time together. Your gown is wet and it is very cold outside. I’ll accompany you home, presently.”
Flora watched, mouth agape, as he turned on his heel and stalked toward the house. She rationally knew that she had no place to be cross with him for his frostiness, but it stung nevertheless. Flora was stunned by his sudden coldness, and without his close proximity, she felt the dampness of the snow seep in through her gown and stockings, chilling her. He waited for her at the door, then hurried her around the edge of the ballroom and toward the front to collect they coats.
When they were seated in the carriage, Andrew finally looked her way, frowning as she shivered. He drew off his overcoat and draped it over her legs without a word. Then he turned his attention back to the window. Flora knew she had hurt him by her sudden dismissal of his declaration. She couldn’t have him suffering over her own shortcomings, or worse, allow his affection to continue and saddle him with an unworthy wife. Either way, there would be pain.
“Andrew?” she asked timidly.
“Yes, Flora?”
“I need to explain—”
“No need. I understood you perfectly.”
She grimaced. “That’s not what I meant. Just listen to be me, please. I didn’t respond so because I don’t care for you. It’s because I care that I said those things.”
He sighed, lines appearing between his brows. “Flora, what do you mean? Is it because I’d have to live in London? Would you miss Scotland so much? We could visit as often my schedule allows.” Andrew looked so sincere as he spoke.
“It’s not that.” Flora heard her voice crack with unshed tears. The carriage then stilled by the front doors of the MacLeod townhome, but neither moved to get out. “It
’s only…oh, Andrew!” She buried her face in her hands. “I just can’t!”
He pulled her hands away and held them tightly in his own. “Why can’t you, Flora, if you care for me?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but Flora didn’t move to wipe them away. “Because I’m no good for you, Andrew.”
“How can you say what’s good for me?” He raised his voice. “I’m an educated man, Flora. I’m capable of knowing what’s good for me and knowing what I want. And what I want now and forever is you.”
“I, I…I can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t let you!” she cried, yanking her fingers from his grasp and pushing his coat from her lap and onto the floor between them.
“Flora, please…”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered before throwing open the carriage door and jumping in a pile of slush that had been created by the passing carts. She scrambled through the snow and ice to the front door, which opened just as she reached for the knob.
“Flora, wait!” Andrew called out. He had slipped and fallen upon his own dismount and was unable to get his footing in the snow.
“What in the bloody world is this?” Conner bellowed, pulling Flora inside by the arm and slamming the door shut behind them. “Bring me my blade!” He yelled to no one in particular.
“No, don’t!” Flora sobbed. “He didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Then why are ye soaked to the bone and cryin’ so, home from a party hours early?” He looked around at the entry wait. “I said for someone to be me my blade!” he shouted again.
“Flora? Flora?” Andrew called from the other side of the door as he pounded his fist against it. “Please, Flora, speak to me!”
“That bastard,” Conner growled, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. He was about to open it when Flora threw herself before him.
His Tarnished Ruby Page 11