by Julia Kelly
The past two years had been a nightmare, but they were over. She was choosing to change her life. Just that morning, she’d sent a letter to Mrs. Sullivan, introducing herself and enclosing the calling card she’d received from an acquaintance in London. The woman, a client of the matchmaker many years ago before Mrs. Sullivan had decamped to Edinburgh, had taken pity on Caroline and surreptitiously handed it to her at the end of a strained dinner party where most of the guests made it clear Caroline was no longer welcome. Perhaps she should have felt ashamed of needing a matchmaker, but the possibility of genteel poverty had a way of motivating a young lady.
“Our seats are just up here,” said Elsie over her shoulder. “They’re very good.”
Her sister-in-law had done everything expected of her to make Caroline feel welcome when she’d arrived two days before, even if Elsie was a little quiet. Caroline’s room was comfortable, and Elsie had invited Caroline to take tea with her in the small sitting room off her own boudoir. Tomorrow, Elsie would take her to make calls and formally introduce her to Edinburgh society.
Caroline was grateful for the assistance, and if Elsie was previously motivated by an unspoken desire to see her married and settled into her own home as quickly as possible, that was fine with her.
“We should be seated in a box,” grumbled Michael. “Harwood and his wife are invited into Sir Atwood’s box nearly every month.”
“Mr. Harwood is one of Michael’s associates from the bank,” said Elsie.
“Puffed-up snob of a man,” said Michael.
Caroline glanced around to see if anyone had heard him. One never knew in a crowded public place.
Elsie tapped her husband on the arm with her fan. “Now is neither the time nor the place.”
“If not now, when?” asked her brother archly. “If you would call on Lord Brookbank’s wife like I asked you to—”
“Is that man in one of our seats?” Elsie asked.
“Which man?” Caroline asked, craning her neck to look.
“There,” said Elsie, gesturing with her fan. “Four rows away.”
The dark-haired man leaned back in a chair with two empty ones just off the aisle next to him. Even sitting Caroline could tell he was tall, and the back of the seat was trying and failing to fully accommodate his broad shoulders.
He shifted, his profile coming into view, and her curiosity sharpened to a fine point of attraction. To call him handsome would be a mistake. Handsome implied a degree of refinement. This man was almost brutish in the attention he commanded. His square jaw had a set of determination, and it was clear even from a distance that his nose had been broken once or twice. Even in his fine suit, he couldn’t quite contain the part of him that looked like he might know how to brawl.
“I’ll sort this out,” said Michael, striding forward.
Her brother stopped at the end of the row and cleared his throat. The gentleman shifted again, giving Caroline a glimpse of his full face. Now she could see the cleft in his chin and the sparkle of his rich brown eyes. His hair, untouched by oil or wax, brushed the top of his ears, and her fingers twitched to dive into it and scrape her fingernails along his scalp until he moaned. But it was the wicked twist of his mouth, as though he were privy to a secret amusement no one else knew, that pulled the knot of desire tight in her belly.
A certain kind of woman might be happy to be devastated by a man like him.
“I believe these are our seats,” said Michael.
The man cocked his head, his eyes flitting over her brother and Elsie before coming to rest on her. Her lips parted as his gaze locked with hers. Her whole body hummed, and it took everything in her not to sway toward him as though the energy between them was pulling her closer. This was attraction in its purest form, and she almost felt powerless against it.
When the man broke his gaze, she nearly sagged in relief.
“My apologies,” said the man in a deep voice that hinted at a Highland upbringing, “but I have a ticket for this seat.”
He stood and bowed to Elsie and Caroline before producing the ticket and handing it to Michael.
Her brother frowned down at the slip of paper and looked at the fan of tickets in his own hand. “He’s not wrong.”
“But how can that be? We always sit here,” said Elsie.
“It’s Caroline’s seat that’s the problem,” said Michael, making it sound very much as though Caroline herself was the problem.
The interloper leaned over to peer at Michael’s hand. “The box office appears to have issued two tickets for the same seat.”
“Well, that’s simply not acceptable,” said Michael, gesturing to an usher standing at the end of the aisle. “We purchased this seat for the duration of the season very recently.”
The usher hurried toward them as the concert hall’s gaslights began to dim. Around them, people were beginning to whisper, no doubt noting the presence of four people gathered around just three seats. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, but her cheeks began to burn nonetheless.
She laid a hand on her brother’s arm. “I’m sure it was a simple mistake that can be easily resolved.”
“May I be of assistance, sir?” asked the usher.
“I seem to have mistakenly taken this lady’s seat,” said the gentleman affably. “If there’s a free space, I’d be happy to move.”
There was a smattering of empty seats in the orchestra section but it was impossible to tell which belonged to ticket holders and which were truly free.
“I would be happy to accommodate you, sir, if you would just come with me,” said the usher.
“I should hate to deprive you of the view you were expecting, sir,” Caroline said.
He bowed his head. “It would be my pleasure to render you this service, but perhaps at the intermission I might be permitted to secure you a glass of wine.”
Triumph flared in her. Her first hours in society and already a gentleman had expressed a desire to render her a service and speak to her again.
Caroline glanced at Elsie, who, in her capacity as chaperone, would decide whether the acquaintance could be made. Michael’s wife gave a discreet nod.
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you,” she said.
The gentleman bowed again and stepped by to allow them to sit. When he passed her, she caught the faint scent of clove and something sharp yet familiar that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the big man stoop a little to converse with the usher before allowing himself to be led back up the aisle.
“He’s a good-looking man in a rugged sort of way,” said Elsie under her breath. “Very well done.”
“Who is he?” Caroline asked.
Her sister-in-law gave the slightest shrug of her shoulders.
As discreetly as she could, Caroline looked back to scan the crowd for the gentleman. Just as the curtains opened, she caught a glimpse of him several rows back to her right. Their eyes met, and he inclined his head in an unspoken acknowledgment.
She settled back into her seat with a smile. Perhaps she wouldn’t need Mrs. Sullivan’s assistance after all.
Moray hardly registered the applause as the first actor walked onto the stage. His attention was fixed on the pale slope of an elegant neck framed by masses of soft blond twists and curls.
Lord, but the lass was beautiful.
The gossip pages had called Caroline Burkett a beauty, but blushing brunettes, golden blonds, and ravishing redheads sold more papers than plain ones. After all his years helming the Tattler, he knew to read such reports with a skeptic’s mind.
As it turned out, they’d undersold Miss Burkett’s loveliness.
He hadn’t known what to expect when he met her. Throughout her trial she’d been called all number of things: cold, distant, aloof. No one had mentioned the way her cornflower-blue eyes shadowed with discomfort or shone like sunlight on water when she was amused, but he knew that now. He imagined they would crinkle when
she laughed with joy and flutter closed when she was kissed.
Not for you.
His brain pulled up short. Miss Burkett was a story. Nothing else. Entangling himself with an unmarried woman would not be a good idea, and becoming involved with this one in particular would be disastrous. His sole concern was persuading her to agree to an interview—an exclusive one—so he could beat out his rivals.
Interview the woman, sell the papers, best the competition. If he could stay focused and do all of that, he’d have his evening paper in short order.
Yet even as Moray forced his gaze back to the stage, a little part of him couldn’t help but look forward to intermission.
Chapter Three
CAROLINE’S EVERY NERVE tingled with excitement as the curtain fell, the first act ending to thunderous applause. Despite her initial interest in the play, she’d hardly heard the actors’ words. Her whole focus had been on the man sitting a few rows behind her.
She could practically feel his gaze bearing down on her, and it took everything she had not to squirm in her seat at the thought of him memorizing every inch of her bare shoulders. Madeline had twisted her hair up off her neck and pinned it high, as was the fashion in London that season, and she wore only a simple strand of pearls for adornment.
She toyed with the necklace, a gift from her father in happier times, and quietly followed Michael and Elsie out to the lobby. As she walked, her eyes darted around, searching for the gentleman who’d sat in her seat. When she finally spotted him standing with two glasses of wine, she couldn’t suppress her smile.
He inclined his head as he handed Elsie and her a glass each. “A bit of refreshment, as promised.”
“In the confusion before the performance, I was unable to effect an introduction,” said Elsie, taking up a glass. “I’m Elsie Burkett and this is my husband, Michael Burkett. His sister, Miss Caroline Burkett, has just joined us from London.”
“London’s loss is Edinburgh’s gain,” said the man.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, dipping a little curtsy.
“My name is Jonathan Moray.”
“Not Mr. Moray of the Lothian Herald-Times?” Michael cut in before Caroline could speak.
Champagne nearly slopped onto her gloves as she reeled back. He was a newspaperman? No.
“And the New Town Tattler,” said the man with a sip of champagne so casual one would have thought he hardly noticed that the air between them had soured.
Already her initial rush of attraction had been replaced by a far more powerful emotion: disgust. It was a black, flinty anger, hardened from the white-hot rage she’d harbored against all the people who’d turned her life into nothing but a circus. The cruel ones lobbed accusations at her, conveniently forgetting that Julian had been the one who acted dishonorably. The kinder ones had described her as pitiful, weak, and broken until she began to wonder for a time if it was true.
And then there were the dreadful names. One newspaper had called her the Jilted Juliet. Another had dubbed her the Forgotten Fiancée.
She was none of those things. Instead, she was a woman who was tired of cowering. She was going to fight for her peace, and if Moray did not leave her alone he would be the first man to feel the fierceness of her finely honed fury.
“Mr. Moray,” she said, drawing herself up to her full, if diminutive, height. “Is the New Town Tattler the kind of paper I suspect it is?”
“Caroline,” Michael warned. But her brother knew nothing of her life in London these past two years. He didn’t have the right to censure her.
“I’m happy to answer the lady’s questions,” said Moray. “What do you suspect my paper to be?”
“A gossip rag.”
His mouth twisted. “The New Town Tattler is a society paper that reports on social news pertinent to the people of this city, if that’s what you mean.”
“And what of London?” she asked archly.
“From time to time, when a story merits it. Enough of Scottish society spends some part of the season in London.”
“Then you’re aware of who I am.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then you’ll understand why I have no interest in forming an acquaintance with you.” She picked up her skirts, ready to turn and flounce off triumphantly.
“Running away?” asked Mr. Moray, freezing her where she stood. “I’d hoped for more spirit from you.”
She dropped her skirts and held his gaze. If he thought she could be bullied with jabs and jests, he was about to be sorely disappointed. No one survived twenty-six years living under her mother’s roof without developing a skin as thick as an elephant’s hide.
“The only thing you need to know about me, Mr. Moray, is that I don’t run,” she said.
The man’s lips tilted up, satisfaction suffusing his expression. “Then why are you in Scotland?”
She planted her free hand on her hip. “Tell me, Mr. Moray, do you derive enjoyment from annoying the ladies of your acquaintance?”
“As you pointed out yourself, you aren’t interested in forming an acquaintance with me,” he said. “And I’m not annoying. I’m curious.”
Her laugh was as bitter as Turkish coffee. “You and all of the rest of the journalists have reported on every minute detail of my life. What is there left to be curious about?”
He rocked back on his heels, examining her so intensely she might’ve squirmed if she hadn’t become accustomed to dozens of people watching her every move in a packed courtroom for hours on end.
“Why would you leave your family to come here?” he asked.
She swept her hand out to gesture to Michael and Elsie. “I wanted to be with my brother and his wife. After my mother’s death, I stayed with my aunt and uncle for a spell, but I found there was nothing left for me in London.”
“My condolences. I didn’t know,” he said, his expression growing solemn. She might’ve thought he actually meant it if the man hadn’t already revealed himself to be a duplicitous cad.
“Why should you?” she asked. “After I won my case, I was no longer of interest. I stopped appearing in the papers.”
“I should think you would’ve welcomed that,” he said. “You seem rather resentful of the attention you were given.”
She laughed and shook her head. “ ‘Resentful’ doesn’t begin to encompass how I feel.”
“And what of your friends?” he asked.
She opened her mouth, but all she could think to say was, What friends?
She’d thought she had a whole bevy of friends before she’d been jilted, but the moment the engagement was broken they had begun to fall away like autumn leaves. By the time she was testifying in court, hardly anyone was speaking to her socially.
But she couldn’t tell this man that. She wasn’t going to paint any sadder picture of what her life had become. He might turn it into a headline.
“This is where I want to be,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Miss Burkett,” he said softly, as though he could see straight through her lie.
His pity grated on her. She didn’t want this man’s sympathy or anyone else’s. All she wanted was to find a husband. All she wanted was to be left alone to be an unextraordinary and unremarkable woman in every way.
“I don’t believe for one moment that you are sorry,” she said sharply. “In fact, I imagine you enjoy this sort of thing very much.”
“My condolences are sincere, but I will admit to a natural predilection for nosiness. I’ve taken a particular interest in you. Would you like to know why?” Moray asked.
“I say—”
Caroline held her hand up to stop her brother’s protest. “ ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of one hundred battles.’ ”
“I can’t say any woman has ever quoted Sun Tzu to me at the theater before. Or a man, for that matter,” he said, amusement shining in his eyes.
“This conversation is begin
ning to bore me, Moray,” she said.
“And here I was thinking I’d like to know you so much better.”
The low pitch of his voice and the wry hint of innuendo in his tone set her traitorous body shimmering with desire. It had been so long since she’d felt a tender caress or even a kiss. Her engagement had left her more knowledgeable than an unmarried woman was supposed to be, and she couldn’t help that her body craved the attentions she’d once known.
He is a newspaperman. He was just like all of those reporters who’d dogged her every step from court to her mother’s home, trying to bribe the maid and going through the rubbish in hopes of finding a discarded note containing legal advice, or a confession-laden letter. Journalists were not to be trusted, no matter how good-looking and silver-tongued they might be.
“It wasn’t a coincidence that you were in my seat when I arrived tonight, was it?” she asked, understanding dawning on her. She could have kicked herself for not having realized it earlier, but she’d been distracted by thinking he might actually be a prospect.
The man spread his hands in front of him, not denying a thing.
“How did you do it? We only decided that I attend the theater this morning. You must have someone working in the box office,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, his face neutral.
“And you bribed him to produce a second ticket?”
“I wanted to meet you,” he said.
“But why?” Michael asked, finally getting a word in. Some brothers might’ve swept their sisters off to safety at the first sign of trouble, but not hers.
“I’d like to tell your story,” Moray said, addressing Caroline. “It would allow you the chance to speak about why you brought suit.”
“I sued because my fiancé went back on his word,” she said. “Everyone knows that.”
He shook his head. “Most broken engagements don’t end in a breach-of-promise suit or land on the front page of the London Times.”