by Julia Kelly
Eva crossed her arms and fixed him with a look. “What are you planning to do with it?”
He gestured vaguely with the closed file. “Nothing right now.” His friend’s brows knit together, so he elaborated. “Information is power with a man like Trevlan. I’ve no doubt that it’s going to become useful one of these days.”
“Why?” she asked. “It isn’t as though you’re going to write an article about him. What’s in that file isn’t even suitable for the Tattler if we want to continue to publish. We’d be out of business for libel the moment Trevlan’s solicitors demanded we produce the girl. She’s too scared and will deny everything.”
“It isn’t for print. I just don’t trust him.”
The determined look of hardness that Eva always wore whenever she made a difficult decision came into her eyes. “What are we doing here, Moray?”
“Collecting information. This is what we do.”
“Collecting information about a man that we have no intention to run.”
“It may come in necessary in the future,” he said.
Her stare became diamond hard. “And what of Caroline Burkett?”
“What of her?” he asked, mirroring his editor’s crossed arms even though no amount of boldly squaring off with Eva was going to save him from this one.
“You decided not to run a story on her in today’s issue of the Tattler. Why?” Eva asked.
“There was no news,” he said.
“Not according to the Thistle or the Standard or even the Lady’s Companion. They all had articles about her, and do you know why? She’s selling papers.”
He sucked in a breath through his gritted teeth. “We’re not in the business of fabricating news where there isn’t any. The Lothian is better than that, and so is the Tattler.”
Eva scoffed in disbelief. “This from the man who declared that she was going to be the saving grace of a slow news month the moment she stepped off the train at Waverley.”
“Do you know what the Scottish Lady’s Companion ran with today?” he asked, his ire getting up. “ ‘Miss B— was seen walking along the Water of Leith with a mysterious gentleman Sunday.’ Do you know who the gentleman turned out to be? Her brother. That is not the sort of society reporting that the Tattler is in the business of. There were better stories.”
“She is what people want to read about. You were right,” Eva said.
Her words pressed down on him like a ton of bricks. Subscriptions to the Tattler had increased in the last two weeks, and one-off copies were being bought at nearly double the rate they had been before she arrived. Caroline was driving sales, and he should want that, especially as every paper sold brought his plans for a new press and paper closer to reality. However, something about their conversation in the park before the disastrous moment when he’d kissed her had stuck with him and had only just blossomed into understanding. He’d been whining about landing in the pages of the Standard and she’d bluntly pointed out to him that this was how she felt every day in London. Vulnerable, exposed, scrutinized. Ross’s article had set him off because he felt the closely held grip he had on the lie that was his life slipping away. He could only understand a little of what it must be like to feel that way at every moment of every day, but he was more sympathetic than ever before.
And then there was the kiss. It had haunted him for the past two weeks. He’d only meant to brush her lips, teasing out the taste of her, but then she’d pushed up into the kiss with such fervor he’d about lost his mind.
He wasn’t deluded enough to think that she’d done it for any reason other than him goading her into it, but the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest and the flare of her hips under his fingers had undone him. If he hadn’t been worried she might slap him, he would’ve dragged her down into the grass with him right then and there.
If she’d pushed him away and blamed him for trying to seduce her, he might have been able to let it all go. But instead she’d shouldered the blame and then dismissed him as merely pitying her. His temper had flared at that, and he’d wanted to grab her again and show her just how little pity he felt for her and how much he desired her.
Instead, Trevlan had ridden up like a knight on a steed to save her from a nefarious villain. He’d never felt more suited to the role in his entire life.
“This is about Trevlan,” he said to Eva.
“If you say so,” she said.
He knew well enough that any tension between Eva and him was best left unaddressed until it blew over a few hours later, so he gave her space. Besides, armed as he now was with the information Eva had dug up on Trevlan, he needed a plan to see Caroline. She deserved to know what sort of man she was considering for a husband. But he couldn’t simply show up at her house on Cumberland Street. First of all, he wasn’t entirely confident she wouldn’t have told the servants to bar him from entry after he’d kissed her, and there was also the risk that reporters might be watching her front door to see who might be calling. Hell, he’d even sent Jacinda Rigsby to wait in Cumberland Street for a few days until he’d thought better of the violation of Caroline’s privacy and put the talented society writer on a different story. He needed somewhere neutral where it would be entirely conceivable that they might both be invited. Somewhere no one would notice a conversation between the two of them.
Ah . . .
All at once it came to him, but not without causing him to cringe. Still, a man had to endure some unpleasantness for the greater good from time to time.
“Uglow,” he said, sidling up to the newspaper secretary’s large wooden desk, from behind which the cantankerous but loyal man guarded the entryway. “What do you know about the Caledonian Hunt Ball?”
“Bloody nuisance all those carriages clogging up George Street just so some lasses can put on their big frocks and dance,” muttered Uglow, leaning on dance with such disdain that it was a wonder he hadn’t spat the word.
Moray raised a brow. “More specifically, what do you know about any correspondence we’ve had regarding the ball?”
Uglow eyed him suspiciously. “All I get every day is correspondence. Letters come in. Letters go out.”
Only years of dealing with his frustrating secretary kept Moray from bashing his own forehead against the desk—surely a more enjoyable exercise than asking Uglow to do anything outside the realm of his usual routine. “For instance, has an invitation to the ball arrived? For me?”
“That came about five weeks ago. It’s on your desk. I always put things like that for you and Mrs. Wilis on your desks. Not that anyone pays me any mind.”
“Thank you,” Moray managed through gritted teeth, knowing that to ask for more specific details about its location in the various mountains of paper that sat on his massive desk would be futile.
“Caledonian Hunt Ball,” muttered Uglow. “What will you be wanting with a thing like that?”
What indeed.
Chapter Twelve
Rarely does an event capture the imagination so much as the Caledonian Hunt Ball. The Assembly Rooms on George Street—grand in their own right—will be resplendent with ladies in their finest gowns and dashing gentlemen attending to them. The night promises to be magical and memorable in equal parts.
—LOTHIAN HERALD-TIMES
Music swelled around Caroline, her lush purple skirts fanning out around her as she grasped Trevlan’s hand. It was their turn in the progression of the Broon’s reel, and her heart pumped as her feet flew in time to the steps Elsie had shown her earlier that week. It might have been fun except that Trevlan hadn’t stopped talking once through the entire dance.
It was impressive, really. The man had returned to a favorite topic, the merits of country living over city life, and every time the reel required them to come together, he managed to pick up the monologue from the last place he’d stopped. He’d either failed to notice or chose to ignore that after the first few passes, she’d fixed her gaze out over his shoulder so she at least had the amusem
ent of watching the other dancers in the crowded ballroom go whirling by.
Could this man really be her best option?
No, Trevlan was her easiest option and the one who seemed most likely to stick. Although Mrs. Sullivan continued to place her in front of eligible men when she came to call, they had been melting away in the passing weeks. It seemed as though they’d all caught wind of Trevlan staking his claim and assumed his victory was inevitable.
All but Moray.
She knew it was likely that he’d be working at this hour, but she hadn’t been able to help letting her eyes scan the Assembly Rooms’ vast ballroom when she’d entered behind Elsie and Michael, trying to pick him out among the mix of gentlemen, some in Highland dress and some wearing more conventional evening clothes. An hour had passed since she’d arrived at the ball, and now she was certain he wasn’t coming.
Never mind. If Moray wanted to stay away from what she’d been promised was the most glittering night of Edinburgh’s social calendar, that was his decision. Her focus was here and now.
The musicians finished the last strains of the reel, and Trevlan bowed his thanks before dutifully returning Caroline to Elsie, who was standing off to one side, Michael having abandoned her long ago.
“That was quite a lively set,” said her sister-in-law, fanning herself as though she’d been the one whirling around the floor.
“Miss Burkett dances beautifully,” said Trevlan.
Caroline gave him a smile. He wasn’t a bad man, just dull and perhaps a little self-centered—not so very different from many of Caroline’s male acquaintances. If a man had a certain status and wealth, the world seemed to open up before him. A man like Trevlan likely never needed to stifle his preferences in order to capture a lady’s attention. That very fact grated on her, yet she found herself ignoring her own desires for him in hopes he might decide to make her his bride.
Trevlan cleared his throat. “Perhaps later in the evening I might—”
“Mr. Trevlan, I’m feeling rather light-headed.” Elsie touched her fingers to her temple as her eyes fluttered closed. “Would you be so good as to fetch me some refreshment?”
Trevlan snapped up straight so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t click his heels together in a military salute. “Of course. Perhaps you’d like a chair as well?”
“No, no.” Elsie waved him off. “I’m just a touch overheated. It’s so close in this ballroom. I’m positive a glass of something cool will be enough to revive me.”
“I’ll be just a moment,” he said, bowing quickly to both ladies before scurrying away through the crowd.
Elsie lowered her hand as she watched the man’s retreating back. “He’ll be gone for a half hour at the least. The crush in the Assembly Rooms’ anterooms is legendary, especially around the punch bowl.”
Caroline’s brows shot up. “You sent him away on purpose?”
Elsie cocked her head. “Yes. He’s rather dull. I would’ve thought you’d be rather bored with him by now.”
Relief flooded Caroline, even though she knew she couldn’t afford it. It felt good to have someone to confide in.
“I confess we haven’t had the most stimulating conversation tonight.” Or any other night, for that matter.
“The word conversation implies that you might get a word in edgewise.” Elsie lowered her voice. “I understand why you’re trying to marry so quickly, and I appreciate that you don’t want to be a burden on Michael and me, but I’m going to give you a little bit of advice I wish someone had given me. Don’t choose the man you think you should have. Demand the one you deserve.”
Caroline blinked, so many questions flooding her mind she hardly knew which to ask first. How long had Elsie and Michael’s marriage been unhappy? Was Elsie unhappy enough to act upon it? Divorce, although still uncommon and scandalous enough to merit social exile along with newspaper articles not dissimilar to those written about Caroline, had been legal for nearly two decades. Still, it was hard to imagine anyone in the Burkett family wanting the black mark of another public court case against them.
“Are you and Michael . . . ?”
“As happy as a couple can expect to be when both parties entered into marriage treating it more like a transaction than anything else.” Elsie gave her a rueful smile. “I imagine it’s no secret to you that your brother and I aren’t well suited.”
“Why did you marry him?” Caroline asked.
Elsie shrugged. “Because he asked, and I was in need of a husband.”
Caroline looked at her lovely sister-in-law, whose wheat-blond hair capped features delicate enough for a china doll. She was sweet, intelligent, and clever, the consummate lady. It was inconceivable that Elsie wouldn’t have had her fair share of proposals.
“I was vain and turned down four men who asked for my hand,” said her sister-in-law, reading Caroline’s expression well. “I wanted a title and a fortune to prop it up, and none of the men who asked could give me both. My fourth proposal came from a prosperous merchant with a house on St. Andrew Square and a grand house he was building out near Tweedsmuir. I was in my third season, but I thought I had time. I could do just a little bit better. Until I couldn’t.”
Elsie clasped Caroline’s hand, the skin around her mouth straining and a tiredness settling around her eyes. “I’m not saying that your brother isn’t a good man or that he hasn’t been kind to me, but it takes more than kindness to make a happy marriage.”
Caroline swallowed around the emotion that had lodged in her throat. “I don’t know that I can be more ambitious than that.”
Elsie’s eyes flicked past her shoulder. “I think you can, and you will.”
Caroline’s sister-in-law stepped back, and her face transformed. Gone were the worry lines, and there was a sparkle in her eye. “Sir Gavin, Lady Barrett, Mr. Moray, what a pleasure to see you all tonight.”
Caroline’s stomach executed a flip worthy of an acrobat at a carnival. It was enough to know that when she turned he’d be there, resplendent in black, the faintest hint of his beard already showing through even though she knew he would’ve just shaved. He would look just civilized enough for a grand ball like this, but she knew the truth. Moray wasn’t a civilized man. He was raw and insistent, passionate and infuriating. He was danger, and she was barreling straight for him.
She turned slowly, resigned to the weakness in her that would drink him in. He looked, if possible, even better than she’d remembered.
He swept his eyes up from the edge of her hem over her nipped-in waist and across the swell of her breasts, which were emphasized, just as Mrs. Parkem had promised, by the slashing V of her neckline, before finally resting on her flushed cheeks. Then he grinned, slowly and wolfishly and completely incorrigibly, and her knees nearly gave out.
She bit the inside of her cheek, hoping the pain would pull her back, but it was too late. She was in that kiss again. The sensation of his hands and lips and tongue bending her to his will gripped her afresh. She could tell from the glint in his eyes that he was remembering it too.
Good. Even though he wasn’t the plan, she was glad he’d been as affected by it as she had. There was no denying that there was something between them, even if every rule of logic and rationality told her that toying with a man like Moray would leave her heartbroken and husbandless. Again.
Aware that if she stared any longer she was going to make a spectacle of herself, she dipped into a curtsy as Moray made the introductions.
“Miss Burkett, you look splendid,” said Lady Barrett. “Who made your gown?”
“Mrs. Parkem. She has a shop on Victoria Street,” said Caroline, pleased she could return the dressmaker’s favor even if she was certain Mrs. Sullivan had quietly paid Mrs. Parkem behind her back.
“I’d rather spend my time sculpting than shopping, but I’d happily venture out for a dress like that,” said Lady Barrett.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a sculptor before,” said Caroline.
“The
n you’ll never have seen a sculptor’s studio either. You must drop in when I’m working one day next week,” said the lady with a dazzling smile. “If you don’t mind a little dust.”
“Be careful or she’ll trap you in her studio for a whole afternoon talking your ear off about the differences between Pentelic, Parisian, and Carrara marble,” said Moray.
Lady Barrett swatted him with her fan. “It’s Parian, not Parisian, and it wasn’t the whole afternoon. It was thirty minutes at the very most, and you were well provisioned with tea and cake.”
“I only just survived,” he said, dodging the second hit.
“Pay them no mind,” said Sir Gavin, shooting Caroline a smile. “You’d swear the pair of them have known each other for their entire lives.”
“Have they not?” she asked in surprise.
“He was my friend first, if you can believe it,” said the baronet with good humor.
The musicians at the far end struck up the first notes of an eightsome reel, and Sir Gavin held out a hand to Elsie. “Would you care to dance? I might be English but I can make my way through a reel passably well.”
Elsie looked pleasantly surprised to have been asked, and Caroline realized that it might have been a long time since Michael had danced with her. Her brother had, after all, disappeared into a scrum of bankers as soon as they’d arrived and he gave no indication that he intended to leave the heated discussion anytime soon.
“I would be delighted,” said Elsie.
Moray cleared his throat, and Caroline realized he was standing close. Too close. She could feel the heat rolling off his body, and the scent of him—milled soap and what she now could reasonably guess was printing ink—wrapped around her.
“Do you dance, Miss Burkett?” he asked.
“I can’t claim to be particularly talented, but I do enjoy it,” she said slowly, wondering if this was a precursor to him asking her to dance. But he wouldn’t dare, would he?
“Mr. Moray doesn’t dance,” said Lady Barrett.
“Is that so?” she asked, her brows raised in challenge.