Reckless Desire: Flowers of Scotland

by Tarah Scott

  She returned his smile. “You are too kind.”

  Movement flashed in the corner of her eye. Kenna shifted and looked up into the eyes of a tall, dark-haired gentleman.

  “Good evening, my lady.” He bowed to Kenna. “Sir Stirling.”

  “Hensley,” Sir Stirling said. “May I introduce our friend, Miss Ramsay? Miss Ramsay, Viscount Hensley.”

  Kenna extended her gloved hand, as Lady Chastity had taught her to do.

  He grasped her fingers and bent low. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Ramsay.” He held onto her hand two heartbeats longer than necessary—or so she thought—then released her and straightened. “May I have the honor of being added to your dance card?”

  The dreaded dance card. She hated it. Back home, she danced with whomever asked. Here, she had to plan every dance, each conversation. Even a stroll in the park was a production.

  “I have no dance card yet.”

  “That means I have the honor of claiming your first dance,” he said.

  “If the dance is a minuet, I cannot,” she said. He frowned, and Kenna hastily explained, “I do not know how to dance the minuet.”

  His expression cleared. “If the next dance is the minuet, then we shall wait.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.’

  “Will you sit?” Lady Chastity invited.

  He bowed. “Thank you, ma’am.” He sat on the couch opposite them. “How are you finding Inverness, Miss Ramsay?” he asked.

  “It is very different in Skye,” she said.

  “Indeed, it is,” he said.

  “You have been there?” she asked in surprise.

  “I have visited Dunvegan Castle.”

  “You are friends with Laird MacLeod?”

  He shook his head. “I am not so well connected. I have a friend who is a distant cousin. He invited me.”

  “I have never been to Dunvegan,” she said.

  “I shall take you one day,” he said.

  Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. She would never be invited to Dunvegan Castle.

  A man stepped into the alcove and halted.

  “Mister Davis,” Lady Chastity said. “How wonderful to see you.”

  “Ma’am.” He bowed. “My lord,” he addressed Sir Stirling; then, to the viscount, “Viscount Hensley.” His attention shifted to Kenna, and he said. “Good evening, Miss Ramsay. It is a pleasure to see you again. “May I have the next dance?”

  “Miss Ramsay and I are about to dance,” the viscount said.

  “The next, then?” the young man asked.

  “One that is not a minuet,” the viscount answered before she could reply.

  Mister Davis frowned—as did Kenna. Even amongst the common folk where she came from, a man did not answer for a lady.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mister Davis said.

  Another gentleman appeared in the doorway behind him. The young man twisted and looked over his shoulder. Kenna glimpsed his frown in the instant before he stepped out of the way and a tall gentleman entered. His wavy blond locks made her think of Thor, the god of thunder.

  “Lord Wilshire.” Lady Chastity’s eyes lit. “When did you arrive in town?”

  He took two steps to where she sat and bowed over the hand she offered. “Just today, my lady.” His eyes twinkled. “I hoped you would be here tonight.”

  “Only Chastity?” Sir Stirling said. “I am wounded, William.”

  “Your wife is far more charming than you, Stirling. No man notices you when she is in the room.”

  Stirling gave an exaggerated sight. “Are you going to force me to challenge you to a duel?”

  Kenna blinked. Despite the nonchalance in Stirling’s voice, she noted a slight edge to his words.

  “Beware, Stirling, I am much better with a sword than I used to be,” Lord Wilshire replied without rancor.

  “You know I never let such considerations interfere with a duel,” Sir Stirling said.

  This time, to Kenna’s relief, laughter laced his voice.

  Lord Wilshire shook his head. “I will never understand what you see in him, Lady Chastity.” His eyes remained on her. “You are fortunate to have married her before I met her, Stirling.”

  “Enough,” Lady Chastity said. “There are introductions to be made. My lord, this is our friend, Miss Ramsay.”

  The gentleman faced her. His eyes sparkled with devilry. “I assumed the gaggle of young bucks were here to pay homage to you, Lady Chastity. Now, I wager they are worshiping this goddess, as well. You must be the young lady everyone is talking about.” He bowed. “William Masters, at your service, Miss Ramsay.”

  “Not the William Masters who shot the Duke of Moore two months ago?” she blurted.

  His brows shot up.

  “Your reputation precedes you,” Sir Stirling said.

  Was that disapproval in his voice? She hadn’t known Sir Stirling to be anything but cordial.

  Lord Wilshire swept her a deep bow. “I am humbled that you have heard of me.”

  “Everyone has heard of that foolishness,” Viscount Hensley said. “You nearly killed the man.”

  “In all fairness, he did try to shoot me first,” Lord Wilshire replied.

  “You seduced his wife,” the viscount muttered.

  “That is enough, Hensley,” Sir Stirling warned. This time, the edge in his voice was clear.

  The viscount’s mouth thinned, but before he could reply, Lord Wilshire turned to Kenna, and said, “I believe the current dance is about to end. May I have the next dance?”

  “You may not,” Viscount Hensley stood. “Miss Ramsay has promised me the next dance.”

  Lord Wilshire’s gaze remained on her. “Pity,” he said. “I am a superior dancer.”

  Kenna glimpsed the anger that flashed in the viscount’s eyes and she quickly stood. “Lord Hensley, we should go to the dance floor if we are to dance the next set.”

  He hesitated, then bowed and led her from the alcove.

  “You are a troublemaker, William,” she heard Lady Chastity say.

  “Aye,” he replied without a hint of remorse, then Kenna was out of earshot.

  Chapter Four

  Bryson had no idea what to expect when he next saw Miss Ramsay. As a child, he’d heard the details of how the Newhall men lost their hearts upon first sight of their future brides, but as he’d grown older, he’d concluded the stories contained is much myth as truth. The Maxwell men did love deeply. That, he decided, was the biggest contribution to the romantic evolution of the stories. His male ancestors had, no doubt, been struck by the beauty of their future wives. The notion that a person could instantly know they’d found that one person meant for them wasn’t logical. He would have liked to discount altogether the idea that any one person was meant for another. The relationship between his parents made that difficult.

  As a lad, he had never truly fancied himself in love. He’d been besotted, but hadn’t believed any of those ladies were forever. That didn’t stop him from making a fool of himself. Making a fool of oneself was another requirement of the Maxwell men. In truth, he hadn’t minded that so much. Until he reached his twenty-fifth year. Then, he learned that it wasn’t the beauties who were befuddling his brain, but lust, pure and simple.

  Now, staring over the balcony at Miss Ramsay as she danced with Viscount Hensley, his brain muddled, not with lust, but with an emotion he hadn’t thought himself capable of: jealousy.

  Not only did the man step too close during the quadrille, Bryson easily discerned the way his gaze slid down the front of her bodice. No gentleman ogled a woman. Bryson took a step toward the stairs, but was halted when a large hand clapped him on the back.

  “I did not think to see you here tonight.” The hand fell away, and his father stepped up beside him

  “I believe Mother requested my presence tonight,” Bryson replied.

  His father snorted. “That is not always a guarantee of your compliance.”

  At fifty-five, his father still cut a das
hing figure with dark hair, only slightly peppered with gray, and broad shoulders that turned the heads of women half his age.

  The earl lifted a brow. “Which wench has captured your attention?”

  Bryson frowned. “What makes you think that anyone in particular has captured my interest?”

  His father laughed. “One always does. I understand Mrs. Jones is on the prowl for a new paramour.”

  “On the prowl for a new husband, you mean.”

  “I thought she enjoyed her freedom,” his father said.

  “She enjoys spending money.”

  Interest lit the earl’s eyes. “You speak as a man with experience.”

  “Let us just say that the lady learned I was not in the market for a wife.”

  His father returned his attention to the dance floor. “I can depend upon you to show good sense.”

  Bryson looked at him. “No talk of love and the joys of marriage?”

  To Bryson’s surprise, he grinned. “There are some women who make far better paramours than wives. Besides, the Newhall men have yet to make a bad choice.”

  That was true. The three generations of women that preceded Bryson had all been of good character. But they had also been gently bred. Miss Ramsay was well spoken, but she lacked the sophistication of ladies born into society. Bryson suspected her to be the daughter of a lower lord, perhaps even a second or third daughter. For all he knew, she could be a merchant’s daughter.

  Stirling himself was a businessman. He cared not whether a man—woman—was nobility or not. It would be like him to introduce into society a woman of common birth. What would Bryson’s family think of him falling in love with a commoner?

  “That young lady there.” His father nodded toward the right side of the ballroom. “The lass dancing with Hensley, she is a Flower of Scotland.”

  Bryson looked sharply at his father. “A descendant of Robert the Bruce?”

  His father nodded. “She is a beauty. Look at that red hair. Fire incarnate.” He chuckled. “Leave it to Stirling to find her.”

  “Aye,” Bryson murmured. “Leave it to Stirling.”

  The music ended. Bryson couldn’t prevent his gaze from following Miss Ramsay as Hensley led her from the dance floor. He caught sight of her fingers wrapped around Hensley’s forearm. He led her to a private alcove on the other side of the room. Of course, Sir Stirling had reserved the alcove for his party.

  Bryson forced back a compulsion to follow. He couldn’t chance his father guessing his feelings this early on. He shuddered to think of the encouragement—and interference—his father would offer. Of late, even his mother had begun to hint that a man of thirty-two might want to consider settling down.

  Bryson’s gut clenched when Miss Ramsay emerged from the alcove on the arm of the Marquess of Wilshire. The man was a bigger womanizer than Bryson. She looked up at him and smiled. She hadn’t smiled for Hensley. But then, Hensley was an ass. Wilshire, on the other hand, was the quintessential charming rogue.

  They reached the dance floor just as the orchestra struck up the Scottish reel. He stared, transfixed, as she grasped the hands of those in her group—Wilshire to her right—and danced in a circle. She’d worn the turquoise dress, just as he’d known she would. How had he known that? The skirt flared, and she smiled broadly as they separated. She clasped Wilshire’s hand and skipped down the middle of the dancers. Her slippered toes protruded from beneath her hem, in perfect rhythm with the music. He could almost feel her breathless joy. A strange sense of pride swelled.

  The orchestra picked up the tempo and she didn’t miss a beat. To Bryson’s surprise, even Wilshire seemed to catch her delight and laughed along with her, pranced and turned with an exuberance Bryson had never observed in him. His blood chilled. The man was falling in love.

  Ridiculous. William Masters, the Marquess of Wilshire, did not fall in love. But that didn’t stop women from falling in love with him. Few had resisted that smile, the dimple in his chin.

  Had Stirling orchestrated this introduction, as well? Damn the man.

  How many men were pursuing her? Bryson shifted his gaze to the alcove and caught sight of four more men inside. Bloody hell, she had a veritable harem. How was he going to get her away from that horde? The same way he got any other woman: with the Newhall charm. Again, Bryson searched for her on the dance floor and located her turning with two other women. The song was coming to an end. If he didn’t act quickly, he wouldn’t stand a chance of claiming a single dance. One dance was all he needed.

  “I would say it is time for a dance.”

  Bryson started from his thoughts and looked at his father. He was grinning.

  He knows.

  For the second time that day, Byson’s mind screamed run! But he nodded and left his father staring after him as he strode to the stairs, then descended to the ballroom. He took the last step as the song ended, but realized that he couldn’t reach her before Wilshire returned her to the alcove where the pack of wolves waited.

  ***

  Kenna couldn’t remember having danced so much in a single night. She wasn’t so vain as to believe that men lined up to dance with her in greater numbers here than back home because she was such a beauty. Nae. Her connection to Sir Stirling was the key to her sudden popularity. Six years ago, when she turned sixteen and attended her first dance, she would have been thrilled for such attention. Now, at twenty-three, the attention was tiresome. Not to mention, the din of the two-hundred guests made her ears ring.

  She smiled up at Mister Barnes as he led her from the dance floor.

  “You are an excellent dancer,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Might I fetch you something to drink?” he asked.

  Kenna glanced at the alcove on the opposite side of the room. Crowded as the ballroom was, it would take them at least ten minutes to reach that haven. A table with champagne and lemonade sat against a nearby wall.

  “That would be very nice,” she said. “Champagne, please?”

  He beamed and started them toward the table. Kenna caught sight of Lady Phoebe and prayed she didn’t encounter the woman. After this morning’s exchange, she wasn’t sure what to say to her. When they reached the refreshments, Mister Barnes handed her a glass of champagne. Kenna sipped the cool, bubbly liquid. She did like champagne very much.

  Mister Barnes stared into his own champagne glass. “I wonder, Miss Ramsay, if it is not too forward, if you—that is, if you would be amenable—”

  Oh no. Kenna groaned inwardly. He was going to ask if she would allow him to call on her. How could she refuse without hurting him?

  He lifted his eyes to her face. “What I mean to say is, it would be an honor—”

  “There you are, Miss Ramsay.”

  Kenna jerked at the sound of the familiar voice. Lord Newhall stepped up beside them.

  “Please, do not say you forgot that this is my dance?” he said.

  She blinked in surprise.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Mister Barnes said. “The lady and I are in the middle of a private conversation.”

  Lord Newhall’s gaze remained on her. “I hope I am not interrupting anything of importance.” He winked.

  He winked?

  “I have waited quite some time for my dance.” He shifted his gaze to the young man. “I feel certain you understand how frustrating that can be.”

  Mister Barnes’ mouth thinned.

  Lord Newhall didn’t wait for an answer. He took the glass of champagne from her hand and set it on the table. “I believe the orchestra is about to play a minuet. Shall we, Miss Ramsay?” He cupped her elbow and began walking.

  Minuet? Her heart fell. She was about to embarrass herself in front of this man for the second time in one day.

  “I-I cannot—”

  “One moment, Miss Ramsay,” he whispered.

  She frowned. “What?”

  He guided them around a group of women, then said, “You cannot what?”


  “What?” Lord, she sounded like a goose. “I cannot dance the minuet.”

  “Really? But you are an excellent dancer.”

  “Reels and country dances are easy. I do not know the steps to the minuet.”

  “A walk in the garden, then?” he said.

  She blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “I do not take walks alone with men.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “You did not request a dance from me,” she said. “You lied.”

  “Are you sorry that I saved you from that pup’s advances?”

  She wanted to tell him that he was presumptuous but, in truth, she was relieved not to have to deal with Mister Barnes’ infatuation.

  “Wait.” She stopped.

  He halted.

  She glanced around. No one seemed to pay them any attention. “You were eavesdropping on our conversation.”

  “I couldn’t help overhear,” he said. “If I interrupted, I can take you back to him.”

  “Nae,” she answered too quickly.

  He flashed white teeth and her breath caught. He was uncommonly handsome.

  “Perhaps just a turn around the ballroom?” he said. “We can step out onto the balcony.”

  She would prefer to return to the alcove and drink more champagne. Would he do that?

  “I am tired. Would you mind if we rested in Sir Stirling’s alcove?”

  Something flickered in his eyes, but he smiled down at her. “Of course.”

  They started walking again.

  A gentleman nodded at him and the viscount nodded back.

  “How are you liking Inverness?” he asked once they’d passed the man.

  “It is very…big.”

  He laughed. “That it is. I understand you are from Skye. Have you visited Linview?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Aye—once. The ocean is beautiful there. You have been?”

  “I grew up there.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You grew up on Skye?”

  “Well, until the age of twelve, when my father sent me to school.”

  She stared. “You were sent away as a lad of twelve? That is terrible.”

  He laughed. “Not so terrible.”

  Kenna shook her head. “A lad should no’ leave home so young.”

  He smiled gently. “My parents visited often, and I spent summers home. Until I was seventeen.”