The Last Debutante

by Julia London

  “It must have been horrid for everyone involved,” Daria said, as if he’d just told her the story aloud.

  “Aye. In more ways than I could ever explain.”

  “Well,” she said, looking at him from the corner of her eye, “I am a good listener.”

  He laughed. “I’ve said enough, aye? It was a night for the ages, one that shall go down in the annals of family history; a night in which Geordie lost his voice and I lost my fiancée.”

  “Your fiancée! How did you lose her?”

  “In the usual way,” he said, smiling a little. “She cried off, since her brother had just been stabbed by my brother.”

  Daria’s eyes widened with surprise and fixed on him, as if she expected him to tell her that he was jesting. Her gaze did not waver, and neither did his. Jamie noticed—and not for the first time, no—that she had long, darkly golden lashes and brown eyes flecked with tiny bits of blue and gray, rimmed with black. Eyes that could live forever in a man’s memory.

  “You must not tell me any more,” she said, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “Or I shall feel quite sad for you and be resolved to help you. I think there can be nothing as dangerous as resolving to help one’s captor.”

  “Diah, I could no’ bear your help, I am certain of it.”

  “You, sir? I think you could bear nearly anything.”

  A soft smile played on her lips. He wondered if she was flirting with him now, hoping that he would agree to take her to Edinburgh or give her grandmother undeserved leeway. Daria Babcock might believe she knew the ways of men . . . but Jamie Campbell knew women.

  He leaned closer. “And what of you, leannan? How is it that a woman as lovely as you has descended from a woman who is as mad as a hen?”

  She closed her eyes and bent her head closer to him. “You’ve quite clearly become very fond of my Mamie.”

  He couldn’t help himself; he grazed her temple with his lips. “I assure you, I have no’.”

  Her smile deepened; small dimples creased her smooth cheeks. “But are you not the least bit curious to see how she fares?” she asked, and tilted her head to one side as Jamie moved his mouth to her jawline.

  “No,” he said, dipping to her neck.

  “But we had an agreement,” she murmured.

  “We have only one agreement, leannan. One thousand pounds in exchange for you.” He couldn’t seem to stop himself from cupping her face, his fingers splayed against her head. He tilted her head back and moved to kiss her, but Daria quickly inserted her fingers between them, pressing against his mouth.

  “You promised me I would see her. Duff said he sent a messenger with the letter I wrote her and she wasn’t there. I’m worried, and you promised.”

  Damnation. She had him. She’d seduced him with her smile and her beauty and her unfailingly spirited nature, and even worse, she knew that she had. Jamie could see it in the dance of her eyes, the curve of the smile on her lips. “You want my promise, lass? You have it,” he said, and grabbed her hand, pulling it away at the same moment he pressed his mouth to hers, claiming it, drawing her lower lip in between his teeth.

  She was lush, her lips, her body, all of her. He anchored one arm around her and pulled her closer. This woman was irresistible, with her smile and her glittering eyes, and Jamie kissed her with a surrender that surprised him.

  Her mouth, as soft and succulent as he’d remembered from that hazy dream in her grandmother’s cottage, was warm, and Diah, moving erotically against his mouth. The kiss was molten; it had the potential to melt him into nothing.

  It wasn’t enough—he needed more. He suddenly twisted her about and draped her over his lap, her face between his hands. She gave a small cry into his mouth when he did it, but then she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding herself tightly to him.

  He tasted her as if she were some English delicacy, and imagined tasting the more intimate folds of her body. He sank deeper into the sea of longing, riding the wave of pleasure. He cupped her breast, filling his hand and then sliding it down to the hem of her gown, finding her bare leg.

  She tried to speak, but he would not allow it. She arched her back, pressing into him, and bent her knee. Something fell off the pianoforte with a crash. He hoped it wasn’t a candle, hoped Dundavie didn’t burn around him, but in that moment, he hardly cared if it did. He was too bewitched, too engrossed in the feel of her in his arms.

  Daria pressed against him, her hands sweeping around his neck, her breasts pressed to his chest. She thrust her fingers into his hair, skirted the top of his ear, then found his shoulders, felt the tension in his muscles. Jamie’s body hardened with anticipation. He was only moments from lifting her skirts, from sliding his hand between her legs . . . but his damnably practical head overruled his groin. He did not need this English rose to complicate his life any more than she had already.

  She dropped her hand; it hit an ivory key and the sound roused him completely from his lust. With a strength he would have sworn he did not possess, he lifted his mouth from hers. He kissed the bridge of her nose, then pressed his forehead to hers, cupping her head in his hands, calming his ragged breath.

  When he felt his senses return to him, he gazed at her.

  She gave him a self-conscious smile that put dimples just below the roses in her cheeks. “When shall we go to Mamie’s?”

  Jamie sighed. “Incorrigible, you are. When I am assured I can ride, then, aye?”

  Her smile broadened; her eyes twinkled with delight. “Aye,” she mimicked.

  She sat up and tucked a thick strand of hair that had fallen from her coif into the chignon at her nape.

  “Good night, then,” Jamie said, turning away from her and her captivating smile. “Off to bed with you.” Go out of my sight, leannan, so that I will not be tempted.

  Still smiling, she rose gracefully from the bench. Her fingers trailed across his back and shoulders as she passed him.

  He did not watch her leave, but waited until he heard the door shut and then lowered his brow to the top of the pianoforte, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched against a burgeoning physical desire.

  Fifteen

  NOTHING IN DARIA’S previous experience matched a man like Jamie Campbell. Nothing.

  She’d never felt anything as fervently as she’d felt his kiss, had never felt such a burning, untenable desire to press her flesh to a man’s flesh—but Lord help her, she’d felt it in every bit of her skin . . . all in the space of a single kiss.

  A delicious little shiver shimmied down her spine as she recalled the way he’d kissed her. Like a man who would possess a woman completely, who would lay her down and take her with a lover’s determination.

  She lay on the bed in the dark cloak of night, her fingers tracing down her abdomen and back up, over and over again. She stared at the crack in the drapery, the soft glow of moonlight spilling into her room, and imagined him, big and bold above her, his hair framing his face, his body, his muscles—all of him sliding into her, filling her.

  Lord. She rolled onto her side and buried her face in the pillow. What was this she was feeling? Lust for her captor? She was mad, quite mad, to think in such a way! She was not naïve. Jamie Campbell would use her ill and then happily collect his one thousand pounds. But then, had she not used him? Had she not allowed that splendid, truly spectacular kiss so that she might get what she wanted?

  Daria opened her eyes. There it was. They would each use the other to gain what they wanted. That was the way things were done—in an English ballroom or an old Scottish castle.

  How very cynical you’ve become, she chastised herself. Now you will invent an entirely new societal rule to excuse being moved by a brazen, unrefined Scottish laird?

  She was far too reckless! What of the damage to her marriage potential? She was being held for ransom, for God’s sake—that alone would ruin her chances for a match with a good title. If rumors that she had done something inappropriate with the laird were to reach England, it would destroy any
hope of gaining a husband with even the lowest of titles.

  It would prevent her from ever getting married at all. Would she risk everything for physical pleasure?

  She couldn’t bear to become a spinster, spending all her days in her parents’ house. Oh, she was playing with fire! She’d walked into the open flame with the ridiculous belief that she’d not be burned. But she had, and it had seeped into her blood and spread indescribable torment through her.

  With a sigh, Daria rolled onto her back and stared blankly up at the canopy. She had very few options, really. She needed Jamie Campbell to protect her grandmother. Yet she needed to keep him at arm’s length for the sake of her reputation. She must tread carefully, avoiding him where she could, ignoring the way he made her skin tingle and the way her heart beat faster when he was near. Yes, Daria told herself as she closed her eyes, that’s what you must do.

  So, given her very firm talk with herself, Daria had absolutely no excuse the next day when she devised a plan after hearing Young John say that the laird was at work in the hothouse.

  She gathered up a basket Catriona had loaned her and marched outside. She’d walked past the small garden in the bailey a dozen times, and this time she paused there, turned about to Duffson, and said, “I feel ill.”

  He blinked and looked nervously about.

  “It is a woman’s curse,” she added, and watched the color rise high in his cheeks. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me some water? I shall be in the garden.”

  Duffson swallowed so hard she could see his Adam’s apple bob. Yet he seemed reluctant to leave her, so Daria put her hand low on her belly and winced. “I can scarcely run, sir. I’ve such a pain.”

  The poor young man whirled about and scurried for the main keep.

  With a smile, Daria glanced down at Anlan and Aedus. “Stand guard, you beasts.” She pushed Aedus’s rump away from her knee as she squatted down and pulled several faded spring flowers from Dundavie’s ridiculously small garden. Some of them were so rooted that she had to pull with both hands, but she managed to fill her small basket.

  Then she hurried to the mews that led to the small hothouse before Duffson could return, the dogs loping alongside her.

  “Ridiculous,” she whispered as she paused at the weathered wooden door. It was insanity to do what she was about to do, but she very much desired to be kissed again. Who knew whether she would ever have another opportunity? She pulled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and put her hand on the knob.

  A rush of fetid air hit Daria as she stepped across the threshold. It overwhelmed her, causing her to sneeze so mightily that some of her pilfered flowers spilled onto the path between the wooden benches. Clay pots were crammed beside one another on those benches, some of them containing shoots, others empty. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, but she saw a movement at the far end of the little hothouse and said, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize anyone was within.” She smiled brightly.

  Whoever responded to her in rapid Gaelic was not Jamie. She squinted and saw a small, wizened man with a scruffy beard, wearing a stained apron. Disappointed, she forgot her basket and dropped her arm. All the flowers spilled out onto the ground. Daria groaned just as the man raised his voice and began to jabber at her in Gaelic, his hands slicing through the air to emphasize whatever it was he was saying.

  “Yes, all right, I will go,” she said, backing up. “I didn’t mean to be a bother.” She bumped into the bench and sent two pots tumbling. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered as she righted them. “You do realize, sir, that I haven’t the slightest notion what you are saying, don’t you?” she called out over his blathering as she dipped down to pick up the flowers. “It seems you all believe that if you simply talk louder, somehow I will understand it.” She stuffed the flowers into the basket and stood up, dusting off the knees of her gown. “Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as that. I wish that I could understand it, for the loudness is very unkind to one’s ears.”

  Satisfied that she had removed as much of the dirt as was possible, she folded her arms into the basket handle and looked at the man. She realized then that he had stopped speaking. “There, you see? No harm done,” she said, gesturing to the ground. “Good day.” She turned about—and collided with Jamie Campbell.

  He was standing with his arms folded across his rather broad chest, and while his expression was impossible to interpret, Daria was fairly certain he was not pleased to see her.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his gaze falling to her basket of mangled flowers. “Where is your keeper?”

  “Duffson?”

  Jamie waited impassively for her answer.

  What had she thought, that he would greet her with open arms? “In truth, I ducked away. I was looking for . . . some shears,” she said, relieved to have landed on a plausible explanation.

  “Shears,” he repeated skeptically.

  “For the flowers.” She gestured at her basket.

  “You might have asked Young John or Duffson for shears, aye?”

  “Right you are. But, ah . . . they were occupied.”

  He arched his brow dubiously. “It must be a busy day indeed at Dundavie.”

  She would ignore the sarcasm and instead admire the way his voice dripped over her like honey. “This must be where you practice your botany,” she said, and averted her gaze from the hazel eyes full of suspicion. “Where is your wheat?”

  “Can you no’ see it, then, what with your vast knowledge of botany and plant grafting?”

  He had her there. “See it? But it’s so awfully dim.”

  “Oh, aye, quite dim,” he agreed, glancing up at the noonday sunlight that was streaming in from the windows overhead. “Then allow me to show you.” He said something to the old man, put his hand on Daria’s back as if he’d done so a thousand times before, and nudged her down the path.

  She was aware of him close behind her, aware of the hard length of him, the breadth of him. Warmth began to rise in her. She thought of the previous night, of the way he had so easily stretched her across his lap. She imagined his hand circling her waist now, drawing her back to his chest, his mouth on her neck.

  At the end of the row she stopped walking. He leaned over her shoulder. “There you are, then,” he said, nodding to the pots on the table.

  Daria looked at them and spotted two green shoots with ragged edges in a single pot. “Aha, I see.”

  “Well? What do you make of it?”

  “Looks to be doing very well,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Impressive.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and leaned closer to her, his mouth at her ear. “But what do you think, Daria? How shall I improve it?”

  She loved the way her name sounded when he said it. She smiled, cocked her head to one side as she pretended to consider the little shoots. It was difficult to concentrate with him so near, his cologne clouding her thoughts. “You might use more soil,” she suggested. It seemed like her parents were forever speaking of new soil mixes.

  “More soil! Aye, that ought to make this little weed grow tall.”

  Weed? Daria hoped that something had been lost in translation, but when she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, he was grinning. Smirking, really, his eyes shining with amusement.

  “For heaven’s sake!” She was annoyed with herself for being foolish enough to pretend she knew the slightest thing about botany.

  He laughed outright. “You’ve been quite helpful, leannan. Now that Fingal and I know that weeds will grow taller with a wee bit more soil, we might leave him to his work, aye?” He put his hand possessively on the small of her back and began to usher her to the front of the little hothouse.

  “You can’t blame me for at least attempting to be useful,” she groused.

  “I donna blame you for wanting to be useful, but for dissembling. A wee bit more soil, you say?” He laughed again, opened the door, and stepped through with her into the sunlight. The dogs quickly
leapt to their feet, their tails wagging madly. “Come along then, Miss Babcock. I suspect Duffson is quite frantic at having lost you once more.”

  She snorted.

  “I would have thought that the tongue-lashing his father gave him last time would have made for a keener eye. How did you manage it?” He took her basket of mangled flowers, peering at them curiously as they began to walk through the mews.

  Daria glanced away. “I suggested that I had a . . . female illness,” she said as they stepped into the bailey.

  Jamie laughed so loudly that it startled her. “You must no’ frighten the lad, leannan. I am losing men to Glasgow every day. I donna need to encourage any more of them to flee. Now then, what are you trying to hide?”

  “Hide? Nothing! Why must you assume the worst?”

  “Ach, I was right, then,” he said, winking down at her. He folded his arms across his chest, the basket dangling from his elbow. “You are about mischief.”

  “I am not.”

  “Then what is in the hothouse that you wanted so much that you would send the poor lad on a fool’s errand?”

  Daria gazed up into his handsome face and sighed with great exasperation. “I wanted . . .”

  “Aye?” he asked, leaning forward as if she were on the verge of admitting an earth-shattering secret.

  “I wanted to see you,” she said haughtily. “There you are, Jamie Campbell, you’ve forced me to confess. Are you happy?”

  He leaned back. And then a smile slowly curved over his mouth. “My, my, Miss Babcock,” he murmured. “Might I take from this confession that you find me bonny?”

  “No.” She wasn’t particularly convincing, if his overly broad and self-satisfied grin was any indication.

  “Aye, I think you do.”

  “No,” she said more emphatically, shaking her head. “At least you speak English. And I am interested in botany—”

  “I quite like to see you flustered, for I find the blush in your cheeks very appealing.”

  “I am not flustered.”

  “It’s quite all right, leannan,” he said, dipping his head to look her directly in the eye. “I understand, for I’ve rather enjoyed our kisses as well.”