The Last Debutante

by Julia London

  She had looked at Jamie ahead of her, his magnificently robust, utterly virile body. She had looked at the breadth of his muscled shoulders tapering into his lean waist, his plaid spread over strong thighs, and the desire that welled up in her made her dizzy. She craved more of what he’d shown her. She craved the feel of his body above hers, in hers.

  Lord help her! She’d been so alarmed by her emotions that she’d chattered like a magpie all the way back to Dundavie, trying to force her thoughts down, to cover them up under an avalanche of words, to shut out the cacophony in her head.

  And then, when they’d arrived at Dundavie, he’d helped her down, and looked at her with such intensity that she had felt her blood begin to swirl again, and he’d said, “Daria, I—”

  But the moment had been stolen away by a beautiful copper-headed woman who spoke to him in rapid Gaelic, her gaze unwavering. She didn’t even glance in Daria’s direction. Daria knew who she was, and she watched her speak to Jamie briefly, then glide back to the group she’d obviously come with.

  When Jamie looked back to Daria, his smile was a little sheepish and a little pained. It had seemed to her that he was eager to be away from her when he’d said, “There you are now, lass, returned to Dundavie. If you will excuse me, aye?” And he’d walked away, his long stride carrying him into the keep. Away from her.

  But . . . Daria, I what?

  Daria retreated to her rooms to stew in private. She barged into her suite, eager for solitude, and almost collided with Bethia, who was removing used linens from her room.

  Bethia’s gaze traveled down Daria, then up again. She arched one dark brow.

  “Stand aside, Bethia, or I will put you aside.”

  Bethia stepped out of the way and Daria stalked past, shrugging out of her coat and tossing it onto the chaise.

  “Have you had a fall, then?” Bethia asked, nodding to the back of Daria’s trousers.

  Yes. A fall from a very great height. “I have been in the forest,” Daria said curtly. She stalked to the window and looked out. There was no one left in the bailey. It was as if the entire day had disappeared.

  “You’ll be wanting a bath,” Bethia stated.

  “Thank you. I do,” Daria said coolly.

  Bethia’s second brow rose to meet the first. “Are you wroth?”

  “Wroth? Why should I be wroth? No, Bethia, I am not. Not in the least.” She began to pull the shirt from her trousers, wanting out of those clothes, especially now with the image of Isabella, looking regal in her blue gown and matching cape, looming in her mind. “But I do not care to be paraded about all of Scotland in pantaloons.”

  “It’s a wee bit too late for that, aye? Mark me, you’ll be one of us ’ere you know it.”

  Daria stopped what she was doing and stared irritably at Bethia. “I will never be one of you, Bethia.”

  Bethia picked up Daria’s coat. “I donna wish it, if that’s what you think. I’m only the messenger.”

  “Do you want to know what I think? I think you hide behind that nonsense. Or you deliberately seek to vex me with it.”

  “I’ll no’ deny that,” Bethia said with a shrug. “But no’ in this. As I live and breathe, you will be one of us.”

  “Enough,” Daria said wearily, and sank onto the chaise. It would be just her luck to become one of them and watch Jamie wed Isabella.

  “I’ll send a lad up with water now, aye? You’ll want your bath before the Brodies settle in.”

  “What do you mean?” Daria asked, startled.

  “If the kitchen is to be believed, Miss Brodie has had a change of heart and wants the laird now. They’ve come to negotiate the dowry.”

  Daria’s heart began to sink like a stone in a turbulent sea.

  Bethia was watching her, but for once, she didn’t appear to scarcely tolerate her. She looked as if she pitied her.

  The stone that was Daria’s heart disappeared into the dark depths of lost hopes. She could feel the blood draining from her face and glanced down to work the buttons of her pantaloons. She felt lightheaded, as if she had been turned round and round. “Good,” she said at last. “Everyone at Dundavie wishes for an heir. Perhaps now you will all have one.”

  “Aye, we’ll have one,” Bethia said confidently as she walked to the door. “We’ll have a stable of them, I’d wager.” She walked out of the room.

  “One day you will not be so bloody certain of everything, lass,” Daria muttered, and fell onto the chaise. She stretched one leg out, closed her eyes, and thought back on her day. On her most glorious, stupendous day. She didn’t wipe away the tear that fell from the corner of her eye. After all she’d endured without shedding any tears, she was entitled to at least one.

  JAMIE HAD BELIEVED there wasn’t much that was worse than being shot, but right now, looking at Isabella, he’d prefer the lead to split his skin than have to endure her company.

  She was as lovely as ever, her smile as luminous as he recalled. She was speaking to him in Gaelic, her voice melodious, in a way that would soothe anyone, particularly when she placed her slender hand on one’s knee, as she had with him.

  A month ago, Jamie might have been relieved at her change of heart. But now—today—he only felt oddly detached. “Have I understood you, then?” he asked when Isabella had finished what sounded like a carefully rehearsed speech. “You believe you made a mistake in crying off?”

  “Aye, that is what I mean, darling. I was a wee bit hasty. I was distressed after that awful fight, and I thought . . . I thought that I was doing what I ought to do as a Brodie. You understand.”

  He wasn’t entirely certain that he did understand. He glanced down at her hand on his knee. “That was two months past, Isabella. Has it taken two months for you to realize your mistake?”

  “No, Jamie. I understood it straightaway,” she quietly admitted. “But it took me that long to overcome my pride.” She smiled ruefully.

  So did Jamie. He supposed he should have been happy at her change of heart, or at the very least, understanding of it. He guessed she would like him to take her in his arms and kiss her, tell her all was forgiven. He should have averred she was the best possible match for him for so many reasons and admitted that he still had feelings for her.

  Yet he said or did none of those things. The only thing he felt with any conviction was cross. With Isabella. With the Brodies and Campbells in general.

  Isabella had always been able to read him rather well, and she seemed to now. She leaned across his lap, her mouth next to his earlobe. “I’ve missed you so, Jamie,” she whispered, and lightly bit his ear before fading back to smile at him.

  Jamie didn’t move.

  Her green eyes searched his face for a moment, then she abruptly sank down onto her knees beside him. She covered his hand with hers and looked beseechingly at him. “I was a fool to believe you would forgive me, aye? But will you no’ at least think on what I’ve said? Will you no’ at least consider it?”

  How could he deny her? He touched her face, recalling the moments he had spent in her company imagining a long and happy future with her. Imagining their children, their robust estates. He waited for the feeling to come to him again.

  “I’ve missed you, Jamie. I need you.”

  The feeling still didn’t come.

  He wondered why, as he looked at her face, her smile. Her cool smile. She is winter. Cool and close and dark. “Aye, of course I will consider it, Isabella.” He could see her disappointment, but she was too dignified to cry.

  “It’s all I might ask,” she said, and pushed herself up. “I shall leave you now. Young John will show us to our rooms, will he not?” she asked, already moving to the door.

  “Aye, he will.”

  She paused at the door and looked over her shoulder. She was smiling, but it was not a happy smile. “You should have a bath drawn, mo ghraidh,” she said as she walked out the door. “You smell of her.”

  Twenty-one

  DARIA DESPERATELY NEEDED s
omeone to talk to, someone who would understand and counsel her on the wild emotions she was experiencing—the pangs of regret, the yearning for more, the need to name this thing that filled her heart. Her euphoria had completely dissipated, and in its place was confusion, uncertainty. She despised that feeling. Daria was generally confident and intuitive, but tonight, she hardly knew herself. Much less Jamie Campbell.

  She dressed carefully for supper, unsure of who might attend, certain it would be a storm of people, of personalities, of confusion. She wore her best gown, cream and gold silk and chiffon. She did her best with her hair, wishing that she could do something more than a simple knot at her nape. She donned a long strand of pearls and earrings she had been given on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday—which seemed a lifetime ago now. Another world entirely. A less exciting, duller, colorless world. She pushed her feet into slippers encrusted with seed pearls, then viewed herself in the mirror.

  She tried to imagine herself through Jamie’s eyes. She tried to imagine how she looked beside the beautiful Isabella Brodie, with her auburn curls and striking green eyes. It was a bit like standing beside Charity, whose beauty illuminated an entire room. Sometimes Daria felt small and inconsequential beside Charity; she couldn’t imagine how small she might feel next to Isabella.

  Which was just as well, really. As soon as her parents or Charity came for her, she was bound for England, as she ought to be. And Jamie . . . Jamie would marry and bear many heirs, just as Bethia had said.

  “Well then,” she muttered to her reflection, “best get on with it. Sooner begun, sooner over.” If there was one thing Daria still knew about herself, it was that she could walk into any room and make her way in it. But this would be the greatest test of all. For no Campbell, no English lord or lady, intimidated her quite like Isabella Brodie.

  DARIA HEARD THE voices coming from the great hall before she reached it. It sounded as if the entire population of Dundavie were within, and she slowed in trepidation. She heard only Gaelic being spoken, which reminded her that she was an outsider here. But it also propelled her forward. She needed to see the man who had fueled such deeply stirring emotions in her.

  Be brave. Be courageous, her heart whispered.

  Daria walked into the great hall and saw at least two dozen people within. No one noticed her. She saw many familiar faces: Robbie and Aileen. Geordie, seated with his slate in his lap. Uncle Hamish and Duff, who was dressed in a kilt and a dark wool coat. Jamie, standing a few inches taller than most, his dark hair brushed back, speaking to someone Daria couldn’t see.

  And, of course, Isabella.

  Isabella spotted Daria at almost the same moment. The woman’s gaze flicked over her, then Isabella turned her back and resumed her conversation with a gentleman.

  Daria had been in too many ballrooms not to know when she’d been cut, no matter how subtly. And that had not been particularly subtle.

  As there was no one to announce her, Daria debated how to enter the room. Then Jamie turned his head and saw her. When his gaze met hers, Daria’s foolish heart fluttered like a little hummingbird. Was she mad, or did something spark between them? Had he felt it?

  He walked toward her, his gaze on her. He was dressed formally in a black coat and white waistcoat, as stately as any English lord she’d ever seen. He was . . . magnetic. Heartachingly handsome. And Daria was aware of a ridiculously big smile on her face as he neared her.

  He smiled, too, as he reached her. “Miss Babcock. Welcome.”

  Daria curtsied from unthinking habit. For some reason it made Jamie’s smile broaden. He held out his hand. “Up, lass, before I begin to believe that, at long last, I’ve pushed you around the bend.”

  Daria put her hand into his, and Jamie squeezed it lightly as he lifted her up. His gaze slipped over her, lingering on the strand of pearls over her bosom. “How lovely you are.”

  Daria’s heart rose to her throat.

  He cocked his head to one side. “We’ve a few guests this evening, aye?”

  She nodded. She must have looked frightened, for he leaned in and murmured, “Be brave.”

  Daria couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose that is your way of warning me.”

  “Perhaps a wee bit.”

  “Jamie, I—”

  “Will you introduce us to your guest, Laird?”

  Daria knew the lilting brogue before she even looked. She turned around to see the beauty standing before her, interrupting her moment with Jamie. Isabella was smiling—or at least attempting to pretend that she was.

  “Of course,” Jamie said. “Miss Daria Babcock, allow me to introduce Miss Isabella Brodie.”

  “A pleasure,” Daria murmured, and dipped into another curtsy.

  “No, the pleasure is mine, Miss Babcock.” Isabella extended her hand to Daria. To be kissed? Daria took it and gave it a small shake.

  “I’ve heard quite a lot about you, aye?” Isabella continued pleasantly.

  Daria’s gaze flew to Jamie, but Isabella laughed. “Not from the laird, Miss Babcock,” she said, as if that were preposterous. “From Robbie Campbell.”

  She meant that she had asked Robbie about her. That’s what Daria would have done if the situation were reversed.

  Isabella turned slightly and gestured to the three men with her. “May I introduce my father, Laird Brodie. My uncle, Seamus Brodie. And my cousin, Charles Brodie.”

  Daria greeted each gentleman as if she were in a receiving line—a slight incline of her head, a remark about the pleasure of making their acquaintance. Young John appeared at her elbow, carrying a tray with filled wineglasses. Grateful for the wine, she turned to take one. But when she turned back, Jamie had moved a few feet away, in conversation with one of the men accompanying Isabella and some other men she hadn’t seen before. Isabella had shifted slightly, putting her back to Daria and herself between Jamie and Daria.

  Daria sipped her wine, feeling so conspicuous standing there alone that she scarcely tasted it. A touch to her elbow almost sent her glass flying; she turned around to see Geordie.

  “Geordie,” she said in a release of her breath. “What have I done now? I’ve scarcely stepped foot inside the room, so I don’t think I’ve had time to offend you.”

  He wrote something on his slate and handed it to Daria. Look difernt.

  “Me?” she asked, meeting the hazel eyes that were the twins of Jamie’s.

  He nodded.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I am the same as I have been for more than a fortnight.” She glanced up at him. “English.”

  Geordie smiled. He rubbed the slate clean with his arm and wrote again. Bonny.

  Daria blinked up at him; he gave her a charmingly subtle wink. She smiled. “Geordie Campbell, are you attempting to flirt with me?” she whispered.

  Geordie responded with a smile.

  Young John rang a bell and announced that supper was served. Jamie glanced back at Daria—a fleeting look—and then offered his arm to Isabella to begin the procession. Of course he would lead her in; she was an honored guest. But Daria’s heart sank nonetheless. She stood rooted as people began to file past her, following the Laird of Dundavie into the dining hall.

  Remarkably, Geordie tucked his slate up under one arm and offered the other to her.

  When Daria looked at him, he arched one brow, as if challenging her.

  Daria put her hand on his arm. “I cannot say which of us has lost our mind, sir,” she said, smiling, “but I cannot thank you enough.”

  They were the last to be seated, at the opposite end of the table from where Jamie sat with Isabella on his right. Daria told herself to look at Geordie. To remember that she would leave Dundavie very soon, and for God’s sake, whatever she did, to put this afternoon firmly out of her mind.

  There was quite a lot of talking throughout the meal—all in Gaelic, of course, and Daria was surprised to realize she had begun to pick up a few words here and there. It had also ceased sounding harsh to her. Jamie tried
to converse in English, but the Brodies refused it, responding only in Gaelic.

  Halfway through the meal, Geordie slid his slate across to Daria. Donna lik er.

  Daria studied it a moment, wondering if he was instructing her or informing her. She looked up at Geordie. He nodded in Isabella’s direction.

  “What do you mean—you don’t care for her?” she whispered.

  He nodded, then gestured for his slate. He wiped it off and wrote, evr.

  Why not? Isabella was a perfect match for the laird; even Daria could see that. She glanced down the table and started when her gaze met Isabella’s. She quickly slid the slate back to Geordie.

  “Miss Babcock, we were speaking of the great number of tenants leaving Scotland for Edinburra or beyond,” Jamie said. He had finished his meal and was leaning back, his fingers drumming on the stem of his wineglass. “I told our guests that you had offered a solution.”

  She had no idea what he meant. “I have?”

  He smiled. “Was it no’ you who suggested we drain the bog and plant a crop?”

  “Oh . . . yes,” she admitted, noting the skeptical faces about her. “I am acquainted with a landowner who did that very thing in England. He increased his arable land.”

  One of the Brodies snickered and said something that had several of them chuckling.

  Lord, she felt like a fool, sitting here as if she knew what she was talking about. Had she ever spent a more wretched evening? The infamous supper party at Rochfeld ranked high on her list of wretched evenings, but even suffering the attentions of the drunken Lord Horncastle wasn’t as vexing as this.

  Time was standing still by the time the meal was concluded and the party adjourned to the great hall. Daria dawdled, hoping to make an unnoticed escape. She pretended to fuss with the clasp of her bracelet and trailed behind the group, lingering at the door.

  “Miss Babcock?” Jamie said, turning about as his guests crossed the hall into the great room.