Forgetting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  She was glad of her chemisette, as it hid the swath of red rage creeping up her chest toward her neck. The words, far more pleasant than the company at this table, formed in her mind. Instead she said dully, “I beg your pardon, sir, have we been introduced?” The young man’s cheeks colored at having been called out for speaking to a member of the peerage about a topic so personal, and worse, without first being introduced. When he made no answer, she spooned a generous helping of veal ragu onto her plate from an unguarded dish, an equally egregious gaffe in manners, as ladies weren’t supposed to serve themselves.

  The supper dragged on for what seemed like hours. People felt free to stare, but no one struck up a conversation with her. The masks of civility they’d worn when greeted at the door had come off now that she was no longer in close proximity to the duke. If only Alex and Ian would arrive, that at least would take the focus off of her for a blessed moment.

  His Grace rose from the table, inspiring a wave of men to stand. He walked the length of the dining hall and paused at her chair. “Lady Langley, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the ballroom?”

  God bless this man whose position allowed him to defy social convention and who, without words, reminded everyone in the room of their manners. After all, a snub at dinner was bad form.

  She danced with His Grace and with Bulford. But most of the time, she stood in the corner with a fuming Lucy, their backs turned to the disdainful glares.

  “They’ll be playing the first waltz next,” Lucy said, a little deflated. The ball was important to her, but interestingly, not for the reason Virginia had expected. Lucy didn’t care to show off her dancing skills or her new gown. She wanted to show off her husband, her Highlander, and Virginia understood the reason why. The only other men present who could rival Alex in form or splendor were her father and her brother.

  The musicians paused and the room fell suddenly quiet. She and Lucy stepped out of the corner to see what had happened. Something awful or amazing, if she were to judge by the gasps and whispers. And then she saw them. The three of them, standing in a line, towering over the other guests. Alex, Ian, and…Magnus. Wearing the full-dress uniforms of the Highland Regiment and looking glorious, fierce, triumphant—and maybe even a little savage. Gold-trimmed red jacket, black cuffs, white gloves, black feathered bonnet tucked under an arm, tartan pinned to the shoulder, kilt, black-and-white horsehair sporrans, red-and-white-checked stockings, white gaiters, and gleaming black boots. And he’d shaved.

  She tore her eyes from Magnus for a half a heartbeat to glance around the room at the gaping jaws of the dowagers, the envious stares of the young men, and the keen interest of the younger women. When she returned her gaze to Magnus, he was staring back. He crossed the now empty dance floor at an easy, confident gate, the back of his kilt swinging, the tassels on his sporran bouncing. He went out of focus because tears of joy had welled in her silly eyes. By the time she’d blinked them back, he was standing before her, looking a little tentative, but hopeful.

  “Good evening, Viscountess.” He bowed slightly.

  “Good evening, Mr. Magnus. It’s good of you to come.” She swallowed. Her insides quivered like the flummery served at supper. The faded bruises and scrapes on his face only added to his rugged good looks. “Wonderful, actually. I was hoping you would.”

  The musicians struck up the waltz. Magnus set his tall feathered bonnet on a chair and then extended a hand. “May I have this dance?”

  She hesitated only a moment before taking his hand and letting him lead her to the floor where couples were already twirling and whirling. He drew her shockingly close and placed a hand on her side. How did Magnus know how to waltz? She’d only learned the dance yesterday afternoon. He swayed once, twice, and away they went. Twirling and swirling and whirling. He smiled down on her, seeming to enjoy her surprise.

  “We’re dancing,” she said, still lightheaded from the initial shock of seeing him and growing dizzier with every turn.

  “Do ye think I dinnae like dancing?”

  “No, I just…I just…I’m so happy.”

  His smile faltered. “Sorry. We should have been here sooner. It was the wee one.” Magnus nodded toward the slender blond figure standing at Ian’s side. She’d been so dazzled by the splendor of the Highland soldiers she hadn’t noticed Peter. “His dress clothes fit him when he left Thurso, but he grew another inch on the voyage and Cook had to let out his sleeves and trousers.”

  Magnus was right. Peter had grown. She wondered if gaining an inch so fast was painful.

  When she looked back at Magnus, his eyes had softened to pools of molten chocolate. “You are beautiful.”

  “You are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ye like me shaved, aye?”

  She laughed. “Yes. You almost look civilized.”

  He let out a booming laugh. God, how she loved this man.

  His grip on her waist tightened. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too,” she said, her voice wavering. The music came to an end, and the world stopped spinning. Thankfully, he held on to her for another moment, allowing her to regain her equilibrium. She laughed. “Come. I’ll introduce you to our host.” On their way to the other side of the ballroom, pretty fans snapped open, hiding the ugly wagging tongues of the Ton.

  “Who are all these people?” Magnus grumbled.

  “Shh. Ignore them. The only thing that matters is that you’re here.”

  The duke jumped her introduction with, “You can be none other than Magnus Sinclair.”

  Magnus bowed politely. “Your Grace. I apologize for our late arrival.”

  “Not necessary.” The duke shook his hand. “Alex has already apologized thrice over.” He looked past Magnus’s shoulder. “And he’s paying for it.”

  Virginia and Magnus turned in the direction of the duke’s gaze. Lucy, glowing with pride and excitement, was already busily introducing Alex, a model of Scottish stoicism, to person after person. When Ian and Peter approached, Virginia continued with introductions. “Your Grace, this is Alex’s brother, Captain Ian Sinclair.”

  “Your Grace,” Ian bowed.

  “Thank you for bringing my daughter and granddaughter home to me.”

  “Och, you should thank the ship’s quarter master, Mr. Peter,” Ian said, motioning Peter forward.

  Peter executed one of his flawless courtly bows. “Your Grace.”

  “Mr. Peter, I’ve heard nothing but glowing reports about your intelligence and skill. I’m indeed honored to make your acquaintance.”

  Peter bowed again, this time, unable to contain his grin. “Your servant.”

  “Would you come with me, sir?” the duke asked. “There’s someone I’d very much like you to meet.”

  “What do you suppose that’s about?” Ian asked, watching the duke and Peter walk off.

  Virginia shrugged. “I have no idea. His Grace is almost as impulsive as Bulford.” She turned to Ian and Magnus. “You missed supper. You must be hungry.”

  “Famished,” Ian said.

  She pointed in the direction of the refreshment table for Ian’s benefit, and he all but ran to it. When she returned her attention to Magnus, he was glaring at a knot of men and women who’d taken an intense interest in them.

  “Ignore them,” she said.

  He gazed down at her, concern written all over his handsome face. “I cannae.” He tipped his head toward the others. “Has it been this way all night?”

  “Some people have been pleasant. Others, less so.”

  He turned to look at the crowd again. “Who?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who has been rude to you?”

  Dear Lord, did Magnus mean to make a scene right here in the duke’s ballroom? “Please don’t.”

  “Dinnae fash yerself, love.”

  “Seriously. The last thing I want you to do—”

  “Then tell me, besides His Grace, who here holds the most sway?
Socially, I mean.”

  Virginia glanced around the room and spotted one of the two dowagers who’d flanked her at supper. “The Dowager Countess of Rodham, I suppose. The older woman with the silver hair.”

  His eyes fastened on the dowager’s face, her nose wrinkled up as if smelling something rank. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and started off toward the woman.

  “No, don’t—” But it was too late. Several long strides across the room and he was standing before the Dowager Lady Rodham. Virginia clasped her hands together and squeezed, bracing herself for what would surely be an ugly exchange. The dowager lifted her chin, but Magnus was way too tall for her to look down her nose at him with any effect. And then Magnus did the most surprising thing. He made a courtly bow and smiled at Lady Rodham with utter adoration. He even tilted his head at a bashful angle. To her astonishment, the dowager—no she didn’t—yes, she did. She blushed like a girl. They exchanged pleasantries for a minute, and then Magnus took her hand and led her to the dance floor.

  Ian was at Virginia’s side again, handing her a glass of champagne. “Ah. I see Magnus is entertaining the ladies, as usual.”

  “As usual?”

  “Oh, aye. He can be very charming…when he’s no’ being an arse.”

  Virginia stifled a laugh. “Just what is he doing?”

  “What he does best. He’s taking the vanguard, cutting down your enemies, and forging a path for you.”

  “By dancing with dowagers?”

  “Well now, if the dowager enjoys his company on the dance floor, she can hardly fault you for your association with him, can she?”

  “Is that why he shaved his beard?”

  “Bulford told him he’d look more like a gentleman clean-shaven. I ken he wanted to make a good show for you.”

  Her heart gave a little lurch. Magnus wanted to make a good show for her. Magnus, her champion, her protector.

  Ian clinked his glass against hers. “Slainte,” he said, saluting with his glass and then drinking.

  “Slainte,” she returned, and drank as well.

  Ian nudged her with an elbow. “Look at that.” He pointed to a stone-faced Peter standing in the center of five girls, all under the age of eighteen and all the daughters of the duke’s neighbor, Lord Barstow. Obviously, their father had made a special allowance for them to join the party after supper, as none of them would have been introduced to Society, as yet. The band struck up the second waltz of the evening, and the oldest and prettiest of the brood said something to Peter that caused crimson patches to form on his cheeks.

  Ian chuckled when Peter bowed to the pretty girl and led her to the dance floor. “Looks like Peter’s making good use of his dancing lessons.”

  “Who on earth taught Magnus and Peter to waltz?”

  “Bulford. He gave all of us lessons.”

  A picture of the erudite Bulford partnering with the brawny Highlanders and counting, one-two-three, one-two-three, popped into her head and she smiled. “Of course, he did.”

  “I wouldnae want my lessons to go to waste. Will you dance wi’ me, my lady?”

  One glance over her shoulder told her Magnus was whirling and twirling Lady Rodham around the dance floor. Lucy and Alex had joined the dervishes, as well. Curiously, Bulford and Jemima were also engaged in a rather intimate waltz embrace. She took Ian’s hand and joined the sweeping, circling couples.

  After the waltz ended, Ian went to fetch more champagne, probably the last thing she needed. Her head was already spinning. As if to prove her dizziness, a smiling, breathless Dowager Lady Rodham suddenly appeared at her side fanning herself. “My, the waltz is certainly a strenuous activity.”

  At first, Virginia fumbled for words, then managed, “You are quite right. I’m out of breath.”

  Lady Rodham touched her arm. “I was unforgivably rude to you at supper. Please accept my apology.”

  Had the world completely upended? Lady Rodham apologizing to her, a ruined woman? Yet, by the look on the woman’s face, the tone of her voice, and the sincere angle of her head, Virginia could tell she was genuine.

  “Think no more of it.”

  “You must also forgive me for not having written my condolences as soon as I heard the news of your husband’s unfortunate accident.”

  “Not at all, my lady.” Virginia straightened. “I imagine you must think it callous of me not to observe the proper mourning period.”

  “My dear, if only half of what I hear is true, you and the Second Lady Langley are well shut of that man.”

  Lucy approached them, breathless and fan aflutter. She greeted Dowager Lady Rodham cordially.

  “His Grace gives the best parties,” Lady Rodham said to Lucy. “I imagine you were a great help to him.”

  “Thank you. I do love a lively ball.”

  “I’m having a luncheon at my country home tomorrow. Just a few friends. Will you ladies join us?”

  Lucy glanced at Virginia who was as stunned as Lucy looked. “Yes. We’d be delighted.”

  “Do bring the Second Lady Langley, as well. We’ll see you at the noon hour,” Lady Rodham said and added off-handedly to Virginia, “It seems we have a common interest. We can talk more about your home for foundling children over luncheon.” She swept away before Virginia had a chance to ask her how she knew about the home.

  “What do you suppose changed her attitude?” Lucy asked. “She’s never asked me to luncheon before, and now she’s asked the lot of us—the three most scandalous women in England.”

  “I think we have Magnus to thank,” Virginia said, nodding in the direction of the big Scot who was surrounded by every giggling debutante in the room, a fact that had begun to rankle Virginia. As if he felt her eyes on him, he glanced up and gave her one of his looks, the kind that made her warm all over.

  He nodded apologies to his admirers and parted from them with a rakish smile. When he arrived at her side, he squinted one eye at her. That was a cue for something, but she didn’t know what.

  “I’m thirsty,” Lucy said. “I’m going to find the punch bowl.” Virginia watched Lucy swan away toward the refreshments table before turning back to Magnus. He hadn’t said anything, nor had he stopped smiling at her.

  “What did you say to Dowager Lady Rodham?” she asked.

  He looked slightly abashed, as if she’d caught him doing something naughty. “Well, I said she must be of Scottish blood, as she reminded me of my beloved aunt Sophie, who was considered the most beautiful lassie in all the Highlands. She told me she did indeed have a great-grandfather Keith on her mother’s side who was a Scot. ‘A dashing and notorious warrior laird,’ she said.”

  “Keith?”

  “Warrior laird, my aunt Sophie’s arse. The Keiths are notorious cattle reivers. Ye cannae trust a one of ’em.”

  “That was a risk, wasn’t it? Or at the very least, presumptive.”

  “Nae,” he shrugged. “Most English have a Scottish antecedent, if you dig deep enough.” He gave her one of his roguish smiles. “We Scots are prolific.”

  She laughed. As always, he surprised her. He continued to stare at her with that grin.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I hate sharing you with this mob is all.” He jerked his head in the general direction of the crowd.

  “You could have fooled me. You’ve garnered quite the following since you’ve arrived.” She tapped his chest with her fan. “You’ll have all the ladies swooning at your feet before the evening ends.”

  He took the fan from her hand and tossed it on the chair next to his bonnet. “I need to be alone with you.”

  Virginia’s heart did a somersault. “This way,” she said and didn’t care if everyone in the room saw her leave with Magnus.

  …

  He told himself not to hope, not to delude himself, or think for even a minute that she would change her mind. She was merely grateful, that was all. And yet…and yet she was leading him…somewhere. And it was somewhere away from the ot
hers. Somewhere they could be alone.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shh,” she commanded, and he obeyed with a smile. He snatched a bottle of something off a servant’s tray as they slipped out of the dancing hall. They swept past the dining room where servants were clearing away the remains of supper. The temptation to stop and sample the indescribably good-smelling meat was powerful. Still, she held his hand tightly, and he wasn’t going to let go. She stopped in front of a door left half opened and peered inside before whispering, “Stay close and don’t knock anything over.”

  Did she think he was a complete numpty? Of course, he wouldn’t—Christ the room was pitch black. “I can’t see—”

  “Hush. Just walk slowly and stay behind me.”

  He did as he was told and took small, quiet steps, trusting his lovely leader to find their way. This must be why females weren’t in the military. He’d known many women who were brave enough to fight, skilled enough to fight. But at times like this, with the smell of her hair in his nose, her soft hand in his, and the rustle of her skirts shushing in his ears, all he could think about was ridding her of those skirts as quickly and efficiently as possible. They could have been surrounded by the enemy, guns trained at their chests, and still his cock would continue to rise.

  Virginia came to an abrupt halt, and he snugged his body up against her back. He slipped a hand around her slim waist and bent to nuzzle her neck.

  “There’s someone else in the room,” she whispered.

  The sound was faint, but she was right. There were others in the room. He could just hear the light breathing of two people. Another love couple perhaps? Virginia stepped forward and pulled aside a drapery. Silvery moonlight streamed in through tall glass doors and illuminated what was a library or study. In the far corner, the light fell on a blue skirt and a pair of tall black Hessian boots he’d come to know very well. Too well. He was about to shout a curse at the boots, when Virginia opened the doors and pulled him into the muggy night air.

  The heady scent of Lily of the Valley rose up and erased all thought of the library, the boots, and the blue skirt from his mind. Like an animal locked on his prey, he tracked the peachy-pink sylph ahead of him skimming across the grass, shoes in hand, skirts hiked to her knees, and silk stockings flashing in the moonlight. And like an animal, he licked his lips, and gave chase, anticipating the delicious first taste of her. They ran down a grassy path until they came to a pond, its shore lined with tall lilies that had shriveled closed for the evening. She laughed lightly and continued around the edge of the water. Enjoying the pursuit and wanting it to last, he lagged an arm’s length behind.