How to Seduce a Scot

by Christy English

  “If she is half as clever as you are brave, Miss Middlebrook, I have no doubt that you are right.”

  Catherine blushed yet again at the unexpected compliment. Seeing her embarrassment, he rose to his feet, and she rose with him. Her hand was still clasped in his.

  “Would you do me the honor of changing our waltz to the second waltz tonight?”

  Shocked that he still intended to dance with her, much less acknowledge her in public, the first frisson of hope rose in Catherine’s chest. Perhaps not all was lost.

  “The supper waltz?”

  “Yes, Miss Middlebrook.” He smiled at her befuddlement, and she almost laughed out loud. A fleeting thought of Mr. Waters ran across her mind like a doe pursued by hunters, but she was strict with herself, and forced herself back to the here and now.

  “The supper waltz is yours, Lord Farleigh. It is the least I can offer you after you have been so kind to me.”

  “Then we will dance the first quadrille and the supper waltz, and we will talk of more cheerful subjects than we have this morning,” he said.

  He smiled on her, and she noticed for the first time how warm his smile was when he was not thinking about serious things, as he so often seemed to do.

  He bowed over her hand and kissed it. Unlike Mr. Waters’s, Lord Farleigh’s lips were cool and self-contained. He did not impose on her person or invade her personal space in any particular way. In every moment of their encounter, save for prying into her affairs, Lord Farleigh had conducted himself as an utter gentleman.

  Why did that disappoint her a little?

  He left her then, and she sat down again on the uncomfortable settee in the center of the formal parlor. She reached for the teapot, but the Darjeeling had already grown cold. Instead of going downstairs to fetch herself another cup, or ringing for Jim to bring her a fresh pot, she simply sat in silence, wondering where on earth her life would lead her next.

  * * *

  Catherine did not go into luncheon with her mother and sister, but instead took a sandwich off Jim’s tea tray and went to have a nap in her room. There was little chance that Lord Farleigh would still consider offering for her after their encounter that morning, but she may as well do all she could to look her best at the ball that night. She was short on sleep, and feeling a bit hopeless, so a nap might just do her good.

  She slipped off into sleep behind the curtains of her bed. In her dreams, she danced not with Lord Farleigh, but with Alexander Waters, who had transformed from a handsome if rakish ne’er-do-well to a young man with prospects who had honored her with serious courtship. The dream was such a joyous one that she woke with a smile on her face. In spite of her fears and terrors, her heart stayed warm for a good half hour after.

  If only dreams were real.

  Marie helped her dress in the blue silk gown Catherine had sewn herself. It was of the latest fashion, if a bit more modest in the bosom, as befitted a young lady just up from Devon. The scalloped bodice mirrored the scalloped hem, and was trimmed with lace and seed pearls. The pearls were glass, but the lace had been made by her own hand. Her grandmother had taught her to make lace during the long winter months of her childhood, when it had been too cold to go outside and play.

  There were more pearls for her hair, real ones this time, in a long strand that Marie wove through her curls. Her grandmother had lent those pearls to her for her London Season. Catherine said a prayer to the Holy Mother that she might marry, save the family, and not disappoint the old woman she loved so much. She sat alone in her room after Marie had gone, and wished fervently that her grandmother were there.

  There was a scratching at her door, and Catherine jumped on hearing it. She wondered if her grandmother had heard her prayers and appeared, like a fairy out of some lovely story. When her bedroom door swung open, it revealed her mother, dressed in gray silk trimmed in lavender. Though her father had been dead five years, her mother wore half-mourning still. She had never entirely recovered from his death, and much of her wildness now and lack of care for the future were because she missed him.

  That knowledge, and traces of old pain reflected in her mother’s light blue eyes, assuaged some of Catherine’s anger.

  “I have brought you something,” Mrs. Middlebrook said.

  “Not another note from Mr. Philips, I trust.”

  Her mother’s face fell, and she wished her churlish words back again at once.

  “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “No.” Her mother came to stand beside her, meeting her gaze in the looking glass above her dressing table. “It is I who must apologize. I have put your father’s legacy at risk, and your future, and Margaret’s future. I did not realize how expensive London would be, how much a Season for you would actually cost.”

  “I’ve made all my own clothes, Mama. I wear the flowers grown in our greenhouse.”

  “You are the soul of economy, sweetheart. I do not fault you. But your gowns are still made of the best silk and muslin, and opening the house in London, even for three months, costs a great deal more than I had bargained for.”

  Mrs. Middlebrook sighed, sitting with her daughter on the dressing table bench. Catherine scooted over to make room for her. They both fit easily, for her mother was still as slender as a girl.

  “We can go home tomorrow,” Catherine said. “We can close the house, sell it, and bring the staff home to Devon.”

  Her mother smiled. “And give up on your strapping Scot? I think not.”

  Catherine blushed a dark pink at the mention of Alexander Waters. “He is not mine, Mama.”

  “I believe he is.”

  Catherine swallowed hard, finding a lump in her throat. “No, Mama. You must trust me.”

  Mrs. Middlebrook took her daughter’s hand in hers and kissed it, getting a bit of lip rouge on her knuckles. “Little one, I know something of men. That one is smitten with you, make no mistake.”

  Catherine felt tears rising, and she blinked hard to drive them off. She could not weep and spoil her looks before Lady Jersey’s ball. Not over the likes of him.

  “I fear you are wrong, Mama.”

  Mrs. Middlebrook smiled with her customary overconfidence. “I guarantee you, little miss, I am not wrong in this. If I were a betting woman, I’d lay a wager on it.” Catherine laughed in spite of herself, and her mother laughed with her. “Put your mind at ease, love. I do not bet. I am a matron, after all, not one of those fast, card-playing women, but a decent lady from Devon.”

  Affection spilled out of Catherine’s overflowing heart. She hugged her mother, and her mother hugged her back.

  “I know you have quarreled with your Highlander, but hold firm. You will bring him to heel.”

  Catherine wondered if someone had seen them in the garden that morning after all, but such worries were driven from her mind almost at once. Her mother drew forth a jeweler’s box and opened it to reveal one lone, luminescent pearl on a gold chain.

  “This was the first gift your father ever gave me,” Mrs. Middlebrook said. “He gave it to me on our wedding night, the night we made you.”

  Catherine could not speak. Her voice had fled.

  Her mother stood and unclasped the chain, hanging it around Catherine’s slender neck. The pearl nestled in the hollow of her throat. It seemed to gleam with a special luster in the light of her single candle.

  “You will wear it tonight, and it will bring you luck, just as it has always brought me.”

  Catherine did not tell her mother that they needed not luck, but a miracle. She kept her mouth closed and accepted the gift with the same love with which it was offered.

  She rose and wrapped her arms around her mother’s slender form. She could not remember the last time she and her mother had embraced before this day. Perhaps family crises were partly blessings, too.

  “Thank you, Mama.”

 
Her mother kissed her cheek, leaving more lip rouge in her wake. “It will all turn out all right, Catherine. I promise. You will see.”

  Catherine wished that for one night, she might be catapulted back into her childhood, when her mother’s word was law, and always seemed to come true, like a spell she had cast bringing forth good with a simple wave of her hand.

  Her mother’s blue eyes gleamed bright, and the hope Catherine saw there warmed her heart. Perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps things would turn out well, though she could not, at that moment, see how.

  Catherine made a decision, standing there, looking into her mother’s bright eyes. Since there was nothing she could do that night to save herself or her family from ruin, she decided to set all thoughts of the mortgage aside until the morning. She would write to her grandmother then. But tonight, she would dance.

  Eighteen

  Alex Waters arrived at the ball early, so early that Lady Jersey laughed at him silently as she greeted him at the door.

  “Come to dance with your little Devonshire girl?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean, madam. I am here to escort my sister, as Robert is.”

  Lady Jersey did not answer him, save to laugh out loud.

  Mary Elizabeth was asked to dance at once, and flounced off with her English swain in her wake. Alex knew he should have been paying strict attention, glaring the man out of countenance, lest he take a liberty, but he decided to leave the lion’s share of Mary’s care that night to his brother. Robbie was immaculately dressed in a bottle-green coat and black trousers, with a sober waistcoat of black and gold. He himself had dressed well for the occasion, thinking only of his Devon girl, and what he might do to woo her back. He had rarely been out of a woman’s good graces. He did not know how to respond.

  Of course, he had never courted a decent girl before.

  Before he could think of the implications of the word court, he pushed the thought from his mind altogether and turned his eyes to the door.

  The Englishmen he saw enter looked a bit like circus clowns. Many were dressed in dark colors, but their waistcoats sported brilliant hues. Their cravats were tied in such detail that he feared for the sanity of their valets, and the points of the collars were so high that they looked as if they might stab themselves in the eye. Or perhaps someone else, if they leaned too close to peer at a lady’s décolletage with their quizzing glasses. A few men wore unrelieved black, with waistcoats of silver or gray.

  His waistcoat was the traditional hunting plaid of his clan, a crisscross of soft blues and greens. He wore it with pride, as all Waters men did when they had the chance. Every man and woman he passed stared at him and then at his waistcoat, as if they had never seen a hunting plaid before, but each man who caught his eye immediately looked away. He got the strange if distinct impression that those men were afraid of him.

  And he was not even armed.

  The women, however, were a different matter altogether. Clearly, living in London did not afford them the opportunity of seeing a real man very often, for they eyed him as he might have looked over a stud at Tattersalls. One or two more flagrant merry widows even went so far as to bat their eyelashes at him with such insistence that he felt honor bound to ask them to dance. He was content to oblige them, for he would never refuse a service to a lady, but even as he moved through the crowd with a delectable woman on his arm, he kept his eyes trained toward the front door.

  His angel still managed to slip in without him seeing her. Or perhaps she flew in on frothy wings. Suddenly, she simply appeared at his sister’s side, her mother along with her. The two girls were talking animatedly, as though they had not spent the entire afternoon together the day before. He wondered what on God’s earth they found to talk about. Then he remembered: his sister liked to teach her new friend bits from her own skill set—how to drink whisky, how to throw knives.

  It was then he noticed the coterie of young men that surrounded her. At first, he thought perhaps they were all his sister’s conquests, for Londoners seemed to like nothing better than a woman who didn’t give a fig for them. But as he watched, he saw more than one young man lead Catherine onto the dance floor. He leaned against a pillar and watched. She moved with grace, no matter how clumsy her partner. He observed from a distance as she smiled and laughed, as if he had never held her in his arms, as if she had forgotten him altogether.

  His ire rose with each new song, and each new swain, but he tamped it down. Still, he could feel a muscle leaping in his cheek. He caught the amused gaze of Lady Jersey on him more than once, before she leaned behind her fan to gossip about him with whoever stood beside her.

  Why ex-lovers could not contain themselves when watching a man suffer, Alex really couldn’t say. He forgot Lady Jersey and her cohorts almost in the next breath, for the first waltz of the night began and his angel danced it with a boy who could not have been older than eighteen.

  As Alex watched, the boy caught his eye, and blanched. Only then did Catherine look to see where her suitor’s gaze was tending. Only then did she see Alex in the crowd where he stood staring at her, as he had all night.

  She did not smile, and unlike her partner, she did not turn a shade of fish-belly white. Instead, she simply nodded, then turned her head and danced on.

  Alexander found himself dismissed by a woman for the first time in his life. Not a woman at all but a slip of a girl, a girl who had melted in his arms only the day before.

  He had offended her, deeply, and he knew it. He had apologized, but had only gone on to annoy her more during their stolen moments alone in her flower garden. He reminded himself of all these facts, but he found that his fit of temper was as sharp as it first had been. It seemed he could not talk good sense to himself.

  She might turn from him here and now, among her own kind, among these English. But he remembered the heat between them even if she did not.

  He would enjoy making her remember.

  * * *

  Mary Elizabeth greeted her and her mother as soon as they arrived, kissing Catherine on the cheek as if they were family as well as friends. “You look beautiful, Catherine. Did you really make that gown yourself?”

  Embarrassed, Catherine blushed.

  “I am sorry,” Mary Elizabeth said. “I won’t bandy that information about. I know Londoners are a bizarre lot and frown on sewing that actually produces something useful. They’ll embroider pointless cushions all day, but God forbid they mend a hem.”

  Catherine choked on her laughter and Mary Elizabeth smiled at her. “My mother designs all her own gowns, and though she keeps three seamstresses in business, she’s been known to put her hand to a dress when she truly loved it.”

  Young men surrounded them suddenly, and Mary Elizabeth switched tactics, talking with the company about fly-fishing in the Highlands, and how to best cast a reel. She might as well have been speaking Greek as far as Catherine was concerned, but the men who surrounded them seemed utterly enthralled.

  Mr. Robert Waters stood close by, looking bored but somewhat vigilant in his role as guardian. Catherine looked about a bit, surreptitiously, but did not see Alexander anywhere. She had caught a glimpse him while she danced with Lord Marlebury, but had not seen him since. No doubt he was sequestered in some dark corner, tempting some woman or other to kiss him again.

  That dark thought left her strangely furious, which was a completely inappropriate emotion for a dress ball. So she did as her grandmother would have done, and set him out of her thoughts altogether. As long as she kept her mind on the here and now, the beauty of the gowns, the light of the chandeliers, the laughter and the warmth of the company, she could forget Alexander Waters and all he stood for.

  Almost.

  She caught a glimpse of her mother on the edge of their group speaking with a man of fifty years or so, his graying hair cut close to his head in the latest fashion. He sporte
d the mustache of a cavalry officer, and when he caught her eye, Catherine smiled at him.

  The gentleman took her mother’s arm and came to stand beside her. “Mrs. Middlebrook, if you would be so good as to introduce me to your lovely daughter.”

  For one hideous, sinking moment, Catherine feared that the gentleman had come to her mother only to beg the introduction, and perhaps to court Catherine herself. But she soon noticed the smile on her mother’s face. The gentleman in question did not focus his gaze on Catherine, but kept it squarely on Mrs. Middlebrook.

  Had she discovered the gentleman who had sent her mother the dozen red roses? As she took in the warm way her mother was gazing at the man, it quickly became clear that the identity of the gentleman had never been in question.

  “Mr. Pridemore, may I present my eldest daughter, Miss Catherine Middlebrook, lately of Devon. Catherine, Mr. Josiah Pridemore, just returned home from Bombay.”

  “Good evening, Miss Middlebrook.”

  Catherine curtsied prettily, as her grandmother had taught her from the age of three, but she found she could not tear her gaze away from him. Who was this man? Was he courting her mother in earnest, or just flirting? Or was he after something altogether more nefarious?

  A fierce protectiveness rose in her heart, and she kept her gaze cool as she took one step closer to her mother.

  “Good evening, Mr. Pridemore. What brings you from the wilds of India all the way to Lady Jersey’s ball?”

  He smiled good-naturedly, and she noticed that his eyes were a dark brown, somewhat like Mr. Waters’s eyes. For some reason, this did not incline her toward him in the least.

  “I am here with my niece, Miss Eliza Pridemore, whom you see dancing there.”

  He indicated a very young girl tripping through a country-dance with an even clumsier young man at her side. The girl had a sweet face and soft, blonde hair, and she was laughing at whatever the young man had said.

  “I do enjoy a bit of dancing, even at my age.”