Must Love Kilts
Page 28
The first notes from the musicians floated through the air. A waltz.
Lord Montagu bowed.
Isabelle curtseyed and stifled a giggle. Oooh, boy, she could get used to this treatment.
He swept her into a dizzying swirl of sound and color. His confident fingers on the small of her back shot warmth up her spine. Subtle pressures guided her through the music and crowd in a way she’d never experienced, so very aware of his body, of him. She’d thought the waltz quaint, but she was stunned.
Well, not stunned, but… aroused. Who knew this dance could be sexy?
This—her heart pounded, pounded, pounded—this was what she’d pictured. All the preparation, the diligent work on the dress and hair and shoes, had led to this moment. Because, yep, as usual, she’d built an expectation for this ball.
Until this moment, she’d wanted to curse her imagination. It was wonderful to finally have an experience at an event match up.
She let the moment etch into her memory, a rare, sparkling gift to savor. The soft, mellow glow of nearby candles, the glint of jewels, the murmuring voices—the occasional titter of laughter—her partner’s intoxicating scent, and the notes from the violins intertwining through all, through them, while they rode its rhythm. She grinned like an idiot but didn’t care.
He wasn’t much for small talk. Amazing, and a smidge intimidating. He stared at her while he whirled her around the floor, mesmerizing her with those eyes. They strayed from hers to linger on her neck and slowly travel to her chest and waist.
Each area of her body tingled as if he’d touched her, and her heart thumped against her chest as if seeking his notice too. Damn heart. Something was different about his eyes, and she couldn’t figure out what it was in the dim lighting. Someone must have finally doused the electric bulbs.
She couldn’t look away. Weird. Her stomach did another flippin’ flip. Not for the first time, she wondered where her confidence traipsed off to around attractive men.
The last guy who’d hit all her lust buttons had derailed her life back in the States. She’d never let that happen again. So, she fought against the too-strong-to-be-safe attraction by doing what she sensed would most likely break the spell, and perhaps turn Lord Laconic from her: talking. Anything to deflect, protect.
“So, is this your first time at one of these shindigs?” She hoped her voice didn’t sound quite so shaky to his ears.
She tore her gaze from his to see if she could spot Andrew. Or Jocelyn, to give her the lookee-what-I-have-here face. Or her boss. She must stay focused on her goal. A flash of bright red hair in the corner. Jocelyn? But the next turn whipped the red hair from view.
“Shindigs?” He pronounced it carefully, drawing her attention back to him. His eyebrows swooped closer together, the inside edges slanting up.
Okay, that was adorable, dammit. “Yeah, you know, these reenactments? You seem quite a natural.” The words sucked up what air was left in her lungs. She concentrated on breathing through her nose. Stay calm.
And—he was still staring at her.
Oh great, did she have something in her teeth? Did she have stinky breath? Did he think she was some uncouth American and regret asking her to dance? She ducked her head and checked her teeth with her tongue and nearly stumbled. She swung her gaze back to his face to regain her rhythm.
He cocked his head to the side. “I am not at all sure what you believe we are reenacting, but unfortunately, I find I am expected to be at these balls with an appalling regularity.”
He had the period syntax and cadence down pat. “Wow, you’re quite good at this. Don’t worry, I’ll try to play along.”
Her partner did the eyebrow-slanting-up-in-the-middle thing and looked away. She could have sworn he muttered ‘Colonials’ under his breath.
Huh? Wait, he was referring to her. “Hey, no need to be rude, and I’m not a Colonial. We soundly beat your hides and settled that score, like, two hundred years ago.” She gave him a playful swat on his shoulder. “Man, you British can sure hold a grudge.”
His head whipped back, and he gawked at her. “Two hundred years ago? Are you daft, woman?”
Surely, she looked like a candidate for the poster child of dumbfoundedness: mouth agape, brow creased. Oh. She chuckled. “I get it. Man, you are good. You don’t break character, do you?”
He continued to stare at her as if she were the one who was nuts. Her smile slipped. She looked away and muttered, “Reenactors.”
Phineas executed another turn on the floor and inwardly cursed his impulse to approach Miss Rochon for this dance. Earlier, her countenance and attitude while she watched her fellow participants had intrigued him. It was as if she were worlds away, yet utterly in the moment, and he felt an overwhelming desire to know, to understand fully, what occupied her thoughts. He was certain it was more than the latest gossip or mere cuts of gowns.
It had surprised him to note she was quite striking. Surprised, because he noticed it second—not first. He maneuvered her around the room and let his gaze sweep her pleasing form again. Her dark brown hair was arranged in loose curls upon her head. But the rounded, hooded Gallic eyes captivated him, whispered of secrets.
Despite an ill-fitting dress, her form was discernible—one that quickened his pulse. It was evident she had recently been to Paris, because the style of dress was de rigueur there, but had yet to cross the Channel. He knew, because his sisters had insisted he take careful note of the fashions when it had been his misfortune to journey to Paris a week ago on behalf of the Crown.
Earlier, when he observed Miss Rochon conversing with his cousin, he felt strangely relieved. Miss Byron was the only lady of his acquaintance at the ball who would deign to speak to him, let alone introduce him to a female friend.
After all, the haut ton called him the Vicious Viscount.
Despite a French name seeming to confirm his initial assumption, when she opened her mouth, she proved to be a Colonial. Even more baffled—and drat it all, intrigued—he gritted his teeth. What brought an American to the Duke of Chelmsford’s ball of all places, in a style of dress only Parisians would know was all the rage? Her gloveless left hand on his shoulder was slightly shocking as well, though its warmth penetrated, seared into him, providing the focal point between them—an awareness he could not shake, and was not certain he wished to.
She was a puzzle, full of contradictions. To unravel her secrets… An unfamiliar sense of anticipation trickled through him. No. He expunged the feeling. She was not his puzzle.
Though that warm, bare hand. Those lively eyes.
The dance mercifully completed, Phineas led Miss Rochon to Cousin Ada’s side. She introduced Miss Rochon to Mrs. Somerville, Ada’s chaperone for the evening. Because the last dance was the supper waltz, he escorted all three to the supper room. Miss Rochon appeared ill at ease. She mumbled something about a ‘boss’.
He settled the ladies at a table and sought victuals for them. He rolled his right shoulder, the heat of her bare hand still a palpable weight. Reactions to his presence—the rude glares, the protective shuffling of eligible females out of his way by concerned matrons—were commonplace. He spared no notice, no anxiety. Annoying, yes, but he was inured to it. Indeed, he had cultivated the fear his name and presence engendered. It was a valuable commodity, a valuable blind for enacting his long-laid plans.
At the buffet table, Lord Edgerton looked straight in Phineas’s eyes and turned away with no acknowledgment. Question settled as to whether he was still part of that gentleman’s circle. He had not yet received Edgerton’s calling card after his recent marriage. Now, Edgerton’s ‘cut direct’ confirmed it—Phineas would no longer be receiving invitations to the homes in Edgerton’s circle.
Ironic, since the persona he cultivated had been calculated to infiltrate that very circle. If he did not wish for his investigation to cease, Phineas saw no alternative but marriage. Marriage would burnish his image, thus gaining the very invitations he needed.
&nbs
p; Yes. The Vicious Viscount was a liability. His wealth and title were insufficient to secure a wife from London’s ton.
Damnation.
Phineas prepared plates of delectables, ensuring he had plenty of blanc-mange, Miss Byron’s favorite dessert. What did Miss Rochon prefer? He pictured her gloveless hand—her bare, gloveless hand—elsewhere on his person. Heat bloomed through him. Perhaps on his knee. His thigh. His—He gritted his teeth. Enough. He enlisted a footman to carry the plates to the table.
On his return, he espied a young lady he knew to be of remarkable intelligence, but of a shy nature. On a whim, he bowed.
Several people gasped. The young miss turned white.
Excellent. Word would quickly spread, putting her in the orbit of the young blades of the ton. Surely, some worthy gentleman’s sense of protectiveness would be aroused, and he would take notice of her.
Perhaps his reputation still had one noble function.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, except where it is a matter of historical record.
MUST LOVE KILTS
Copyright © 2016 Angela Trigg
Cover design by Kim Killion
Developmental editing by Jessa Slade
Line editing by Erynn Newman; copy editing by Julie Glover
Map by Angela Quarles
Unsealed Room Press
Mobile, Alabama
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Digital Edition 1.1.200
Contents
About this book
Map
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Historical Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Must Love Breeches