The Lover

by Nicole Jordan

  He was already partially attired for the ball, looking impossibly handsome in a fine lawn shirt and satin breeches and silver-buckled shoes. Niall immediately lit a dozen more candles for the task ahead, and went to work supervising her transformation.

  From the first Sabrina realized his goal was not simply to gown her for the ball, but to create a masterpiece. When she was settled at her dressing table, he directed the maids in the application of cosmetics, insisting on a light hand—a hint of blush at the cheekbones, a touch of kohl to darken the eyes, a deeper red for the lips, and absolutely no face paint. Her hair was permitted no powder, but piled high upon her head, with a shining sweep of curls falling elegantly over one shoulder.

  It required three servants to help her don the fabulous crystal-studded ball gown which the modiste had created, and to arrange the wide, stiff panniers of the skirts. Sabrina worried that the hue of the fashionable gown was too bold and the décolletage too daring; the emerald satin contrasted vividly with the pastels worn by most ladies, while the swell of her breasts revealed by the swooping décolletage would draw every eye.

  Yet the gasps of awe and admiration from the women reassured her.

  “Ah, mum, ye look like a fairy princess.”

  “Nay, a queen.”

  Niall, however, said not a word while refusing to allow her to look in the mirror. After dismissing the maids, he added the finishing touches himself…an emerald necklace and ear bobs for which he’d sent home to the Highlands…a delicate black beauty patch which he seemed to relish placing on her right breast…and an ebony lace fan for her to carry.

  He gave her a final inspection, his fingers sensuously dragging unwilling curls to feather dance on her cheeks. Then he whispered, “Perfect,” and turned her slowly to face the cheval glass.

  Sabrina started in shock, wondering if the sensual creature in the mirror was truly her own image. Somehow Niall’s sorcery had transformed her into a breathtaking enchantress.

  The skirt of soft rich satin—flattened in front and held out to the sides by hoops—was covered with crystal beads that shimmered in the pale candlelight like diamonds. The long, pointed bodice accentuated her narrow waist while making her breasts swell alluringly above the square neckline.

  The effect was stunning, but it was Niall’s expression reflected in the mirror that made her feel beautiful beyond words.

  “Niall…the gown is breathtaking.”

  His smile was indulgent. “No. The lass wearing it is breathtaking…Magnificent.”

  Bending, he nuzzled her naked shoulder. “I’ve told you before, a woman’s beauty is not determined by her outward appearance, but her inner fire…And you have enough fire, cherie, to keep me constantly aflame.” His husky voice was thick and slow, like honey flowing through her veins, sweeping down the walls that had protected Sabrina’s heart.

  When he slipped his arms around her from behind, she drew a determined breath with every ounce of willpower she possessed. “Niall…the ball…”

  He groaned softly and buried his face in her shoulder, not wanting to release her. She was the cause of his greatest joy, his greatest torment. He spent his nights craving her, tortured by his aching loins, the constriction in his chest, not sleeping. He spent his days endeavoring to prove she’d stolen his heart.

  Sabrina was the only one who failed to see it, Niall reflected despairingly. All of Edinburgh was watching his pursuit of his wife in fascination and awe. From his friends he’d endured much ribald laughter regarding how hard the mighty fall, while the rest of society was desirous of meeting the remarkable woman who had managed the impossible. It was a nine-day wonder, his vanquishment on the battlefield of love.

  Yet he’d faced Sabrina each day with a growing disquiet. With all the scores of women in his past, he’d never met with such overwhelming resistance.

  When she tried to draw away, Niall closed his eyes in an agony of need. He wanted Sabrina. Desperately. He wanted her writhing and hungry. Wanted her crying out with love for him. Yet…he wanted her to come to him. He heaved a jagged sigh. “Ah, yes, the ball.”

  He did not release her entirely, however. Instead, he turned her slowly to face him and bent his head.

  He kissed her so softly, so deeply, she felt a silky fire flow between them.

  “Sabrina…” he whispered against her lips, “my sweet bright flame of a woman. How you make me burn…”

  He stepped back then, letting his hands fall away. Sabrina stared, shivering with desire and need.

  Niall left her standing there, trembling and aroused, while he retired to another chamber to finish dressing.

  She had still not fully recovered when he rejoined her moments later. He wore a full-skirted satin coat of ivory, with lace ruffles of purest white at throat and wrists. The pale hues presented a stark contrast to his dark good looks and a striking foil to the deeper colors of her own attire.

  But it was the rich, ardent glow in Niall’s sapphire eyes that stole her breath away. When he looked at her like that, she could have absolutely no doubt that he cherished her as he claimed.

  The Cameron carriage transported them to the ball, but Sabrina felt as if she were floating. The summer sky shimmered a deep star-dusted black as she descended before the Duke of Kintail’s magnificent mansion.

  When they entered the glittering ballroom and were announced to the illustrious guests, an excited murmur rushed through the crowd. Niall was well known among the throng of courtiers, macaronis, dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies, but it was the vibrant beauty beside him who drew all eyes.

  “Your reputation precedes you, my love,” Niall murmured with satisfaction.

  “Mine?” She noted the swiveling, powdered heads of the onlookers and felt a rush of feminine power. She was grateful Niall had gowned her like his queen. The vast room was filled with a dazzling array of gentility resplendent in silks and brocades and jewels, but she could hold her head high among them. She was a chieftain’s bride, with the blood of Highland warriors in her veins.

  “Aye, you, Sabrina. You are the talk of Edinburgh. And if I am not mistaken, here is one of your admirers now.”

  The elderly Duke of Kintail himself came forward and begged to be presented to the beauty on the McLaren’s arm. “You did not tell me she was such a ravishing creature, milord.”

  “I thought I would permit you to see for yourself, your grace. May I present the love of my life, my wife, Sabrina, Lady McLaren.”

  The duke bowed elegantly over her hand. “Charmed, milady. So this is the lass who’s caused you to wear your heart on your sleeve. Where have you been hiding her?”

  Niall appraised Sabrina, his glance caressing her in an affectionate way. “Oh, I am not the culprit, your grace. She has been hiding herself. I fear she is rather shy.”

  Sabrina nearly choked at such a blatant falsehood.

  “It required,” Niall continued smoothly, “a herculean effort to persuade her even to attend this evening.”

  “Well,” the duke replied, beaming, “I trust we will make it worth your while, milady. Pray allow me to partner you in a dance later.”

  He took his leave then, while Sabrina gazed after him quizzically.

  “Do not look so startled by his attentions, sweeting,” her husband admonished. “Kintail has a discerning eye to seek out the most alluring woman present. In truth, I was of two minds whether to permit him your hand. I would far rather keep you all to myself.”

  His smile was lavish and heart-familiar. Sabrina found herself staring at that blatant, sensual mouth that could make her go wild with a grin or a caress.

  “You cannot,” she observed archly, “dance solely with me. What will the company think?”

  “They will think me captivated by my beautiful wife, which is no less than the truth.”

  She might have replied, but the duke’s departure seemed to be the signal for the crowd to converge upon her. Dozens of guests came forward to be presented to the remarkable woman who had cap
tured the elusive Highland laird who was the bane of every feminine heart.

  Niall watched in satisfaction as she was fawned over by the company, relishing the stir she’d caused with her uncommon beauty. Tonight Sabrina positively glowed. Among the ladies armored in wide, panniered skirts, wielding gaily painted fans, she stood out like an exotic hothouse flower, her unadorned tresses shining in the gleam of a thousand candles. Yet she responded to the attention as he had taught her, accepting their accolades as her due, with a lively grace that charmed and titillated.

  For the next quarter hour as she was made known to the assembly, Sabrina was scarcely permitted a chance to catch her breath, but when the crowd finally parted, she felt her heart catch in her throat. Across an open space stood an extraordinarily beautiful woman with her own court of admirers. It was the English noblewoman, Sabrina realized. The colonel’s wife whom Niall had been seducing when they’d first met at her cousin Frances’s betrothal ball. Lady Chivington wore a rose velvet gown adorned with gold lace and distended by an enormous hooped petticoat, and she was giving Niall a sultry glance from a distance, her perfect, bow-shaped mouth turned down in a pout.

  Sabrina’s fingers clenched around her fan, before she looked up to find Niall watching her. Their gazes locked, and she knew he too was remembering that first encounter.

  “Ah, no, sweeting, that is not the way to show displeasure. Here, permit me.” Gently grasping her fingers, he snapped open the fragile sticks and made three short, brisk passes with the fan beneath her chin. “There, ’tis an art, you see.”

  Vexed, Sabrina gazed up into his laughing eyes. “An art you seem to have perfected,” she returned waspishly.

  He smiled. “I am gratified that you’re jealous. It gives me hope that you care more deeply for me than you’re willing to admit.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You think me jealous?”

  “Aye. Come now, love, confess. You are as smitten by me as I am by you.”

  “’Tis a wonder anyone else can fit in this vast ballroom alongside you, my lord, considering the inflated proportions of your self-esteem.”

  He laughed, amusement spilling out of his eyes. “Sabrina, sweet Sabrina, how I ache with wanting you.”

  Just then the musicians struck up the stately strains of a minuet.

  “May I have the honor?” Niall murmured.

  Allowing her no opportunity to protest, he took her arm and led her in the genteel steps of a minuet. As he did all else, Niall executed the intricate turns of the dance with flawless grace. Sabrina felt dazed by his nearness, and by the way he was gazing at her. His attention was fixed solely on her, his eyes caressing, as if she were the only woman in the world. When the set concluded, he gave her up with obvious reluctance.

  Afterward Sabrina found herself in great demand as a dance partner; she was not allowed a moment’s rest. It was a heady feeling, in truth—and yet she found herself yearning for the simple honesty of the Highlands. This company seemed too civilized, too pretentious, too frivolous, with its preoccupation with banal chatter and physical beauty.

  And then her triumph was nearly spoiled by her cousin Frances. When the music paused and Sabrina’s partner left to fetch her a glass of punch, Frances approached her, swathed in a gown of stiff pink brocade.

  “Brina, there you are. I could not get near you, what with the crowd fawning around you. I would never have credited it, you making a byword of yourself, wearing a gown that calls such provocative attention to yourself. Mama is shocked, let me tell you.”

  “You need not tell me,” Sabrina murmured wryly. “I am well aware of my aunt’s subservience to fashion. How is my aunt, by the bye?” she asked to change the subject.

  “Well enough, not that you care. I hear you have been in town more than a sennight, yet you have never called on us.” Her cousin frowned petulantly. “I cannot think why not. It is not like you to be so self-centered.”

  “Oliver said you were unwell.”

  Frances’s gaze narrowed sharply. “You have seen Oliver?”

  Sabrina stared, surprised to think her beautiful younger cousin might be jealous of her. She had never provided Frances the least competition, but blended in harmlessly with the rest of the wallflowers. Even with Oliver, who had professed to love her, there’d been no contest once he’d spied Frances. The girl had the petite delicacy of a porcelain doll, with an animated charm that was warm and real—a charm that seemed to be entirely missing tonight.

  “We met by chance on the street,” Sabrina replied lightly, “when my husband was escorting me to the shops. Oliver told me the happy news then. You are pleased by the coming child, are you not?”

  “Yes…I suppose so.”

  “I did not think to see you here tonight if you are feeling poorly.”

  “We are not so high in society that we can refuse an invitation by the Duke of Kintail. I cannot attach the title of milady to my name. I am only plain Mistress Irvine.”

  Sabrina raised her eyebrows in astonishment. She had never seen Frances in such a mood. Usually her cousin displayed the sweetest of dispositions, even if she was perhaps a trifle spoiled. But it seemed Frances somehow blamed her for wedding a Highland laird. Perhaps she’d forgotten the true course of events; if Frances had not vanquished Oliver with a smile, Sabrina would have wed him herself.

  “But then,” Sabrina murmured consolingly, “you were fortunate enough to marry for love.”

  To her astonishment, Frances’s lower lip trembled. “Oh, Brina, I do not mean to act the witch. It is just that I am so unhappy.” Her pretty features turned bleak. “There…are other women.”

  “Surely you are mistaken.”

  “No. Oliver has a…a mistress. I’ve seen her. She is uncommonly beautiful. And he spends a fortune on gifts for her.” When Sabrina’s expression remained slightly doubtful, Frances said insistently, “How else do you explain how Oliver has managed to run through so much of my dowry in so short a time?”

  “His wardrobe is a bit more spectacular than I recall.”

  “He buys the latest fashions in order to impress that woman. At least she dares not show her face in polite company. She is an actress, Brina.” Her lower lip quivering, she raised a hand to her brow.

  “Frances?” Sabrina asked, concerned.

  “No, I will be better presently.” Fumbling in the pocket of her skirt, Frances withdrew a vile of sal volatile and breathed deeply, wincing at the pungent odor.

  “I do not know how you manage to remain so unaffected, Brina. But then I imagine you are accustomed to such betrayal, wed as you are to a celebrated libertine. How I envy your fortitude. How do you bear it?”

  “Bear what?”

  “Your husband’s infidelities.”

  She was fortunately spared a reply when a gentleman approached. Frances stiffened, while Sabrina found it difficult not to stare.

  She scarcely recognized Oliver. Resplendent in a coat of yellow satin, he sported a full white wig, gold-buttoned cuffs, and high-heeled, gold-buckled shoes. The gentle suitor she’d known had been scholarly, serious, personally ambitious. This man was a stranger to her.

  He bowed deeply before them, though he appeared to ignore his wife. “I am enraptured to greet the bonniest ladies at the ball.”

  His gaze drifted down Sabrina’s bosom, making her overly aware of her exposed flesh. Frances apparently noticed his wandering eyes as well, for she sent her husband a withering look that was at once murderous and verging on tears.

  When she stalked away without a word, Oliver leaned close to whisper gravely in Sabrina’s ear. “I must speak to you in private. Will you join me in the library in a few moments’ time? ’Tis along the main corridor to the right.”

  He gave her no time to reply, but bowed again and turned away.

  Puzzled, Sabrina waited for a moment and then followed.

  She found the library with little difficulty, but entered warily when she saw that only a single lamp had been lit. Oliver startled a gasp f
rom her when he appeared from the shadows.

  He closed the door behind her and took both her hands in a warm grasp.

  “You came,” he murmured, gazing at her intently.

  Sabrina felt ill at ease with his inexplicable fervor. Yet Oliver seemed not to notice as he launched into what was evidently a prepared speech.

  “I can scarcely credit how greatly you’ve changed, Sabrina.”

  “I might say the same about you.”

  “You cannot claim to have acted the fool. Seeing you again has made me realize what a terrible error I made.”

  “Error?”

  “In forsaking you for Frances.”

  “Oliver, you shouldn’t…”

  “No, I must say this. I should never have left you. Oh, my dearest, my life has been empty without you.”

  “Surely…you mistake your feelings.”

  “No, indeed not. My feelings for you have never been stronger.”

  Highly discomfited, Sabrina managed to withdraw her hands and move away, to a safer distance. She had never seen him behave this way. “Oliver, you have a wife.”

  “Frances does not understand me the way you do.”

  “I am not certain I understand you.”

  “Then I must speak plainly. I miss you, Sabrina. I want you. And I cannot see why we must endure the misery of being apart. Say you will be with me, cherie.”

  She stiffened. “What are you proposing? That we commit adultery?”

  “Do not look at me that way, my dear. You are a woman of the world now. How could you be less—wed to a libertine whose affairs are legion?”

  He moved toward her purposefully, startling her with his aggression. Was this the same Oliver who had always been gentle, solicitous, respectful in his behavior with her? His glittering eyes just now made her wonder if he was foxed.

  Slipping an arm around her waist, he bent his head to kiss her. Stunned, Sabrina could only stand there as his lips pressed hotly against hers.

  At her silence, Oliver tightened his embrace, but it was another instant before Sabrina marshaled her shocked senses. She struggled in his arms for a moment, but he was stronger than he appeared, and he refused to release her, only becoming more passionate.