“Shall we dance?” Nicholas asked a few minutes later when the orchestra began its second set.
Mari put her hand lightly over his and let him lead her in a cotillion. Once, as they performed the steps in the movement, she saw Jamie out of the corner of her eye with Maddie. An odd sense of relief flooded her that they were not dancing a waltz. She stumbled slightly and Nicholas caught her.
“You do not seem very focused,” he said as the dance ended.
“I am sorry. I…I have not been feeling well.”
“So you have said,” Nicholas answered.
Mari let her gaze roam the room, and it rested on Jamie talking with Maddie not far away. Quickly, she looked away, but not before Nicholas noticed.
“It seems your friend and the Highlander are making quite a splash,” he said, a hard edge to his voice.
“Y-yes, they are.” Indeed, Maddie’s face was flushed, and Mari could see her friend’s eyes were glowing even from where she stood. Jamie appeared to be attentive.
If I were you, miss, I would swallow my pride and go to him before it’s too late. The words echoed in Mari’s head, and a wave of nausea flooded her stomach.
“I think I am going to be ill. I need to go home.”
“Nonsense. We are going to announce our betrothal when the orchestra breaks,” Nicholas said. “You will just have to manage.”
Mari did not like his clipped tone nor his lack of even a pence’s worth of sympathy. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. And maybe she was seeing him for the first time. His eyes were cold, not warm like Jamie’s. Now that she thought of it, Nicholas had not once come to her rescue. When she’d sent him the note conveying Jillian was ill and she was leaving for Scotland, he had not come by to see her off or even voiced any concern. What was worse, he had used a piece of private information to paint that ghastly portrait.
Jamie had tried to purchase it and then gallantly defended her honor with the duel and finally, cut the thing to shreds when she said she never wanted to see it again. Jamie had done that for her. Memories flooded her mind of all the times she’d been annoyed with him for protecting her when—at least most of the time—he’d been rescuing her from her own foolishness.
Why had she never noticed? She glanced across the room again. Maddie was smiling and nodding at something Jamie said. He caught her gaze just as she was about to look away, and for just a moment, she thought she saw something spark in his eyes before he returned to his conversation with Maddie.
Mari took a deep breath. It might be too late to get Jamie back, but she was not going to compound one mistake by making another. She turned to Nicholas whose eyes were hard as daggers.
“I cannot marry you,” she said.
Nicholas seethed with cold fury as he pounded on the flimsy door to his father’s flat close to midnight. Several people shouted at him to hold down the noise, and one middle-aged woman leaned out an upstairs window, exposing most of her ample breasts.
“Why don’t ya come to see me, lovey?” she asked, showing missing teeth.
He ignored her as the door opened and he pushed his way past Wesley. “Are you alone?”
“Of course I am. Why would I keep a doxy around after I’d used her?” Wesley lit several candles and stared at his son. “What is wrong?”
“What is wrong?” Nicholas echoed, pacing the small room. “Every god-damn thing is what’s wrong! Where is the brandy?”
“I’m out.”
Nicholas spewed a string of obscenities and finally sank onto the lumpy sofa. “That fool bitch has refused to marry me.”
Wesley sat down in an equally lumpy armchair across from Nicholas. “Was it the portrait? I heard it created quite—”
“Not the damn portrait. The damn Highlander. The chit fancies herself in love with the bâtard. Why is he not dead?”
Wesley shrugged. “I do not know. One of the men I employed is dead and the other disappeared. Not unusual, given the type of work they do. Do you want me to hire someone else?”
Nicholas shook his head. “Not for MacLeod. He will be on his guard now, but I will make him pay in more ways than one.”
His father looked amused, making Nicholas even angrier. He’d almost had MacLeod at the duel. He had not expected the Highlander to try a trick like stumbling. Nicholas would not make that mistake again.
Cold fury washed over him as he recalled the earlier events of the evening. The ungrateful little chit did not even realize how he had made himself grovel to those pompous patronesses—and to her shrew of an aunt—to convince everyone he would do the honorable thing in light of the gossip their excursion to the gardens had caused. An excursion made scandalous by putting the laudanum in the wizened maid’s chocolates. At least that had gone according to plan. Really, the Barclay girl should appreciate his offer to marry her. Did she? No. Nicholas simply could have left her to face the consequences of her foolishness. Her reputation would have been in tatters. And what had she done with his portrait? The painting was worth enough money to live quite well for six months at least. Had she appreciated that? No. Instead, she had played the part of the distressed, naïve ingénue, and the hulking Highlander had come to her rescue—and destroyed Nicholas’s work.
They would pay for that too, in more ways than one.
He became aware his father was speaking. “What?”
“I said, what do you intend to do now that the dowry is no longer an option?”
Nicholas smiled coldly. “We will get our money. Abduction was always a second option. I suspect a ransom will be paid quite rapidly if the note includes the threat of the girl being sold to one of the Eastern sultans who like blonde women in their harems. Quite a number of ships put into port here.”
Wesley chuckled. “Actually, a virgin would command a good price.”
This time, Nicholas gave a genuine laugh. “Marissa Barclay will not be a virgin by the time the ransom is paid. I intend to make sure of that.” He stood to go. “This time, when you hire the abductors, tell the men they will have the bonus of rutting one of the ton’s snobbish debutantes.”
But first, Nicholas would make sure taking Marissa Barclay’s maidenhead would be a very painful event. Then he would screw her raw until her ass bled as well.
Chapter Thirty
“I hope I am doing the right thing,” Mari said to Abigail the next afternoon as they sat in the townhouse’s library where Mari had wadded nearly a basketful of paper. She had ink on her fingertips from trying to find the right words to write to Jamie.
Abigail sipped her mulled cider and curled up in the wingchair by the fire, looking strangely relaxed and comfortable. But then, this was a library and Abigail loved books. She was truly in her element.
“Letting Jamie MacLeod know how you feel is something you should have done long ago.”
Mari was surprised at the candor, but then Abigail was not known for light-hearted chatter or subtle innuendos. It was Abigail who had noticed Mari leaving the ballroom last night and followed her out to the veranda, asking bluntly if she needed a ride home after Nicholas strode past them without a second glance. Abigail had ordered her father’s carriage brought around, simply telling the earl Mari was ill and Abigail was accompanying her home. Neither of her parents had questioned the situation although they looked somewhat confused. Abigail had just shrugged when Mari mentioned it, saying her parents probably thought she was escaping since she hated the balls. Mari had just been grateful Nicholas did not see her home.
“Maddie will be angry with me.” Mari forced the next words out. “I know she fancies Jamie, and he has been paying attention to her.”
“Jamie did not escort her to the ball,” Abigail said. “I saw him arrive alone.”
“You did?”
Abigail smiled. “It is hard to miss a MacLeod.”
In spite of her worry, Mari smiled back. She would be able to pick Jamie out of any crowd, not just because he was taller than most men or had broad shoulders. It wasn�
�t his silky, dark-auburn hair or his unusual golden eyes or even the soothing sound of his deep voice. Mari could sense Jamie’s presence to her very core.
“You do not think it too forward of me to do this?” Mari asked.
Abigail adjusted her spectacles. “How is Jamie to know if you do not tell him?”
“Yes, but… Oh, dear. If Aunt Agnes finds out… She told me I should be grateful Nicholas offered for me after that scandalous afternoon. This is just going to create another scandal if the gossips find out. The on-dits will fly—”
“Gossip is just pettiness from people who like to stir the pot.” Abigail gave a very unladylike snort. “Would you really prefer a Frenchman to a MacLeod? All three of the MacLeods are fine specimens of men—I certainly would have made my intentions known if Shane had stayed longer.”
Mari nearly dropped the pen she’d been diddling with. Abigail was revealing a side of herself hitherto unknown. Everyone thought her to be quiet, unassuming, more interested in scholarly learning than people. Although, those books on Greek art were not exactly full of words. Still. “You surprise me.”
Abigail blinked. “Well, one has to know what one wants and set goals.”
“But we are talking about men, not…things.”
“Is there truly such a difference?”
“Of course there is. I cannot just go after Jamie like he is some kind of prize. He is a person with thoughts and feelings.” Mari felt shame creep over her. She should have considered these things much, much sooner.
“I agree. What I am talking about is happiness.” Abigail set her cup down and leaned forward. “If you care for Jamie, will you be happy with anyone else?”
Mari knew she would not. Selecting a piece of the good stationary, she began to write, this time knowing exactly what she wanted to say.
Seated by the wall of a public house but close to a window, Nicholas watched the front door of the boarding house across the street. He had taken advice from his father to visit a costume shop in the theatre district and currently sported a grey wig along with a glued-on mustache that itched and a monocle. The chesterfield coat, top hat and walking stick made him appear to be a well-off elderly gentleman. He just had to remember to walk slowly.
Nicholas glanced at his fob. Eleven o’clock. He knew MacLeod had not left the property because one of the ruffians his father had hired had watched the place all night. Ncholas could see the man standing in the shadows near the side of the building. If the Highlander left, he would be followed. If he headed toward the Barclay townhouse, the henchman would be waiting. However, for all intents and purposes, MacLeod did not know Nicholas and the chit had not left Almack’s together, so he would have no reason to visit the townhouse.
What Nicholas waited for was the messenger he was sure the little bitch would send. Intercepting that missive was crucial to his plans.
Nicholas took more tea, even though he did not like the taste, ordered a plum pudding to avoid drawing suspicion for sitting so long and pretended to study The London Times. Time seemed to crawl, but at long last, a boy Nicholas recognized from the Barclay townhouse came up the street. Nicholas placed a gold guinea on the table, more than twice what his tea and pudding had cost, smiled pleasantly at the barkeep and forced himself not to rush to the door.
Stepping outside, he put on his hat, nodding to signal his accomplice across the street. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he noticed a shadow moving past the shrubbery. The messenger—actually, he was just a lad, and Nicholas wondered why the chit would not have sent someone older—gave a slight yelp as the ruffian grabbed him from behind, cutting off his air, and then he went limp.
Appearing not to hurry, Nicholas sauntered across the street to where the man had dragged the boy behind the hedge.
“Do ya want me to kill him, gov’r?” he asked.
“Not here.” Nicholas bent down and retrieved the embossed ivory envelope. “Go dump him in the river and then meet me at the public stables on Oxford Street in an hour’s time. I will need your help in persuading a certain lady to come with me.”
“Yes, gov’r.”
Nicholas did not waste time in watching the man drag the boy off, turning to walk more quickly now lest MacLeod should come out. Nicholas did not want to test his disguise at close quarters.
Several blocks later, when he was a safe distance away, Nicholas paused to read the message. He could feel his fury building, and rage nearly blinded him when he read the last line. The twit has asked the Highlander to marry her.
Nicholas crumpled the note and stashed it in his pocket. If it were a marriage proposal she wanted an answer to, she would have it.
It just wouldn’t be the right groom.
Near noon, Jamie set out for Gentleman Jackson’s. He thought about going across the street to get a bite to eat, but he was not in the mood for casual conversation. The street was nearly deserted, save for an elderly man who carried a walking cane despite the fact he was moving quite briskly. Jamie wondered if he should have gone on foot to the pugilism building. A good run might have helped, although several rounds of boxing were what he really needed. He hoped there would be some worthy opponents because he really did not want to hold back. Not today.
Mari had left the ball early with the damn Frenchman last night.
When Jamie returned from getting punch for Maddie, they were gone. His first urge had been to follow them, but he’d only look like a fool. He didn’t need Mari telling him one more time she did not need his protection. He had given Mari a choice—had told her she needed to decide which man she wanted—and she evidently had.
He had hoped, though, to have a chance to talk with Mari at the ball—perhaps even to dance, but the only time Algernon left her side, those two harpies had been with Mari, and Jamie had not felt like being particularly polite to either of them.
Damn this polite English Society and its rules.
Gentleman Jackson’s was closed. A sign attached to the door only said it would reopen on the morrow, which did little to improve Jamie’s attitude. He almost wished some other cutthroat were lying in wait for him, although the person he really wanted to pummel was Algernon. He was half tempted to seek the man out, but it would not solve his real problem.
The real problem was that Mari had made a choice—and it was not Jamie she’d chosen.
Resigned, Jamie returned to the boarding house and began packing his things. There was no point in remaining in London, although returning to Scotland would lead to nosy questions about the hand-fasting. Duncan and Broc would only see the split as another reason to hate the English and create even more problems for Jillian, who would probably be mortified to learn the hand-fasting had not lasted.
Jamie had no desire to hear about upcoming nuptials, nor did he wish to allow Maddie to think he was interested in anything more than mere friendship.
Better to go to Cantford and oversee the estates as Ian had requested him to do.
Jamie closed his satchel and stored it by the bed. He would leave tomorrow.
“You are acting as jittery as a cat with a long tail in a roomful of rocking chairs,” Aunt Agnes said as Mari fidgeted with the embroidery she was supposed to be doing. She frowned as Mari muttered something. “What?”
“Ouch!” Mari sucked the blood from her fingertip. That made four times she’d pricked her finger this afternoon, and the few stitches she’d managed to put in were uneven. She laid the loop down and looked toward the window where early afternoon sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains. It had been nearly two hours since she’d sent Seth, the stable boy, to deliver her message to Jamie. Why wasn’t he back?
“Is something wrong, Marissa?”
What should she say? Her aunt had had a horrible migraine the day before that had prevented her from attending Almack’s ball. Upon returning early last night, Mari had only poked her head inside her aunt’s chamber to say she’d not felt well herself. Aunt Agnes did not know what had transpired.
“Marissa?”
Mari sighed. “I told Nicholas last night that I did not want to marry him.”
Her aunt frowned. “I thought we had discussed this.”
“We…we did.” Mari got up and walked to the window, looking out into the empty street. “But last night I realized I just could not go through with it, regardless of the scandal.”
A long moment of silence followed her statement. “I see,” her aunt finally said.
Mari turned away from the window. “You do?”
“I suppose I do. I know Jillian wants you to have a choice. We will just have to live with the on-dits until the gossips find something else to talk about.” Aunt Agnes levied a stern look at Mari. “Did you speak with Mr. MacLeod last night as well?”
“No. I…I thought it better that I leave. Abigail’s father kindly lent me his carriage to come home.”
“Well, I am glad you did not make a spectacle of yourself. I will not allow you to chase after Mr. MacLeod like some street hussy. Is that understood?”
Mari nodded, unable to tell an outright lie. If Aunt Agnes even had an inkling she’d already sent a note to Jamie—let alone one that actually asked if he still wished to marry her—her aunt would have a conniption.
“Mr. MacLeod will hear about the situation soon enough. If he wishes to pay you court, he will announce it himself. A lady must not make herself too available, after all.”
Mari nodded again. If Aunt Agnes knew how available she’d already made herself to Jamie, she would surely have an apoplexy. Mari felt a tingle of warmth flash through her as she recalled Jamie’s hands roaming over her body, caressing bare flesh meant for husbands. Her nipples puckered and her breasts suddenly felt heavy and achy. Dear Lord. How she wanted to experience that again.
“Very well then.” Her aunt laid down her own needlework and rose. “I shall write a note to the earl, thanking him for seeing you home.”
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