The Scotsman and the Spinster

by Joan Overfield

  Understanding dawned, and Addy shook her head in gentle rebuke. "Aunt, how many times must I remind you I am no longer on the catch for a husband? I've put on my caps, for heaven's sake!" She indicated the prim twist of gray sarcenet ruthlessly covering her copper-colored curls.

  Her aunt gave a sniff of patent disapproval. "Pray don't remind me of that," she said. "A bigger scandal than a girl scarce out of her teens donning a widow's weeds and acting like a dowager, I've yet to see. I quite wonder the Patronesses allow you such conceit."

  "Perhaps because they appreciate my willingness to accept the unvarnished truth," Addy replied calmly. "Aunt Matilda, we have had this discussion ad nauseum, and you know I have the right of it. If I am to continue helping others as I have helped his lordship, then I must make it plain I am not doing so merely to trap some poor gentleman into marriage. The only way I can do that and keep any pretense of pride is to pin up my hair and declare myself a spinster before someone else can do it for me."

  "I realize that," her aunt conceded with a disgruntled glare, "but that doesn't mean you risk the scandal of the Season merely by dancing. And if you're so determined to help St. Jerome, hasn't it occurred to you that you'll do him far more good on the dance floor than if you spend the entire evening stuffed away in some corner?"

  Addy sat back in her chair. "That is so," she said, impressed with her aunt's canny reasoning. "Very well, ma'am, should a gentleman ask for a dance I promise to consider the matter before saying no. Is that agreeable?"

  "No, but I'm not such a fool as to think I shall do better," Aunt Matilda retorted. "Ah, well, one can only hope the prime minister will deign to stand up with you. Perhaps you're not so toplofty as to turn down a peer."

  She and Addy continued chatting until Lord St. Jerome came striding into the room. Addy glanced up, the words of greeting she'd been about to utter withering on her lips. The viscount noted her wide-eyed stare and came to an uncertain halt.

  "What is it?" he demanded, reaching for the intricate cravat knotted beneath his chin. "Is it this cursed thing? My valet insisted 'twas all the fashion."

  It took a moment before Addy was able to find her voice. "And so it is," she said, gathering her composure with an effort. "Pray accept my apologies for staring, my lord. I fear I was lost in thought. But you are looking quite nice, I must say. Your valet is to be complimented."

  "Quite nice?" her aunt echoed, gaping at her as if she was bereft of reason. "Has your eyesight gone begging along with your wits? The lad is an Adonis!" She turned back to St. Jerome, who was red-faced with embarrassment.

  "You are looking as fine as a sixpence, my boy," she said, thrusting out her gloved hand and beaming up at him in approval. "There'll not be a feminine heart safe this night, I'll be bound."

  Addy could think of nothing more to say, and to cover her discomfit she gathered up her shawl and fan. "If you are ready, my lord, we had best be on our way," she said, rising gracefully to her feet. "As you are the guest of honor, it would hardly do for us to be late."

  The viscount raised his eyebrows at her clipped tone, but to her relief he offered her no comment. A short while later they were on their way, and while her aunt and St. Jerome chatted, Addy took the opportunity to study his lordship without fear of being observed.

  The black velvet jacket, silver and cream satin waistcoat, and cream-colored breeches he was wearing were identical in every aspect to attire she'd seen on a hundred different men, but when he'd first walked into the drawing room she'd felt her heart stumble to a halt. She'd been aware of him as she'd never been aware of another man, and her unexpected and decidedly missish behavior left her both bewildered and ashamed.

  The only explanation she could devise for such a sad want of conduct was that his lordship was an unusually handsome man. Her protestations to her aunt aside, she was still a female, and no more immune to masculine attractions than any other female. Indeed, she assured herself, it would have boded ill for their plans for the viscount had she not found him attractive. Given that it was natural she should be affected by his appearance, and now that she knew how devastating he could be in evening dress, she would be better prepared for the next time she saw him. It was all perfectly logical.

  " . . . do you not agree, Adalaide?" Her aunt was glancing at her expectantly.

  Addy shifted uneasily, not trusting her aunt enough to agree to anything without knowing precisely what it was she was agreeing to. "Once again, I must apologize," she said, pleased with her cool tones. "I was thinking of something else, and fear I wasn't attending. What was it you were saying, Aunt?"

  "Nothing of interest, 'twould seem," her aunt grumbled sourly. "Well, what was it you were thinking? Something wicked, I've no doubt, if that cat-in-the-cream smirk of yours was any indication."

  Addy felt her cheeks with consternation. "Not at all, my lady," she said, thinking her aunt must truly be the witch her brother Arthur sometimes called her. "I was thinking of tonight, and how we will go on."

  "And what decisions have you reached, if I may ask?" Lord St. Jerome's genial tones made it plain he had decided to take pity on her.

  "I've decided that since it's likely everyone in Society will have learned of your recent elevation to the peerage, we'd do better to utilize their curiosity rather than ignoring it," she said, thinking quickly. "They'll be expecting you to be overwhelmed by your new circumstances, and anxious as a puppy to make yourself agreeable."

  "Aye," he agreed, inclining his head coolly. "So you have said. You have also said I should not oblige them, or have you changed your mind about that?"

  "Indeed not!" she hurried to assure him. "As I've remarked, the ton dotes most on that which they consider just beyond their reach, and the more standoffish you are, the more ardently they shall pursue you."

  "Yes, Miss Terrington," he replied in the manner of a young boy responding to an officious governess.

  Feeling generous, Addy decided to ignore the provocation. "As the duke's guest of honor you'll be seated to his wife's right," she continued, going over ground they'd covered earlier that day. "Her grace is exceedingly fond of handsome young men, so you may count upon her to flirt with you. You're not to notice if she should pat your knee."

  He looked momentarily alarmed. "Yes, Miss Terrington."

  Addy shot him a suspicious look, but when he responded with a bland look of polite inquiry, she continued. "You may dance, if you wish, but mind to whom you make your bows. You must appear to be as selective as possible. The fewer times you stand up with the ladies, the greater an honor they shall deem it when you do ask them. You may look to Lord Falconer for direction in this matter. He almost never dances, and when he does, the young lady he singles out is instantly accounted a diamond of the first water."

  "Yes, Miss Terrington."

  She glared at him. "Can you say nothing other than 'Yes, Miss Terrington'?" she demanded crossly.

  He studied her for several seconds, and then his lips curved in a smile that set her treacherous heart to thumping once more. "Yes, Miss Terrington."

  "I'll say this for you, lad, you're a cool one under fire," the Duke of Creshton said, hiding a smile as the elderly woman stalked away, her face set in lines of extreme displeasure. "If Lady Percyville had interrogated me like that, I should have bolted for the border!"

  Ross sent the woman a look tinged as much with respect as with resentment. "I was tempted, your grace, believe me," he said, thinking the old harridan could give lessons to the Intelligence Corps on how to question prisoners.

  The duke gave a chuckle, clapping Ross companionably on the shoulder. "Well, our duty's done, Sergeant, and it's time to make merry. We've earned our right to a drop, I'd say."

  Ross followed silently, the thought of a drink sorely tempting. He'd spent the better part of an hour being quizzed by an avid Society determined on ferreting out his every secret, and his temper was near to exploding. Only the knowledge he dared not risk the mission kept a civil tongue in his head, but eve
n then he'd come perilously close to telling some impertinent sassennach precisely what he thought of them. 'Twas odd, he thought, as he and the duke made their way to the corner of the ballroom where liveried servants stood beside a table groaning under the weight of various delicacies. But the hotter the anger in his heart burned, the colder his expression grew, and the colder his expression, the more the English fawned upon him. Miss Terrington had the right of it, he decided, shaking his head in silent wonder. The ton were as mad as their king.

  The duke handed Ross a glass of champagne and then lifted his own glass in toast. "Here's to you, my lord," he said, his weathered face wreathed in smiles. "You've done well for a first engagement. Wellington couldn't have hoped for a better champion!"

  "Thank you, sir," Ross responded, pleased by the praise. "But 'tis Miss Terrington you ought to be congratulating. She has far more to do with this than do I."

  "Quite so, young man, quite so," the duke agreed, giving another chuckle. "The lass is nearly as intimidating as Lady Percyville, and far lovelier. Where is the dear lady that I might tender her my thanks? Miss Terrington, that is, not Lady Percyville. Can't abide her above half a minute's time, don't you know."

  Ross didn't need to look to know where to find his instructress. Even while bowing and scraping to the guests lined up to goggle at him, he'd been careful to keep his eye on Miss Terrington. He'd been amused to note her eye was on him as well, and the realization had filled him with an odd sense of contentment.

  "She is over by the window, your grace, flirting with Lord Falconer."

  The duke turned to peer in the direction Ross had indicated. "Is she, by gad? Ah, yes, I see them now. He's a fine man, I must say, and a good one, even if he's a trifle high in the instep. Hoped he and my elder daughter might make a match of it, but Elinore proclaimed him as cold and emotionless as a block of stone, and he named her a shrew of the first water." He glanced back at Ross, a speculative note gleaming in his eye.

  "Don't suppose you'd be interested in marrying her?" he asked, sounding hopeful. "She's well dowered and well bred, for all she has a tongue like a cat-o'-nine-tails and a temper to match. She'd make you an excellent viscountess."

  Ross couldn't say which shocked him more, that the duke would casually trot out his daughter's failings to a stranger, or that he would in the next breath offer her to that stranger with no more hesitation than if she was a horse he was offering for trade.

  "That is very good of you, sir," he said hastily, thinking that for all the instruction Miss Terrington had taken such pains to give him, she hadn't told him how to handle so mortifying a situation. "But as I've yet to have the honor of making your daughter's acquaintance, I fear I cannot say. But I thank you for the honor," he added, hoping to avoid insulting the man who'd been so good to him.

  "And you're not likely to meet her, considering the stubborn chit has buried herself in the country and won't come to London for love nor money," the duke muttered, shaking his head. "I married off both my heirs and my youngest daughter without an ounce of effort, but Elinore . . ." He shook his head a second time, his scowl melting into a smile of paternal indulgence. "The lass is me all over, may God help the poor man she sets her sights upon."

  Ross was spared the necessity of reply by the arrival of Miss Terrington and Lord Falconer. She was smiling, and behind the lenses of her spectacles, her eyes were dancing sapphire-bright.

  "Congratulations, my lord," she said, surprising him by dropping into a graceful curtsy. "You are an unqualified success. The ladies all think you utterly charming, and the men account you 'a good sort,' which is a compliment of the first order, or so I am told." She glanced at the marquess, who gave a cool nod of assent.

  "Creighville and Longhead have spoken of putting you up for membership at White's," he said. "And Marchton is having your name put forward at Brook's."

  "Only Marchton?" the duke demanded, looking displeased.

  In answer Falconer's lips curved in a wolfish smile. "When 'tis Marchton, no other is needed," he said wryly. "A million pounds will do that for a man, to say nothing of the title he is said to have recently purchased."

  Ross thought of the tanned and aloof man he'd been presented to earlier. No title and therefore no seat in the House of Lords to be courted, but the duke had treated him with a wary respect that had made Ross take note at once. He frowned as he recalled something the duke had told him.

  "But he's an American," Ross said, recalling the way the man had gripped his hand with surprising strength.

  "Of English descent," Falconer corrected. "His father was rumored to be an illegitimate son who went to the New World to seek his fortune about the time of the last war." He smiled again. "It would seem he found it."

  "Speaking of Mr. Marchton"—Miss Terrington turned to Ross—"he'll be accompanying you and Lord Hixworth when you go to Tattersall's. He's anxious to buy breeding stock for his farm in Virginia, and the earl has promised to help."

  The talk turned general, and the knot of tension coiling inside Ross slowly began unwinding. He found he could smile, even laugh, as they reviewed the night's successes and failures. To his relief, there were more of the former than the latter, and he was feeling cautiously optimistic as the tune the musicians were scratching out reached his ears. Recognizing one of the dances he'd so recently learned, he turned to Miss Terrington, a smile on his lips as he made an elaborate bow over her hand.

  "If you've not pledged this dance to another, I should be honored if you would stand up with me," he said, amused to see both consternation and alarm on her pixielike face. 'Twas a rare thing for him to get the upper hand with the little briosag, and he meant to savor it while he could.

  "Don't be absurd," she said, snatching back her hand and scowling up at him. "Don't you recall what I said about minding with whom you dance? If you're seen standing up with me, you'll be laughed out of London inside of an hour!"

  He regained possession of her hand. "And are you so free with your favors, then, that you dance with every man jack who asks you?" he drawled, knowing well the answer.

  "Of course not!" she exclaimed, clearly indignant at such a charge. "I never dance."

  "Then what could better establish my reputation than to be seen dancing with a lady known for being particular in her choice of partners?" he asked, drawing her hand through his arm and turning toward the dance floor. "You said it yourself, ma'am. The choosier one is seen to be, the greater the honor for the one chosen. This way, if you please."

  Amused at her muttering and the way she dragged her heels, he led her out on to the dance floor, where a set was forming. The music was light, the steps easy, and Ross gave himself up to the sheer joy of the music. He couldn't recall the last time he'd danced at a ball, nor even the last time he'd felt so lighthearted and carefree. Years of death and danger had taught him to treasure such moments, and when the dance ended he was beaming down at his partner.

  "Would it risk my reputation and yours if we were to dance again?" he asked, taking in her appearance in delight. Her spectacles were askew, her cheeks prettily flushed, and more than a few flame-colored tendrils had escaped confinement to riot about her forehead and dainty ears. He thought he'd never seen a sight more charming.

  "It most certainly would," she retorted, straightening her spectacles with a glare. "Now take yourself off to some corner to look down at the rest of us in lordly arrogance before you undo all the good we've accomplished." And with that she trounced off, her own nose held at a suitably arrogant angle that had Ross chuckling in amusement.

  Hoist with her own petard. The phrase flashed through Addy's mind as she ducked behind the potted palm standing forlornly in the corner of the ballroom. She'd only just succeeded in shedding her last partner, and she was determined to remain hidden until her current partner gave up searching for her and wandered off to find some other poor female to pester. It was her fault, she supposed, and knowing she was to blame for her present difficulties did little to soothe her sensi
bilities.

  Her observation that dancing with Lord St. Jerome would make a lady the belle of the ball had proven all too prophetic. The dance with his lordship had scarce ended before she found herself besieged by eager men, all begging her for a dance. Her initial response was to refuse, but with her aunt's admonishment in mind, she'd grudgingly changed her mind. Instead of retreating, she'd stood up with two or three gentlemen she thought might help further St. Jerome's cause. Once she'd done that, the race was on.

  It had been years since she'd danced with someone other than one of her pupils or some long-suffering friend of her brothers. Having a man actually want to dance with her had proven an interesting novelty, and one she was honest enough to admit she enjoyed. That was why she had danced more than she ought to have done. But when she realized the other guests were watching her and whispering behind their hands, sanity had prevailed, and she'd decided enough was enough.

  The autocratic dowagers who ruled Society might be willing to overlook an on-the-shelf spinster engaging in an occasional bout of dancing, but did she appear to make a habit of it, they could well change their minds. It had taken her years to convince the old biddies she had no interest in attracting a husband, and if she began dancing again, they could begin questioning her sincerity. She could even find herself being regarded as an eligible female, and that would put paid to all of her carefully laid plans.

  "Your pardon, Miss Terrington, but are you hiding from an ambush, or preparing for one?"

  The low, masculine drawl had Addy jolting in alarm, and she spun around to find herself gazing up into the sardonic face of the viscount. Operating on the principle that 'twas better to attack than to defend, she rose to her full height and fixed him with her frostiest look.

  "I beg your pardon, my lord," she said, adopting her most imperious demeanor. "But I am sure I have no notion what you might be referring to."

  "If 'tis an ambush you're seeking to avoid," he continued, acting for all the world as if she hadn't spoken, "I should be more than happy to provide cover. But if 'tis an ambush you were meaning to spring, I take leave to tell you you have already committed a tactical error." Dimples flashed in his lean cheeks. "Your flank was exposed."