Come to think of it, Isabella and Mac weren't in the ballroom at all. Ian and Beth stayed in a corner, Beth conversing with Elliot McBride and his wife, Ian drinking whiskey and pretending to converse. Louisa craned to look around the room. Ainsley and Cameron danced, Hart strolled about, talking to guests alone, Eleanor having retreated again to her bedchamber. Daniel . . .
"Dance with me, Louisa."
Daniel didn't give Louisa much chance to refuse. He pulled her to her feet and swung her into the waltz in the space of a breath.
He danced with the exuberance of his father, but with the vigor of a boy. Louisa spun around and around, and she began to laugh.
"Did you feel sorry for me?" Louisa asked. "The poor wallflower?" Wallflowers were able to observe much, however, such as which gentlemen might be eligible at the marriage mart come spring.
"No, I saw a beautiful woman who should dance. Ah, Louisa, if I were a wee bit older . . ."
"You would still not be ready for courting," Louisa finished.
Daniel laughed. "Aye, that's so. I have a few wild oats to sow yet."
Louisa laughed with him. It was impossible not to like Danny. "Not the most complimentary thing to tell a young woman who's condescended to dance with you."
"No, but you're family. I have no secrets from you."
"I'm not sure whether to be flattered or frightened."
"Flattered, love. It's not everyone gets to be welcomed into this family. Most run far from us or refuse to like us. Can't think why."
"You're ridiculous, Daniel Mackenzie."
"Ah, she cuts me to the quick. You are lovely, Louisa. Remember that. Worthy of any gentleman who chooses you. And the Mackenzie family embraces you with open arms."
Louisa's eyes narrowed. She wondered whether Isabella had spread the news that Louisa wanted to marry, but she squelched the thought. Isabella wasn't one to betray confidences from her sister.
No, she wasn't sure what Daniel had in mind. She also noticed he'd danced her to the far end of the ballroom, near the open doors to the corridor beyond. The music ceased, the dancers applauded the musicians, and they drifted from the floor to wait for the next set, probably a Scottish reel Louisa still hadn't learned.
"Shall I fetch you an ice?" Daniel asked. "Walk ye back to your mother? Kiss you in the corridor? The mistletoe is just there, see?" He pointed to the sprig hanging down from the chandelier in the middle of the deserted hall.
"No, thank you, to any of those," Louisa said. "I hear the fiddles going for a Scottish tune, which you might want to run off and join."
Daniel stood tall and looked down his nose at her. "A gentleman does not desert a lady."
"This lady prefers to walk in the cool hall a moment, alone. You do rather dance one's breath away, Danny."
Daniel executed a deep bow, ruining his dignified look by breaking into a wide grin. "M' heart shatters that you send me away, but never let it be said I pushed my attentions onto an unwilling lady. Good evening, dear Aunt-in-law."
So saying he whirled, kilt swinging, and ran back for the ballroom, narrowly missing a footman carrying a tray of champagne.
Louisa walked on down the hall, trying to slow her breathing. She'd sent Daniel away not only because she wanted to recover from the dance, but because she'd glimpsed a man in black disappear down this hall, one who looked like a Mackenzie and not at the same time.
But he'd vanished, to her disappointment. Ah, well. Probably for the best. But it would have been nice to speak to him one last time before she and Mama departed for London to prepare for the Season.
Perhaps he'd gone into the sitting room at the end of the short hall, beckoning with its open doors. She avoided the place where the mistletoe hung and made for the sitting room, satin skirts in hand.
The room was empty. A fire had been lit here for the guests, but the guests remained in the colorful ballroom. The hall bent beyond the sitting room, she saw, ending in a flight of dark steps leading upward.
Louisa hid a sigh. Likely Mr. Fellows had gone upstairs, retiring to his chamber. She knew that he felt a bit out of place among the Mackenzie guests, as Louisa sometimes did herself.
She turned firmly away, ready to return to her mother and put the man out of her mind . . . and ran straight into Mr. Fellows.
"Oh." The word escaped Louisa's mouth before she could stop it. "I mean, good evening, Mr. Fellows."
Fellows took a step back, then he bowed, the bow stiff, as though he forced himself to remember conventional politeness. "Lady Louisa."
"It's . . . well . . . I . . ." At supper she'd been able to be gracious and decorous, but now her polish and training deserted her. She roved her gaze over him, trying frantically to think of something to say, then she looked again. "You're wearing a kilt."
Mr. Fellows spoke in his usual dry tone. "Hart Mackenzie's gift to me."
"You weren't wearing it at supper."
"His wife persuaded me to don it for the ballroom. However I doubt there will be any Scottish dancing for me."
"Nor for me. I haven't yet mastered the steps."
Mr. Fellows cleared his throat. "Then perhaps you would like to sit?"
He gestured to the chairs placed about inside the sitting room, each of them a polite distance from the others.
Mr. Fellows did not want to sit down with Louisa. She saw that in his stance, in the tightness around his eyes, in the way he wouldn't look directly into her face.
Louisa remained where she was in the doorway. "Such a shame that you must return to London tomorrow. That you cannot spend New Year's with us."
"Unfortunately, the criminals of London do not stop for the holidays. I have a continuing investigation for which my governor wants a result before the new year."
"Perhaps we shall see you in London in January, then. Mama and I will be spending the Season there. With Isabella and Mac."
"Perhaps," Fellows said, his voice going still more dry. Unlikely that a Scotland Yard inspector would cross paths with a society miss. He knew this, as did she.
"Yes, well." Louisa fell silent, and he went quiet as well.
How foolish, Louisa's rapid thoughts went. Two grownup people with connections to the same family, standing and staring at each other. Surely we can speak of the weather if nothing else.
But no sound came from her throat. Louisa knew that when Mr. Fellows walked away, when he left the house early in the morning to begin his journey south, she would not see him again. Not for a long time, and then only at family gatherings where they'd again be awkward and overly polite.
A burst of song came down the hall--fiddles and pipes, the beat of a drum. Guests laughed and clapped. Louisa should return, should sit with her mother, dance with other gentlemen, make herself agreeable.
She couldn't move. Louisa opened her mouth to make an inane remark to Mr. Fellows, anything to keep the conversation going, and found him looking up at the doorway in which they stood.
Someone had hung mistletoe in it. Louisa had made a wide berth around the sprig that hung in the hall, but in her quest to find Mr. Fellows, she'd not seen this one.
He looked at her for a frozen moment. Louisa's words died, every lesson that governesses and finishing school had pounded into her evaporating.
She only knew that a strong man stood with her, different from any gentleman she'd ever met. A cushion of music floated up the hall, canceling all other sound.
Louisa had kissed him before. She remembered the pressure of his mouth, the taste of his lips. She, the forward thing, had coerced him into kissing her.
Louisa grasped the lapels of his coat, rose on her tiptoes, and caught his mouth in another kiss. Mr. Fellows stiffened under her touch, ready to pull away.
Then something in him changed. His mouth formed to hers, responding, and his arms flowed around her.
He tasted of whiskey and the acrid bite of smoke. Hard arms enfolded her, crushing her against the flat planes of his body. No hesitant kisses of a gentleman wanting to
court a lady--Fellows kissed her in hunger, in need.
Desperation fluttered in Louisa's heart. His mouth opened hers, pressing inside her, demanding, wanting.
She hung on to him, her fingers curling into his coat, tears wetting the corners of her eyes. He kissed like a madman, with hot desire, a forbidden taste of what she could never have.
He released her, his eyes glittering with anger, but not at her. "Louisa," he whispered.
Louisa tightened her grip on his coat, wanting to come against him again, needing to feel his strong body against hers. He slid a hand under her hair . . .
A crowd of laughing, flushed dancers poured from the ballroom and headed down the hall for the mistletoe in the middle. Daniel's voice rose over the others--"Don't all rush at once. It's only a little wager."
Fellows released Louisa and faded from her. One moment, she saw him in the shadows of the staircase, the next, he was gone.
Louisa put her hand to her hair and gulped deep breaths. The imprint of his mouth lingered on her lips, the bite of his fingers on her back. She could barely stand, her legs weak and hot.
But the others were coming. Louisa pasted on a smile and moved on shaking legs to meld with the crowd and pretend she'd been part of it all along.
*** *** ***
"Don't disappoint me, Dad," Daniel said the next day.
Cameron shot his son a half-teasing, half-annoyed look and moved to the middle of the ballroom.
Garlands still hung the walls, draped the windows, and dripped from the chandeliers. Gone were the orchestra, dancers' finery, and footmen circulating with champagne; in their place were men in kilts, women in plaid gowns, the English guests in casual clothes that indicated they'd next take a tramp in the garden. The footmen, who had the day off, lounged with the maids on the other side of the room, and tea, coffee, and champagne had been set up on a long table for the guests to serve themselves.
Ainsley pressed her hands together and tried not to obviously ogle her husband. Cameron had stripped down to shirtsleeves, kilt, wool socks and soft shoes. Bellamy wore the same except he had close-fitting breeches rather than a kilt.
Cameron, with his athletic, tall body, was a fine specimen, and Ainsley tried not to think too hard about what that body looked like under his clothing. Other ladies of the party cast glances at the men and whispered, Cameron drawing as many gazes as Bellamy.
At one time, Ainsley would have burned with jealousy. Cameron had made it known, however, that his rakehell days were over. No more mistresses, a different one every six-month, no more trysts with other men's wives. He was married, and happily so. Besides, Eleanor, in charge of the guest lists, had the good taste not to invite any ladies who'd once shared a bed with Cameron Mackenzie.
Cameron's Christmas gift to her revealed his more thoughtful side--a beautiful ebony and mother-of-pearl box in which to keep Ainsley's embroidery things. Cam had expressed puzzlement at first that Ainsley made things when she could afford to buy them, but he'd come to understand that the act of embroidering was special to her. He'd been equally pleased with the gift she'd given him--a horse blanket she'd sewn herself for his favorite horse, Jasmine. Their private exchange of gifts had been a most satisfying occasion.
David Fleming had agreed to referee the match before he returned to England in pursuit of Ian's Ming bowl. Daniel was busy coordinating the many wagers, which he'd gathered with ruthless efficiency. Hart, when he'd agreed that Bellamy and Cameron could have the match, had stipulated that it should be for amusement only, no wagering.
Hart must have known everyone would ignore him. Ainsley had placed a nice sum on her husband, but she knew the servants had bet heavily on Bellamy.
Perhaps too heavily. Some of them looked worried as they waited anxiously for the event to begin.
Bellamy, however, was in fine form. Though he'd not fought in years, he'd managed to keep his strength and steadiness. Against a skilled opponent Daniel's age, Bellamy might come to grief, but he and Cameron, both in their thirties, both honed from exercise, and both experienced, were well matched.
"Gentlemen," David said, standing between them. "You'll box until I call time in each round. Then you'll break apart until I call time again. If a man falls and stays down for a count of ten, he will be considered defeated. Shake hands, make it a fair fight."
Cameron and Bellamy shook, each confident, each wishing the other well. Then they broke apart.
"Very well, then," David said. "Gentlemen. Fight."
* * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
The room exploded with noise.
The two men began by circling each other, looking for a weakness, a chance to get in the first hit.
Ainsley held her breath, suddenly nervous. It was one thing to imagine her husband in a splendid fight, another to wait for an equally large man to strike him.
Bellamy punched first. He did it with quick efficiency, but Cameron was ready and blocked the blow. Cameron sidestepped and came back into place, throwing a sudden jab at Bellamy's jaw. Bellamy blocked that and countered, which Cameron blocked in turn.
They stepped apart but swiftly came together again, each having the measure of the other. The punches began in earnest, Bellamy with a powerful, straight fist, Cameron moving under his guard and getting in a quick jab. Shouting escalated as the match moved from polite entertainment to serious combat.
Ainsley could see Bellamy's professionalism--his emotionless expression, his watchfulness, the way he avoided what looked like easy openings. Cameron didn't have as much experience in the ring, but he'd taken lessons from professional trainers, as many gentlemen did, and he'd fought at university and in impromptu matches in England, Scotland, France, and other parts of the Continent.
Steven McBride stood at Ainsley's elbow. Her youngest brother had seen much true fighting in the army, in bloody battles in India and the Middle East. All Ainsley's brothers save Patrick had spent time in the army, shaped by their years far from home. Elliot had left the army to run a business in India before his capture, Sinclair had sold his commission to marry and take up a profession, but Steven would likely be a career officer.
"Oh, good move," Steven said when Cameron landed a punch on Bellamy's jaw. "Nice feint."
"Come on then, Bellamy," Curry's voice rose over the noise. "I've got me Christmas wages on you. 'E's only a lordship. Ye can take 'im."
"After him, Dad!" Daniel yelled. "Did ye nae see that coming? Block. Block."
The cacophony rose, the family and guests yelling for Cameron, the servants for Bellamy. Not all the guests shouted for Cam, Ainsley noted. Some had bet on the sure thing of the professional pugilist.
Ainsley heard herself shouting right along with everyone else, bouncing on her toes as her husband landed punch after punch, driving Bellamy across the room. Cameron paid for it as soon as Bellamy recovered and retaliated. Cameron danced back on light feet, Bellamy following him, fists flying.
The duke's grand ballroom--the very room in which Eleanor and Hart had married--became a back-street boxing ring, the guests abandoning their politeness, the Scots servants shouting insults at their masters with good-natured vigor.
"Now, then, your lordship, are you going to let yourself be beat by a Sassenach?" "Aye, he's good with a horse, but not with a fist." "We're counting on you, Bellamy, even if ye are a bloody Englishman."
Cameron wore a slight smile as he fought. He loved this, Ainsley saw. He was a physical man, leaving the thinking problems like mathematics and business to Ian and Hart. He loved horses, women, fighting, gambling. And now Ainsley and his daughter--with all his might. Cameron didn't hold back on anything.
"What's he doing?" Steven said in her ear.
Ainsley studied Cameron, who was busily avoiding Bellamy's blows. "What do you mean?"
"He's . . . it's as if he's trying to lose."
Ainsley didn't understand what Steven saw, but Steven must know what he was talking about. To Ainsley, Cameron was blocking and punching, wh
eeling and dancing, just as Bellamy was.
David called time for the first round, and the two broke apart. Daniel sped in to give his father a sip of water, a cloth for his face. The rest period didn't last long, and the fight resumed.
Again, Ainsley saw nothing but two men doing their best to pummel each other, but Steven told her differently. "Ah, a fine hit. Looks like Cam was waiting for that opening. Good man. But he could have ended it just then, and he didn't."
"Perhaps he wants us to have a good show," Ainsley said.
"Maybe he's worried about the servants losing their pay packets."
True. Both servants and guests had started betting thick and fast as soon as the fight was announced.
It would be just like Cameron to let Bellamy win the fight and spare the servants losing their wages. Hart's guests could stand the loss, but the servants, some of whom contributed their packets to large families, could not. Cameron would think it fitting to provide entertainment and make sure Hart's staff took money from the duke's guests.
Cam was a generous man beneath his hard exterior, something Ainsley had understood soon after she'd come to know him. He never boasted, and was often underhanded or reckless in his generosity, but his big heart encompassed all.
I love you, Cameron Mackenzie. He'd showed a side of himself to Ainsley that no one else knew about. Their secret.
Bellamy beat Cameron across the floor again, the servants screaming for their favorite. Ainsley cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, "Cam! I love you!"
Cameron's grin widened, but the acknowledgment cost him a blow. Bellamy landed one on his face, and Cameron tripped. The crowd on his side of the room groaned.
Cameron regained his feet without falling and countered with a punch to Bellamy's jaw. Bellamy's head snapped back, and now the servants groaned.
Cameron waited, fists ready, for Bellamy to come at him again, but Bellamy staggered. Ainsley watched him in surprise. The punch hadn't been hard, Cameron still trying to find his balance. Ainsley had seen that even without Steven's confirmation.
A Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift Page 11