Highlander in Disguise

by Julia London

  She glanced at him over the top of her fan. “Why do you act surprised, my lord? If I were a man, you’d agree with my observation.”

  “Aye, but ye’re no’ a man.”

  “Honestly, women wear low décolletage so men will notice them. All rational adults are quite aware of it. Why not let’s just admit it?”

  “To admit it would take the sport from the game,” he said, feeling mildly disappointed she was not playing the game with her modest neckline.

  Her brows knit in confusion and her fan stopped waving. “What game?”

  “A game ye’d understand were ye a man. Now, Miss Addison, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ll leave ye to the counting of yer sister’s dances.”

  “What?” she asked, lowering her fan. “You’re going so soon? I thought you’d at least make an effort to put a mark on my dance card.”

  Diah, the woman was astonishingly brash—so brash, in fact, that she reminded him a wee bit of his sister, Mared. As if sensing his reluctance, Miss Addison jiggled her wrist before him, making her card dance.

  He laughed. “Mo chreach, woman, ye’re an impudent one! I donna believe a lady has ever been so forward as to ask me to stand up with her!”

  “Another bothersome custom,” she said with an insouciant shrug. “Why shouldn’t a woman ask a man to dance if she pleases? And besides, I should think you of all people would appreciate my impudence, sir, considering the impudence you’ve brought to London.”

  Whatever could she mean by that? The remark astounded him. “Me?” he choked. “Ye think me impudent?”

  “Perhaps not outwardly,” she demurred with a smile, “but you do have your secrets, do you not?” And she laughed.

  He narrowed his gaze, openly studying her. If she knew something, she gave not even the slightest hint of it, and, in fact, smiled brightly, jiggled her dance card before him again. Women like her, he knew from experience, had to be put in their proper place before they ran amuck.

  “And here I believed ye to be no’ so enamored of the dance, Miss Addison,” he said gruffly.

  “I should have clarified that it depends on the circumstance. In this circumstance, I am willing to give it a go.” She jiggled her wrist again. “Do you truly find it so objectionable? I’m really quite a good dancer,” she added cheerfully.

  He would have liked nothing more than to walk off, leave her standing in all her glorious cheek.

  “I’ll leave you quite well alone afterward,” she said.

  He hoped to heaven that was a promise, and muttering a slight Gaelic curse under his breath, he reached for her dance card… which was near to empty. He glanced up at her. “What’s this, then? Have ye no’ thought to threaten yer fellow countrymen with a dance?”

  Her rosy cheeks turned rosier; she tried to pull her hand and the card away from him.

  “How is it that I have become the object or yer badgering instead of any number of the fine Sassenach dandies in there?” he demanded, gesturing toward the ballroom.

  She shrugged, tried to move her arm again, but it was too late for that—she had started this silly game, and Grif was not the least deterred. He suddenly took hold of her wrist, his fingers closing around the fragile bones, and pulled her arm toward him to have another look at the card. “I swear I donna understand why ye think to vex me so, lass, but ye’ve succeeded,” he said hotly. “If a dance is all that is required to free me of ye, then—”

  She gasped and tried to jerk her hand from his grasp, but he held tight. “What are you doing?” she cried. “You think all of London won’t see you hold me in your grip? Unhand me, sir! I was merely amusing myself—you needn’t stand up with me if you are so revolted by the notion!”

  “Ach, What foolishness!” he said shaking his head. “Ye canna deceive me. I donna give a damn what London might see, but ye wanted yer dance well enough to ignore every wee bit of decorum, and now, by God, ye shall have it!” He gave her a determined grin as he lifted his free hand and yanked the small pencil tied with ribbon to her wrist. He hastily wrote his name on the card, then tossed the pencil onto the floor behind them. “Ye’ll no’ be needing it by the look of things. There we are—ye’ve an entry for the next waltz, which, ye may have heard, is just starting. Shall we?” he asked, and extended his arm with a cold smile.

  An expression darkened her copper eyes, and for a moment Grif thought she might actually resort to punching him. She lifted her chin defiantly, slapped her hand down on his arm with a little too much force. “Why, I’d be delighted, my lord.”

  “As would I, Miss Addison,” he said, and placed his hand on hers, and gripping it tightly, marched her inside, right into the middle of the dance floor.

  When the orchestra struck the first chords of the waltz, he bowed, and Miss Addison curtsied perfectly. He instantly snaked an arm around her waist, his hand to the small of her back—a perfectly trim back, he couldn’t help notice—and jerked her hard into his chest at the same moment he simultaneously led her into the stream of dancers.

  Her eyes glittered with indignation.

  Grif laughed and let his gaze drift to her mouth. “What is it, then? Do ye no’ care for a Scotsman’s dancing?”

  “It is a little close,” she remarked through gritted teeth.

  “Ah, so now ye’ll fret about propriety, is that it?” He laughed sardonically and pulled her closer.

  Miss Addison pressed her lips tightly together.

  Grif looked at those lovely lips, at her pure complexion. She was an exasperating woman to be sure, but a man had to like the feel of her in his arms—she was lean, surprisingly firm, yet supple. He wondered how she managed it, since his impression thus far of society ladies was that they did quite a lot of sitting about all day. Miss Addison, however, had not gathered any dust, and her body gave him a deliciously hot feeling of pleasure.

  He smiled again—he liked seeing the furious glint in her eyes. “What is it now? I should think ye’d enjoy this waltz, as I will no’ be so commanded again.”

  “You flatter yourself, my lord,” she said coolly. “I did not command it. I merely suggested. Perhaps you think that forward at Ardencaple—or wherever you claim to hail from—but in London it’s naught more than a suggestion.”

  Grif wisely ignored the remark about Ardencaple and went straight to her bald-faced lie. “Ye didna suggest it, lass—ye practically planted a boot in me arse and kicked me out here.”

  Miss Addison gasped self-righteously. Grif responded by twirling her about and pulling her closer into his body, so that his lips were grazing the ringlets above her ears, and he could smell the sweet scent of rosewater in her hair. “And I really donna believe ye care in the least if ye are forward or no’.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, pushing back against his shoulder. “I hardly care what you make of it, but instead of all your prattling, I’d rather you occupy your thoughts with directing us to the east end of the dance floor.”

  Grif laughed incredulously. “I beg yer pardon, but would ye now command the dance?” he exclaimed. “What a shameless lass ye are!”

  “And what, pray tell, would you have against the east end of the dance floor?” she demanded as she struggled to see over his shoulder. “I should think one end as good as the other, particularly when one is so very determined to be off of it and away from such a ‘shameless lass’!”

  That prompted another laugh of disbelief from Grif, and he abruptly twirled her about again, to see for himself what she was trying so hard to see. He knew instantly, of course, for there was Lockhart, at the very edge of the dance floor. “Ach, how could I be so blind?” he asked with a chuckle, and instantly and effortlessly waltzed her in the opposite direction of Lockhart. “Ye donna mean to torture me at all!” he laughed. “Ye mean to use me to torture another man, God have mercy on him.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” she declared, and tried to turn him. Grif held fast. “Do you mind?” she snapped.

  “Aye, I do,” h
e retorted cheerfully. “I donna know what ye may be accustomed to, Miss Addison, but in Scotland a man will lead the dance unless he’s been gelded.”

  “Oh dear God!” she cried. “What possible difference could it make?”

  “All the difference in the bloody world. I willna allow ye to curry the favor of another man whilst ye dance with me. I’ve me honor to protect.”

  “Your honor? You barely deigned to dance with me at all, and now you would pretend to be insulted? I should hardly be surprised—God only knows what else you pretend, Lord Ardencaple!”

  “Any number of things, particularly in yer company.”

  “So I’ve surmised!”

  “Ye have a rather unpleasant habit of surmising quite a lot,” he said with a frown. “But ye should at least have the decency to remember that ye trapped me into this dance to make Lockhart jealous and therefore at least give me the attention I’m due!”

  She gasped. Her face turned red. “I beg your pardon, I did not trap you in this dance!”

  “I canna for the life of me see how ye might argue it!”

  “Do you mean to say that if a lady makes a suggestion as to the dancing that she has trapped a gentleman?”

  “Aye, that I do mean to say, absolutely. And now we may both be at peace, for the dance has come to its inevitable end,” he said, and dropped her hand, stepped back, and bowed.

  “Thank God,” she muttered, and dipped a barely discernible curtsey while making a show of smoothing the hair at her nape.

  “I beg yer pardon?” he asked, slowly straightening.

  “I said, ‘Thank God,’” she repeated, only louder.

  That infuriated Grif. He’d done what she wanted, and now she’d pretend it was distasteful to her?

  Criosd, he’d never, not once, suffered a more aggravating woman. And instead of turning and walking away as he ought to have done, instead of leaving her to stand alone in the middle of the dance floor as she so richly deserved, he suddenly grabbed her hand again, and forcibly put it on his arm.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, stealing one last look at Lockhart over her shoulder.

  “Ye want to incite a man’s jealousy?” he asked, not really desiring an answer, and marched toward the doors that opened onto the veranda. “Then ye must give him something over which to be jealous!”

  “My lord!” she haughtily exclaimed as if he was loathsome, and tried to jerk her hand free.

  “Uist!” he spat in Gaelic, surprising her into silence.

  For a moment.

  “What do you mean to do?” she exclaimed hotly as they marched through the doors onto the veranda, out into the cool night air where the only light was that spilling out from the windows. Grif glanced over his shoulder at the many backs facing the dance floor in anticipation of a quadrille, and shoved Miss Addison up against the railing. He stepped in front of her, put a hand on her shoulder.

  The wench opened her mouth to complain, but Grif was too fast for her—with his other hand, he grasped her jaw and abruptly planted his lips on hers.

  She tried to gasp for breath, and he opened his mouth, let her breathe him, intending to startle her senseless before letting go and giving her something to stew about.

  But somehow his body got ahead of his mind, and he realized that her lips were soft and lush beneath his, her breath sweet. Before Grif knew what was happening, his tongue had slipped into her mouth, earning him a scintillating little gasp. His hand, of its own accord, apparently, was suddenly at her waist, anchoring her to him, the other cupping her face, tilting her head just slightly so that he might kiss her deeper.

  In the cover of darkness, on a public veranda, her body was pressed against his, her breasts against his chest.

  And then Miss Addison made a sound, something like a moan of pure pleasure, and slipped her tongue into his mouth. The moan and her darting tongue brought him instantly and harshly to his senses, and he recognized he’d just suffered an astounding slip of control. It rattled him; Grif suddenly reared back, breaking the kiss, and gaped down at the woman.

  Her eyes were closed; black lashes formed dark, velvet crescents against cheeks stained the color of fire, the same intense heat that was coursing through him. Her lips, full and wet, were still pursed, but tilted up at the corners in a devilish smile.

  Grif dropped his hands from her as if he had been burned. Miss Addison slowly, dreamily opened her eyes. His gaze slipped to her mouth again.

  She smiled.

  He growled. “Now ye have something with which to make him jealous,” he said, and abruptly walked away from her.

  Eight

  I t was several minutes before Anna could catch her breath, several minutes more before she could stop shaking.

  Just beyond the door, dancers whirled by, and Anna slowly lifted her hand, touched her lips where Ardencaple’s powerful kiss still lingered. Her head felt as if it were covered with a shroud; she couldn’t think, couldn’t seem to do anything but clumsily feel his kiss on her lips.

  After a moment or two, she realized how ridiculous she must appear, standing on the veranda alone, in the dark, and even though it felt as if that kiss were branded across her face, she woodenly moved inside, cautiously glancing about as she entered, wondering if anyone had seen such an untoward, unladylike, indecorous, absolutely brilliant kiss.

  Dear God, had she dreamed it? Had it really happened? Just like that, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, as it had almost a year ago with another Scot? That kiss had been tantalizing, certainly—but this one, Mother of God, this one felt entirely different. This one had been blistering.

  In truth, it had almost brought her to her knees, had begun a flood of coarse feelings and desires in the pit of her belly, flashing out to all her limbs, warming her to the point that she desired to rip her gown open so that she might feel cool air on her flaming skin. That naked desire was still racing through her, making her blind to the people around her, deaf to the music.

  She paused in her aimless promenade around the ballroom to desperately fan herself, staring absently at the line of dancers moving through the quadrille. Did every woman feel such brilliance when they had been so thoroughly kissed?

  She was so caught up in the wake of that kiss that she didn’t see Drake until he was upon her. “Miss Addison?”

  The sound of his voice startled her, and she sucked in her breath—was her skin red from the heat inside her? She fanned herself, turning slowly and madly wondering if Drake’s kiss could be as provocative as Ardencaple’s.

  He must have seen the flame in her skin because he was looking at her curiously, one dark brow rising above the other.

  “I, ah… good evening, Mr. Lockhart,” she said, smiling unsteadily, and dipped into a curtsey.

  “Are you quite all right? You look rather flushed.”

  That was all she required—her panic was instant and furious. “Flushed?” she demurred, and averted her gaze, lest she look as guilty as she felt. “It’s rather warm, that’s all.”

  “Are you well enough to stand up with me? I had hoped for a space on your dance card,” he said, moving a little so that he was in her line of sight.

  “Did you?” she asked coyly, slanting a glance at him, and almost laughed out loud with hysteria. Having wished so for this moment, all she could seem to think of was Ardencaple—who, incidentally, had danced as if on a cloud, what with all the effortless twirling. Unthinkingly, Anna glanced across the crowded dance floor where the quadrille was ending, and she saw him in the company of Miss Netherton.

  “I beg your pardon, but shall I take that as a yes or a no?” Drake drawled.

  Anna jerked her gaze to him again and forced a smile. “You know very well that I would be honored, sir.”

  He smiled confidently, took her hand, and led her onto the dance floor as a minuet began. He took her through the steps, smiling down at her, his gaze boldly wandering the length of her, lingering on her bosom.

  Anna didn’t shy away from it; she
stood straighter. A soft giggle escaped her, and she wondered what sort of unmarried woman went about kissing men here and there on darkened verandas. A happy one, certainly.

  “If I may be so bold,” Drake said during one pass as he pointed his right foot at her, “I would ask if you might do me the pleasure of walking about the Valtrain gardens.”

  Anna responded to his toe point with one of her own, bowing perfectly. “Goodness, Mr. Lockhart! You ask after that pleasure so often that I think you merely delight in the asking.”

  He laughed as they stepped sidelong in perfect unison. “I must beg your forgiveness, as I was unavoidably detained at the Darlington ball.”

  Anna twirled about and faced him again with a toe point. “Come now, sir! You must think me a foolish girl.”

  “Not foolish. Patient,” he corrected her.

  “Patient!” She laughed. “And why should I wait patiently for a silly walkabout?” she asked as she bowed and stepped and twirled again.

  “You know very well why, Miss Addison. You desire the pleasure of my company so I might regale you with tales of your beauty and wit and charm.”

  She couldn’t help herself; she laughed at his banter and glanced gaily about, saw the Scot smiling charmingly at Miss Netherton, and quickly turned her gaze to Lockhart again. “Perhaps you confuse me with my sister,” she said daringly.

  “Surely I do not,” he said pleasantly. “Your sister is lovely, but she pales in comparison to you.”

  “Mr. Lockhart, your flattery is obvious!”

  “Flattery? How could I possibly flatter you? You are far too clever for it.”

  Really, she was, but she nevertheless enjoyed the playful talk, and laughingly shrugged, twirled about, stepped to her right, and glanced about. Her gaze inadvertently landed on Ardencaple again. This time he was looking directly at her, wearing a very knowing smile on his face. Damn him!

  Anna pretended not to notice at all as she faced Drake again. “Very well, you have succeeded, Mr. Lockhart. I should very much like to stroll about the gardens with you,” she said, and went about the rest of the minuet without looking once at Ardencaple.