by Amy Quinton
Sure, she’d enjoyed getting to know Aunt Harriett. Dansbury was an utter lark. Even Lady Beatryce was a pleasure to be around; there was much to admire and appreciate in an equally strong woman despite their vastly different upbringings.
Yet one man stubbornly refused to leave her thoughts despite her every attempt to eradicate him from her mind, though she hoped beyond all belief that he would answer her summons and find her here at long last.
Alaistair MacLeod.
She looked for him wherever she went, which was patently ridiculous. He hated society, refused to participate in it. He wouldn’t be caught dead at a society ball unless it was absolutely required of him to do so, meaning it was life or death and part of his job.
Even then, he’d try to get someone else to do it. She understood men who kept to themselves.
Dash it all! They’d said everything they had to say to each other. And unbecomingly, she’d practically begged. Begged him to take her. To admit he loved her.
She would not make such a fool of herself again. If that man couldn’t see her worth, he didn’t deserve her.
But it was oh-so-much more difficult to oust the man from her mind, her soul, despite every intention to do so.
“Lady Ross, may I have this dance?” A gentleman by the name of Baron Smythe, introduced to her earlier, addressed her. She almost laughed out loud. Every time someone called her that, she looked for Aunt Harriett. God, it was odd answering to a new name. She would never get used to it, she was quite sure.
Still, she behaved as instructed and curtsied, “Of course.”
And wouldn’t you know it, after taking their places on the dance floor, the orchestra began playing the first chords of a waltz? A gasp was heard around the crowd, followed by the whispered giggles of a dozen debutantes who’d come back to town from their country estates for just such an opportunity. The waltz was still quite blushingly scandalous, but not so much that one’s reputation would be completely destroyed by dancing it.
Amelia Chase colored, which was not a common occurrence for her. She’d had rather silly dreams of dancing this dance for the first time with MacLeod, which she’d suddenly, unwillingly recalled.
Baron Smythe clearly took it as a sign of her innocence and naiveté—ha!—based on the smug smile he wore before taking her right hand in his. He placed his cold left hand upon her waist, as was appropriate, and she had to force herself not to shy away.
And then they were off. To hell.
Within four steps, he’d trampled her toes twice. Her beautiful plum dancing slippers wouldn’t survive this dance, much less the night.
“Apologies, my lady.”
“No worries, my lord.”
See? Perfectly courteous.
So their conversation was a bit stilted. Still, Amelia tried her best to paste on a brilliant smile and go with the flow of the music. Perhaps if she didn’t make eye contact, Baron Smythe wouldn’t feel the need to speak.
Amelia winced—having one’s foot trampled more than a dozen times during a single song tended to cause such a reaction—and they came to a complete stop, though the song was far from over.
“May I cut in?” came a familiar brogue.
It should have been a dream; MacLeod wouldn’t come here and make a scene, surely. Only, she felt itchy as the entire room stared her way. Even the musicians had stopped playing.
She could see Dansbury over the baron’s shoulder, a wide grin on his face.
“Now, see here—” sputtered Baron Smythe.
“Let me rephrase that,” came that delightful brogue once again, “Move along, lad. This dance is mine.”
The baron sputtered once, then dropped her hand and marched off, his posture stiff.
Then, before she knew it, Alaistair MacLeod stood before her, dressed formally in a cravat, waistcoat, and a familiar blue and green kilt.
He’d never looked so wonderful.
He looked equal parts sheepish and nervous before he said, “Hiya, Mel.” Still, he slid his hands down her arms and grasped her hands. His were warm. She could feel that even through his formal gloves.
For a moment, she simply stood there, somewhat dumbstruck. She didn’t know what to say or what to think. Even though she all but invited him to this party, she’d expected him to either decline completely, or more truthfully, contact her before now, four whole weeks later.
In the next moment, she was angry. For everything. For making her wait. For taking too long to make up his mind. Even for interrupting her stupid dance with the baron, even though her toes had been in utter misery, and she let him know it. And she had to get it all off her chest before they could move on. He had been a bastard. She needed him to know it. “You stubborn man. You paunchy, tickle-brained, malt-worm.”
“Paunchy?”
“All right, not paunchy. But wayward, definitely. And folly-fallen.”
“Aye. I’m an imbecile.”
“Yes, yes you are, and a—”
“Coward.”
“Why yes, yes, you are, and a—”
“Blind nincompoop, a hideous slug-toed thief of hearts, a goatish, clay-brained dewberry.”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” She almost—almost—laughed. In fact, she had to look down at her trampled shoes to pull together her composure. Eventually, she looked back up and glared at him. He looked suitably chastised, but not quite enough.
Ah, but she could fix that; she knew precisely how. “You know what? Wait right here. Don’t you move a muscle. I will be right back.”
She left him standing on the dance floor. She knew what she was after, had heard stories of its role in the lives of her family and friends and this time, it was her turn to use it. She knew precisely where it was, in fact.
She was only gone for a few moments.
When she returned to the ballroom, MacLeod was still standing where she’d left him, the crowd blatantly watching with delighted expectation. Even the musicians were waiting, their instruments by their sides. No one pretended not to be waiting to see what she would do.
Well, they would see it all—an absolute eyeful.
For she walked right up to Alaistair MacLeod and bashed him over the head with Aunt Harriett’s Umbrella.
The Umbrella.
Dansbury, Aunt Harriett, Lady Beatryce, and the Duke and Duchess of Stonebridge began clapping at once.
The rest of the crowd, with bewildered looks about them, joined in. Who would dare to not follow the lead of the Duke of Stonebridge?
MacLeod blushed. Blushed!
“Do you know what, Alaistair MacLeod?” She had to yell to be heard over the roar of the applause, and their laughter at MacLeod’s expense.
He leaned down, “What?”
“You love me, you stupid man.”
He smiled. It was a smile not a single person in that room had ever seen on the face of Alistair MacLeod. It was an ear-splitting grin that lit up his face. The room fell silent at the sight and every soul heard him when he said, “God knows I do, Mel.”
One might have heard a pin drop. He wasn’t finished. “Don’t you know? I’m a better man when I’m with you. You bring the light into my life I need to see. I love ye, Mel, I love you something fierce.”
She was crying then, dumb, stupid, fat, blobby tears. Full on down her face and onto the velvet nap of her décolletage.
She didn’t care.
She put her hand to her mouth, the better to stifle the sob threatening.
Then MacLeod fell to his knee, and she couldn’t stop the sobs from coming. “Mel…marry me, please.”
She grabbed his head and touched her forehead to his, but between gasping air and unladylike sobs said, “Of course, you silly man. And it’s about bloody time, too.”
Epilogue
Six Months Later: Upstairs, the Garrick Inn, Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire
Amelia lifted her chin, faced the door in question: #27, threw her reticule to the floor, and dropped to her knees, setting her right eye to the k
ey hole.
Yes, she was Amelia Chase:
Married lady
newly-minted-spy-extraordinaire (for real, this time)
Independent American Expat (by choice)
…and a woman who still peeked through key holes.
But only when the occasion called for it, of course.
Unfortunately, this keyhole was no more cooperative than the last. Only vague shadows decorated the room’s interior despite a window whose curtains were tied back allowing the moon’s white rays to reflect an abstract version of the window and its nine panes on the floor across the middle of the room. But otherwise, nothing.
When sight failed her, Amelia tried listening, yet as before, all was silent within. Eventually, Amelia leaned back on her heels, frustrated. Again.
Men. Why did they always have to be so difficult?
Amelia clenched her fist in mock outrage, gently cursing the man within with one shaken fist, then leaned forward again, trying once more to see anything useful—at all—through the blasted key hole. Goodness, just a hint would suffice.
She held absolutely still.
She was one with silence, her breathing slooooow…
And steady…
And calm…
If she strained to listen, she might hear…
…Creak…
A nearby floorboard groaned under pressure...
Then a wisp of warm air wafted across her ear, sending a shiver up her spine, just before a deep, gravelly voice with a delicious, thrilling, familiar, and more than welcome Scottish brogue said, “What the hell do ye think ye’re doin’, Mrs. MacLeod?”
Amelia smiled, then jumped.
Despite history repeating itself, he had clearly not expected her to jump. Amelia spun around, finding it terribly difficult to suppress her habitual smile. “What in the blazes do you think you are doing, MacLeod?” She covered her mouth with her hand to ineffectually hide her smile.
“What am I doing?” he queried, yet his voice held no trace of outrage. On the contrary, his brogue was warm and sultry. Quiet and slow.
“Yes. What are you doing? Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a person when she is…when she is…” Amelia licked her lips and marked the answering flare of heat in his gentle green eyes. “…erm…concentrating?”
He snorted and stepped closer, crowding her space before the door, his eyes drawn to her wetted lips. “Och, is that what you were doing?”
His gaze pinned her in place, searching for…something.
Amelia reached down and felt around for her reticule, her gaze never leaving his. “Well, what else would I be doing?”
His eyes followed her movement.
Eventually, she managed to gain purchase on her bag and stood once more.
Alaistair moved in closer, his cheeks brushing hers, his nose dipping into her neck as he whispered, “It looked to me like you were…” She closed her eyes as he drew in a long, slow breath, then continued, “…spying on the occupants of this room.”
Amelia closed her eyes and choked back a moan. “Ridiculous.” Her response was so soft, it barely qualified as a whisper.
MacLeod touched his forehead to hers and chuckled lightly, “So you weren’t on your knees…” he punctuated that thought with a gentle thrust of his hips. “…just now…spying through that verra keyhole?”
A soft chuckle of her own burst forth and she smiled as she returned, “Well, that would be silly now, wouldn’t it?” Amelia rubbed her hands up the sides of his arms, and wrapped them around his neck as she whispered, “My, you have quite the imagination, Alaistair MacLeod.”
“Well, Mrs. MacLeod, why don’t we revisit my room, and I can show you precisely how active my imagination can be?”
“But…”
“It’s all right, tonight’s assignment was a practice run, anyhow.”
“What?!” MacLeod, luckily, ducked as she swatted at him with her reticule. “Truly?”
“Och, aye.” He laughed, full and loud, a sound many who’d known him over the past five years would discredit had they not seen him do the like on numerous occasions since he married her.
However, this time, she did not find him funny in the least.
She practically chased him back to his room, swatting at his head with her reticule.
Did she mention she had a book inside?
Before they turned the last corner, she clocked him good, and when she stopped to check to see if he was seriously hurt, he grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder, laughing all the way to his room.
Bastard.
The Duke of Stonebridge twirled his lady around and pulled her close. “Grace, darling, let’s forgo the rest of this party and head upstairs.” He waggled his eyebrows in suggestive invitation, if not a comical one.
“But Ambrose, these are our guests. Our party. In our home—”
“So? No one will care. The bulk of them are soused, anyway. The rest are too busy gossiping and playing the marriage mart game to care about an old married man and his lady.”
Grace laughed and lit up the room with her brilliant smile.
“My lady.”
A click of booted heels followed by “Your Grace,” quelled whatever he would have said next. The duke sighed and turned to find a servant standing next to them bearing a silver tray with a note.
The duke acknowledged the man with a nod. “Gerard.”
The man let out a small smile for the familiar acknowledgement and said, “An urgent message just arrived for you.”
Stonebridge tucked his wife against his side and reached for the missive with his free hand. “Thank you, Gerard.”
The butler bowed and walked away.
The duke looked to Grace. “Should I open it now?”
“Oh, go on then. It must be important or Gerard never would have interrupted.”
“Quite so.”
Stonebridge quickly opened the message and scanned the contents before handing it over to Grace. It read:
Duke,
Kelly is alive.
Spyder
“Oh, thank God.” Grace said, echoing the duke’s sentiment perfectly.
The End
Next up - Ciarán Kelly’s story: What the Rake Remembers
About the Author
Amy Quinton writes humorous historicals…with heat from her home in Summerville, SC. She lives with her husband, two boys, three cats (George, Astrid, and Toothless), and one dog (Bear). In her spare time, she likes to read, go camping, crochet/knit, read, hike—oh, who is she kidding, what spare time?
http://amyquinton.net
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What the Duke Wants
Agents of Change, Book 1
http://bit.ly/whatthedukewants
England, 1814: She is from trade. He is a duke and an agent for the crown with a name to restore and a mystery to solve.
Miss Grace (ha!) Radclyffe is an oftentimes hilariously clumsy, 20-year-old orphan biding her time living with her uncle until she is old enough to come into her small inheritance. Much to her aunt’s chagrin, she isn’t:
Reserved—not with her shocking! tendency to befriend the servants…
Sophisticated—highly overrated if one cannot run around barefoot outside…
Graceful—she once flung her dinner into a duke’s face… on accident, of course.
But she is:
Practical—owning a fashion house is in her future; unless someone foils her plans…
In love… maybe… perhaps… possibly…
The Duke of Stonebridge is a man with a tragic past. His father died mysteriously when he was 12 years old amid speculation that the old duke was ‘involved’ with another man. He must restore his family name, but on the eve of his engagement to the perfect debutante, he meets his betrothed’s cousin, and his world is turned inside out… No matter, he is always:
Logical—men who follow their hearts and n
ot their heads are foolish…
Reserved—his private life is nobody’s business but his own…
And he isn’t:
Impulsive—it always leads to trouble…
Charming—that’s his best friend, the Marquess of Dansbury’s, area of expertise…
In love… maybe… perhaps… possibly…
Can he have what he wants and remain respectable? Can she trust him to be the man she needs?
What the Marquess Sees
Agents of Change, Book 2
http://bit.ly/whatthemarquesssees
England, 1814: He is a marquess and a spy with a woman to protect and an assassin to thwart. She is…not nice.
The Marquess of Dansbury is a strong, charismatic man living a charmed life, despite interacting with the dregs of society as an agent for the crown. His past isn’t without tragedy, but he is too amiable to allow misfortune to mar his positive outlook on life. Until now…when he finds himself tasked with protecting the one woman he actively disdains, Lady Beatryce Beckett, from a deadly and all too insane assassin. No matter, he is always:
Charming—though perhaps not around a certain lady…
Laid-back—again, maybe not around a certain lady…
And strong—especially around a certain lady…
And he isn’t:
Irrational—ever. Even around a certain lady…generally speaking…usually…
Or in love…with a certain lady. Especially not that. Honest…
Lady Beatryce Beckett is mean. She ruins other women on purpose. She lies. She cheats. She even steals. She’s fast. And she takes particular pleasure in provoking a certain marquess. In short, she’ll do anything to get what she wants: Freedom from her abusive father. Much to everyone’s vexation, she isn’t: