How to Entice an Enchantress (12 page)

“Among other things, yes.” Kirk turned from the darkness and made his way to the fire, limping heavily. Once there, he added some wood to the flickering flames. “The entire conversation was a wretched display of my temper, and her reaction to it. I did, however, receive some clear direction from Miss Balfour. She was very forthcoming about her intentions in attending this house party; she is here for one reason and one reason only—to find romance, and I’m not to interfere with her plans.”

“Did she tell ye all o’ this after ye rejected her?”

“I didn’t reject her.”

MacCreedy’s thick white brows rose.

Kirk flushed. “I’m sure it seemed to her as if I did,
but it’s not how I intended it. Damn it all, I’d pay good money for another kiss from her!”

“Ye’d pay?”

“Yes, not that she’d accept it or— Damn it, that’s not the point. The point is that although I
sounded
and
looked
as if I were rejecting her, I was doing no such thing. I was merely in pain. That’s all.”

“Aye, me lor’. ’Tis interestin’ tha’ she announced why she’s here, after ye said wha’ ye did.”

“ ‘Interesting’ isn’t the word I’d use. Her words brought me to a standstill, for I can’t offer her what she wants.”

“No?”

“No. I wish I could, but it’s not in me. I find such silliness abhorrent and, damn it, she knows that. She wishes to meet someone who will sweep her off her feet, recite poems, bring her flowers, swirl her across the dance floor—I can do none of those things. I’ve never written a poem in my life. I suppose I could bring her flowers, but I can’t dance with this weak leg and— Damn it, it’s just not possible.”

“Och, dinna say so.” The valet tested the heat of the huge tub and then returned to the bedchamber, where he placed a towel over a chair near the fire to warm. “I doubt things are as bad as ye think.”

“I find that difficult to believe.” Kirk undid his cravat and threw it on the bed. “At least now I can get out of these ridiculous clothes.”

“There ye are, me lor’. Find the bright side o’ it. Why dinna ye take yer bath and ha’ a nice think whilst
ye soak yer leg. Wellington used to say a guid bath was the best place fer strategizin’, and it seems tha’ is exactly wha’ ye need to be doin’.”

Kirk tugged his shirt over his head. “Strategy? You talk as if the entire thing were a chess game.”

“Och, no. ’Tis no’ a chess game but a war, me lor’, the oldest war known to man: the one betwixt the sexes.”

“At this point, it feels more like a very long, very difficult chore, like mucking out the stables—after the horse has kicked one in the teeth.” Kirk sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his shoes.

The valet chuckled quietly. “I daresay it do. But ye’ve come this far, me lor’. It’d be sad to quit now.”

To be honest, as much as Kirk wanted to pack up his belongings and go back to his peaceful existence at Fordyce Castle, he was quite aware that he couldn’t—and damn well wouldn’t—walk away. If he did, it would leave Dahlia in a castle full of potential suitors. Just this evening, he’d noticed the way that fool—Dallon? Dalton? Something with a “D”—had been ogling Dahlia when Kirk had approached her in the salon before their argument.

While Kirk didn’t care for romance, he understood passion very well and there could be no mistaking the purely physical interest in the callow youth’s eyes.
I’ll be damned if I leave Dahlia alone to be taken advantage of by such fools and gapeseeds. She’s never properly chaperoned, which is something I should discuss with the duchess.

He tossed his shirt aside and stepped out of his breeches, and limped to where the hot water beckoned.

MacCreedy chuckled when Kirk sighed happily on slipping into the scented water. “Better already, eh?”

“Some.” Kirk liked the big tub, which was longer than the one he had at Fordyce Castle. The warm water eased the pain in his knee, although it did nothing to help him stop thinking about Dahlia and his predicament.

He leaned his head against the headrest and slid down until the water covered his shoulders. How could he fix things between them? And while it was certainly true that the duchess wasn’t chaperoning Dahlia sufficiently, now that he thought about it, he might be the one to suffer if he mentioned it.

No, better to leave things as they were, but take charge of her chaperonage himself. He’d have to be subtle, but it could be done.

Of course, none of that addressed the real problem—which was how to overcome the breach that had arisen between them after that damned kiss. He didn’t even know where to start. He rubbed water over his face and brushed his hair from his forehead. “Women are indecipherable.”

“Tha’ they are. Some more tha’ others.” The valet sent him a curious look. “Ye were married afore, were ye no’, me lor’? Did ye learn somethin’ of value fro’ tha’?”

“No, Elspeth was very different from Dahlia. And
so was I, back then. We married young—too young. Because of that, we were both given to drama, and our relationship, while based on love, was stormy.”

“Tha’ can wear a body oot.”

“Yes, it can. Fortunately, I’m far too old for such silliness now.”

“So ye dinna think Miss Balfour the type given to drama.”

“I know she’s not. Or I thought she wasn’t.” He frowned. “I always knew she had a proclivity toward romance, but a normal amount, not this grand”—he threw out an arm—“whatever it is.”

“I dinna know a woman no’ given to romance.”

“Perhaps it was naïve of me to think her different. I just . . .” He struggled to find the words. Finally he said, “There’s a peaceful quality to Dahlia, a spirit that’s at ease when all is quiet. It makes being with her very easy.” And a complete delight. “Elspeth was never that way.”

“Bu’ it dinna cause ye problems?”

“I loved Elspeth very much, so I suppose I didn’t mind her dramatics the way I would now.” He thought about this. “But I’m quite different now, too, especially since the accident.”

“When ye lost yer wife.” MacCreedy collected Kirk’s discarded cravat from the bed. “Mayhap ye dislike the drama now because it reminds ye o’ yer first wife and the pain o’ losin’ her?”

Was that it? Was emotion distasteful to him now because it reminded him of Elspeth, and for so long,
he’d wished to think of anything
but
her? “I suppose it’s possible that at one time my dislike of this romance nonsense was because it reminded me of Elspeth, but now . . .” He considered his life, and the things he loved. “Now I think I’m simply too used to my own company and my own ways to go back to that silliness.”

“Och, ’tis bad to become too used to yer own ways. Ye need people about ye, and tha’ means compromise, or ye’ll ha’ a sad and lonely life.”

That was true. He
had
been lonely, and hadn’t even realized it. After the pain of Elspeth’s death, and brought low by his physical wounds, it had taken him years to overcome his own despair. Later, however, having immersed himself in his books and music, and having accepted his scar and limp and all that came with them, he’d finally found peace and had been satisfied with his life.

Or he had been, until Miss Dahlia Balfour had appeared. After her visits, he’d found himself enjoying her refreshing look at life, the way she passionately delved into every book she read, her bold honesty and all that went with it. Soon he found himself missing her when she wasn’t present, thinking about her constantly, and—eventually—admitting he wanted her in his life.

After their argument over his well-meaning but ill-worded marriage proposal and her subsequent refusal to speak to him again, he’d missed her far, far more than he’d expected.

He sighed and idly picked up the soap from where MacCreedy had placed it beside the tub. “Miss Balfour is not your average female. She’s a woman of considerable intellect and curiosity, and yet—as contrary as it seems—when it comes to courtship, she apparently possesses a strong nonsensical streak.” He soaped the wet cloth, his mind now thoroughly engaged in the trouble at hand. “That’s where I made my error before, not recognizing that shortcoming.”

“If tha’ is a shortcomin’, then all of the females o’ the world and half o’ the males share it.”

“Bloody hell, I hope not,” Kirk growled. “I hope her madness—for I can call it little else—will resolve itself once our courtship has concluded.”

MacCreedy didn’t look convinced. “I dinna think tha’ will be enou’.”

“It will have to be. I shall capitulate long enough to give Dahlia the romance that she wishes—or what I’m able to stomach, anyway—during the courtship phase. Once that’s done and we’re wed, we can then return to a less dramatic and far more peaceful manner of living.”

MacCreedy shook his head. “Lor’ love ye, bu’ ye dinna know much aboot women.”

“I know Miss Balfour, and that is enough.”

The valet rubbed his chin, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “She do seem to be a sharp one, I’ll give ye tha’. Jus’ look wha’ she’s done already. She had ye turnin’ sail and runnin’ fra’ port wit’oot firin’ so much as a shot.”

“Oh, she fired a shot. Several, in fact.” One of those shots had been her kiss, right before it had gone so horribly awry. There had been one blissful moment when her lips had been soft and pliant under his, so sweet and so innocent . . . a flush of heat wracked him.
I must have her. And if I leave now, some other man will enjoy her kisses, damn it all.
His jaw firmed. “But no matter what, I must stay and fight.”

MacCreedy beamed. “Tha’ is the spirit!” He collected the rest of Kirk’s tossed-aside clothing and carried it to the wardrobe. “The only question now is how.”

“You were right before; I shall need a strategy of some sort. One that will win the war and not just one battle. My goal is for Miss Balfour to surrender, completely and without hesitation.”

“Now ye sound like his grace.” MacCreedy nodded his approval. “The duke would tell ye to plan yer campaign fer the long run, one peppered with encounters and battles, all leadin’ to the ultimate victory o’er yer enemy.“

Kirk quirked a brow at the valet. “Miss Balfour being the enemy.”

“In a manner o’ speakin’, she is. She’s an enemy to ye havin’ a day o’ peace.”

“Sadly, that is true. She does break up my peace.”
And stirs my blood.
Before he’d come to the duchess’s house party, he’d convinced himself that what he felt for Dahlia was practical, and that it had nothing to do with passion.
I was lying to myself. I want her in my
house, and in my bed.
Especially
in my bed. And that kiss proved it.
“She’s both enemy and prize.”

“Exactly, me lor’.” MacCreedy hung up the coat and waistcoat in the wardrobe. Then he dropped the shirt and neckcloth in a neat pile beside the door to be taken downstairs for washing.

Kirk leaned back in the tub. “So the question is, what do I do next?”

The valet picked up Kirk’s boots, collected a small can and a soft white rag from a small box in the bottom of the wardrobe, and sat on a stool beside the fireplace, where he could easily see the tub. “If ye were the king o’ a country and ye wished another country t’ submit t’ ye, what would ye do?”

“I would offer a treaty of some sort—a cease-fire so that we could converse without fuming and fighting.”

“Tha’ is the spirit, me lor’.” MacCreedy opened the small canister and dipped the rag into it and began polishing the boots. “An’ wha’ would ye offer to entice such a lovely hostile nation t’ put down her arms and allow ye o’er the border?”

Kirk considered this as he washed his arms. Finally, he nodded. “Food.”

MacCreedy blinked. “Food?”

“Something she—the other nation, I mean—likes, but cannot find. Like pears. She loves pears.”

“Och, the duchess loves pears herself, so ye’ll see them at many meals here at Floors.”

“Damn. They will not be special, then.” Kirk considered what he knew of Dahlia. “I’d planned on giving
her the books you purchased in town. She’ll enjoy those, although there are only three.”

“Surely three is enou’ to begin wit’.”

“No. I want her to know that I’m serious about this endeavor. Three books will not be enough. We’ve been at war for months. I want my first endeavor to carry some weight.”

MacCreedy polished the boot’s toe. “Fra’ wha’ little I know of women—and ’tis a monstrous lil’ amount—they like it when ye do something as shows a bit o’ effort.”

“Effort, eh?”

“Aye. Perhaps if ye add tha’ to the books, then ye’ll ha’ somethin’ worth offerin’ fer a treaty.”

“But what sort of effort? I can hardly show her my skill at chess or backgammon, and I damned well am not able to write a poem, though the duchess thinks that all one needs is a pen and an idle hour.”

“Perhaps ye can read Miss Balfour a poem, since ye dinna write them. Ye’ve a fine voice.”

Now,
that
idea held some promise. He used to read to Dahlia when she visited him and she’d always seemed to enjoy it, so that wouldn’t be difficult at all. “To make it even better, I would read her some of the poetry she’s so mad for.”

“Do ye know her favorites?”

“Yes. I’ll have to pretend I enjoy them, though, which will be difficult.”

“Which is why ’tis an effort, me lor’.” The valet dipped the rag back into the blacking mixture. “Och, a
poem along wit’ those three verrah expensive books—how can she say no to tha’?”

Kirk grinned, but then winced and touched his bottom lip. “Someone needs to teach that woman how to kiss.”
And who else should do that?
“Hmmm. That would take some effort, too.”

MacCreedy chuckled. “Ye think ye can convince her to let ye do tha’?”

“Perhaps. It’ll be tricky, for I can’t just walk up to her and announce, ‘You don’t know how to kiss, but I can show you.’ ”

“Tha’ does sound a wee bit off-puttin’.”

“More than a wee bit. I’ve already insulted her once. She won’t be happy if I do so again.”

They were silent a moment, and then the valet said in a cheery voice, “I’m certain ye’ll find a way, me lor’.”

“I’m so glad you feel that way,” Kirk said in a dry tone.

“Och, I know ye will find a way, fer if ye dinna teach Miss Balfour how to kiss, ’tis highly likely someone else mi’ do it fer ye.” The valet caught Kirk’s expression and threw up a hand. “Dinna look so! I’m only tellin’ ye the truth.”