How to Entice an Enchantress (22 page)

Dahlia barely heard, for she was still fuming. Maimed and lame, indeed! Kirk may have a faint limp, but he was far from being “maimed.” As for lame, he was every inch a healthy man under his well-pressed coats, a fact she knew better than anyone. This morning, she’d felt nothing but solid muscle under her fingertips when they’d kissed. The memory, instant and sensual, warmed her face, and her shoulders, which had drawn up as she’d gotten angry, relaxed a little.
I know him and they don’t. Therefore their opinions don’t matter.

“Ah, Miss Balfour!” Dalhousie took her hand and bowed over it, looking through his lashes as he spoke. “I missed you in the gallery this morning.”

Dahlia had no doubt that look had gotten him excused from many a transgression. “I’m so sorry, but I was detained. Did you receive my message?”

Dalhousie pressed his other hand over hers, capturing it firmly. “Yes, but it did little to reconcile me to your absence.”

Dahlia, aware of Lady Mary’s tight expression as she looked on, found herself unable to think of a single response. The viscount was being gallant, and Dahlia was quite certain she’d enjoy his flirtation under more normal circumstances. After all, she’d come to the duchess’s house to find romance, and who wouldn’t enjoy a handsome, titled gentleman offering compliments with such a whimsical smile? Why, she’d dreamed of just such a thing.

But right now, all she felt was a stab of irritation, and the fact that Lady Mary was glaring over his shoulder didn’t add an iota of pleasure to the moment.

Dahlia had to admit that Lady Mary looked stunning in a morning gown of blue muslin finished at the hem à la Van Dyck, her Greek kid spring slippers of gold complemented by her gold and ruby bracelet and earrings. She was every inch the daughter of a wealthy, powerful house.

Now, she stepped forward and slipped her arm through Dalhousie’s, effectively drawing his hand from Dahlia’s. “We
all
missed you, Miss Balfour.” There was no mistaking the falseness of Lady Mary’s tone. “Dalhousie gave the most amusing tour.”

Miss Stewart, dressed in a spring muslin featuring tiny roses, nodded—ever eager to assist her friend. “He’d asked Lady Charlotte to tutor him on the portraits, so he was well prepared. Why, the story about the third Duke of Roxburghe was so amusing! Apparently he—”

“Alayne, enough!” Lady Mary’s brows rose. “As amusing as it was for us, I’m sure Miss Balfour doesn’t wish to hear about our tour of the gallery, and would instead like to speak about our upcoming match.”

“An excellent idea!” Dalhousie slipped his arm from Lady Mary’s grasp. “Last night Miss MacLeod and I went over the rules. You will each be able to choose a battledore paddle from the duchess’s large selection. Miss MacLeod and I have already picked
out the best shuttlecocks for the game. As for the points—” He bowed to Anne.

She smiled. “Since battledore may be played in two ways—count each hit as a point, or count the drops—Lord Dalhousie and I had to make a decision. As this is a two-to-one game, it is only fair to count the drops. Every missed hit, or drop, will count as a point for the other side. Whoever is first to reach twenty wins the game. Any questions?”

Lady Mary shrugged. “It suits me.”

Dahlia nodded. “I agree.”

“Good,” Dalhousie said, looking relieved. “So now we must set the wager itself. Lady Mary and Miss Stewart, do you have anything in particular you’d like to wager?”

Miss Stewart sent a quick glance at Lady Mary, then turned to Dahlia. “What about your earrings? We’ve noticed you always wear the same pair.”

Dahlia wore the small garnet and gold earrings frequently. They were family heirlooms, given to her by her mother and once owned by her grandmother. She was just about to shake her head when Lady Mary sniffed.

“I don’t have anything to match against garnets.” She said the word “garnets” as if she thought they were the most unworthy gemstone upon the planet. “Perhaps this.” She unrolled her glove and peeled it off, and then held it toward Dahlia.

“Your gloves?”

“Oh no. Just one. I want to be fair. This glove came all the way from Paris and is embroidered with Belgian lace.”

Dahlia looked at the glove dangling so carelessly from Lady Mary’s hand, too shocked by her sheer rudeness to reply.

“Mary,” Anne murmured reprovingly. “Pray be polite.”

“I’m being perfectly polite. You can’t tell me this glove isn’t worth both of those earrings.”

Instantly Dahlia heard herself say, “I agree to wager my earrings. But I want something other than a glove when I win. What I want is a promise.”

Dalhousie and Anne exchanged glances. “A promise?” he asked.

“If I win, then Lady Mary and Miss Stewart will stop mocking Lord Kirk for the rest of their stay at Floors Castle.”

Lady Mary drew her glove through her hand, her eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “Miss Balfour, you overstep yourself.”

“Why? Because I’m asking you to stop abusing a man who is a very kind and decent person?”

“Kind?” Lady Mary couldn’t have looked more surprised. “He’s rude.”

“Very,” Miss Stewart agreed. “Just this morning, I passed him in the hallway and said good morning, but he just kept on going, ignoring me completely.”

“He can be as rude as he wishes, but you will not mention it. Nor will you discuss his limp or scars,
nor say anything about him other than kind, good things.”

Miss Stewart looked outraged. “You can’t tell us what to—”

Lady Mary silenced her friend with a wave of her hand. “Miss Balfour, we’ll accept your conditions. But I must warn you, after we’ve won our match, I may feel even more compelled to mock Lord Kirk,
especially
in your hearing.”

Dahlia had to fight the urge to throw a pillow from the window seat right in Lady Mary’s smug face. “Fortunately for Lord Kirk, I shan’t lose.”

“You’re that confident that you’ll win?”

“Yes.”

“So confident that you’ll spot us . . . say, five points?”

Dahlia hesitated.
Five points? Do I dare risk it?

Lady Mary laughed. “I thought not. I’ll—”

“Yes.” The word flew from Dahlia’s lips before she could stop it.

Lady Mary’s look of triumph could not be mistaken. “Then we are set. Your earrings against our comments regarding Lord Kirk. I look forward to the game. I look even more forward to giving your earrings to my maid. She’ll look pretty in garnets.”

Hands clenched to hide her fury, Dahlia stood and bowed. “We shall see, Lady Mary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready.” Without a backward glance, she left the group by the window seat, passing by several footmen who were setting out Christmas-themed
china for the luncheon. It wasn’t until she reached the landing on the grand staircase that her actions fully settled in, and she had to pause and press a hand to her head where a dull ache had formed.
Good God, I can’t afford one misstep. Not one.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

I’ve seen many battledore games on these grounds, but none equal in intensity or pure enthusiasm. However, it wasn’t just the game that left our guests reeling, but rather what occurred immediately after . . .

*   *   *

Dahlia opened the door to her bedchamber and found Freya hanging up a pressed gown. “Freya, I’m promised to play battledore this afternoon—though it is more like going to war.”

“Och, miss, verrah guid. Shall I order ye some luncheon whilst ye get ready?” At Dahlia’s nod, the maid tugged the bellpull that hung by the fireplace, her eyes bright with curiosity. “If ye dinna mind me askin’, who are ye goin’ t’ war wit’?”

“Lady Mary and Miss Stewart. If they win, I forfeit my earrings.” Dahlia touched one of them, a pang in her heart at the thought of losing them.

Freya clicked her tongue. “Ye ne’er wear any others.”

“They’re very dear to me.” She forced a smile. “But the risk is worth it. For if I win, they are to stop gossiping so unkindly about Lord Kirk.”

The maid looked surprised. “Lord Kirk? But ye—”

A knock sounded on the door and the maid went to answer it. She spoke quickly to the footman outside, and then closed the door. “A tray will be brought oop shortly, miss.”

“Very good.”

Freya returned to Dahlia’s side. “So ye’re challengin’ Lady Mary and Miss Stewart to a game o’ battledore to keep them from speakin’ ill o’ Lord Kirk?”

“You wouldn’t believe the horrid things they’ve been saying. They were so rude, whispering that he was maimed and lame—I couldn’t stand by and accept it. I
had
to do something.” Whatever happened, she couldn’t allow Kirk to defend himself against such unjust comments. While he’d have swiftly put Lady Mary and Miss Stewart in their place, Dahlia was certain he’d do it in the most heavy-handed and rude way possible. She shuddered to even think of the things he might say, all of which would be repeated and cause yet more talk. It was better for all concerned that she handle this small incident herself. If all went well, Lady Mary and Miss Stewart would be effectively silenced for the duration of their visit, and Kirk might never know.

Dahlia smiled at Freya. “I need to change into something that allows me to move easily. Somewhere in my wardrobe is an older gown of gray muslin that
barely reaches my ankles. I hung it there a day ago when I got back from a traipse through the north fields. The higher hem doesn’t drag on the ground as much as some of my others.”

“Aye, miss. I’ll look now.” The maid hurried to the wardrobe and peeked inside. “ ’Tis kind o’ ye to wage a battle o’ honor o’er Lord Kirk.”

“I suppose you could call it that, although I very much doubt Lord Kirk would think it so. He does not know yet of the wager. I hope he never finds out, though that may be a vain hope.” She dropped into the cushioned seat before her dressing table. “I must win.”

“I’m sure ye will, miss.”

Dahlia fidgeted with her silver backed brush. “Lord Kirk might be very angry if he ever found out.”

“How would ye know if he was angry or no’, wha’ wit’ his scowlin’ and growlin’?” At Dahlia’s surprised look, Freya flushed and hurried to add, “No’ tha’ he’s no’ a nice mon, fer I’m sure he is, but he dinna wear happiness as oft as one might wish.”

Dahlia had to chuckle. “That’s very gently said, Freya, but the truth is, he’s a curmudgeon and a grump. He’s always been that way.”
But when he smiles . . .
She could picture the rare twinkle in his eyes, and the way his face transformed, and she found herself smiling, too. “Whether he gets angry about my assistance or not, I’ve committed myself to doing this.”

Freya held up the gray gown. “Is this the gown ye wished, miss?”

“Yes! Thank you.”

The maid started to bring the gown, but then something caught her eye and she frowned. “Och, there’s a bit o’ mud on it. It shouldna be hangin’ dirty in yer wardrobe.”

“It’s only a little muddy, and I planned on going for another walk in the morning, so there was no sense in asking you to clean it just yet. Pray bring it here.”

“Yes, miss.”

Soon Dahlia was dressed in the plain gown, her feet encased in a pair of worn leather boots that fit her feet perfectly. She held one out for Freya to examine. “They may not look like much, but they fit like a glove and lace over my ankles.”

“They’ll do ye well during the match, miss.”

“Very well. Better than slippers, which I expect my opponents will wear. Slippers may be prettier, but they fall off when one leaps.” She tucked her foot back under her skirts before turning back to the dressing table. “Now, my hair. I cannot play without having it well secured.” She met the maid’s gaze in the mirror. “I shall place myself in your capable hands for that.”

“Och, miss, I’ll make certain ’twill no’ fall.” Beaming, Freya pulled out the crystal jar that held the hairpins and began to work her magic.

Dahlia, meanwhile, reviewed every game she’d ever played with her sisters. What tricks might her opponents resort to? What plays might help her win her cause? She wished she hadn’t allowed her pride to goad her into spotting the other side with five whole points.

Dahlia’s jaw firmed. She would
not
lose this game.
For her own sake, as well as Kirk’s, she couldn’t afford to.

*   *   *

Six hours later, a spontaneous round of applause met Dahlia as she entered the dining room. Guests crowded around her, offering their congratulations and making jocular comments.

Mr. Ballanoch, ever ready for a good snippet of gossip, pushed through the crowd and took her hands in his. “My dear Miss Balfour, what a match! It shall go down in the annals of battledore.”

Mrs. Selfridge patted Dahlia’s shoulder. “And that lunge at the very beginning of the game—masterful, my dear! I told Lady Hamilton that you were like Diana the huntress, and no amount of wild parries would force you to give up the shuttlecock.”

Lady Hamilton added, “The play that stands out in my mind was the final one. It was simply spectacular. There you were, waiting for the shot.” She stepped back and stared into the sky, an invisible paddle in her hands. “It came, but went awry, flying wide to your left.” Lady Hamilton jerked to her left, her eyes following the imaginary shuttlecock. “Anyone else would have allowed it to fly by, but you knew it was the winning point. You
had
to hit it. So you stretched out as far as you could, and leapt full into the breach and—” Lady Hamilton lunged to one side and swung her imaginary paddle, almost knocking over a footman holding a tray of drinks. “Pop! You
got
it!” Lady Hamilton clasped her hands together. “Ah, sweet success!”

“That was a perfect shot,” Mr. Ballanoch agreed. “You returned it right between Lady Mary’s eyes. She didn’t have a chance to raise her paddle in defense.”

“I didn’t mean to hit her with the shuttlecock.” Dahlia’s ears still rang from the screams. “I’m glad it only made the faintest of marks.”

“Oh, it’ll bruise, I’ve no doubt, for I was on the other side of the room and I heard it hit.” He shrugged. “But those are the chances one takes in such an endeavor. It was a brave victory!”