Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (22 page)

Quince felt her face go riddy with heat so quickly, it was a wonder her hair didn't catch on fire from embarrassment. But it would do no good to try to dissemble. No fool, Mama. “Yes, Mama.”

“I said it before, and it bears repeating—be very careful how you trust the Marquess of Cairn, Quince.”

“Don’t tell me you believe all this nonsense about him being the highwayman?” Quince could barely contain her ire. “’Tis nothing but idle, vicious gossip.”

“That may be. Indeed, I’m sure it is, but there are auld rumors, of an auld scandal that I should not like to repeat.”

“What auld scandal?” Quince could not believe such a thing of Strathcairn, for whom deception of any kind was abhorrent.

“I said I should not like to repeat it, and I shan’t. What I will say is that I forbid you to make assignations with him in the garden. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Quince could only hope her face was not the same bright color as her sash. “Aye, Mama.”

“I will expect you to act in a manner befitting a hostess, Quince, and dance with each and every young man who seeks the honor, not just stand around looking for the Marquess of Cairn.”

“You needn’t worry, Mama. I can promise that there will be no assignations in the garden. And I promise that I will dance each and every dance with those who seek the honor, including the Marquess of Cairn, if he is smart enough and quick enough to seek a dance.”

“Quince,” Mama sighed. “I do hope you know what you are doing with that man. He’s not the kind who can be led about by the nose.”

Quince tried not to let embarrassment turn into resentment, and only partially succeeded. “I’m not leading anyone about by the nose.”

“Good. And don’t let yourself be led, either. Be careful.”

Her mother was, as usual, entirely right. Quince forced herself to take a deep breath. “I won’t, Mama. I do know what I’m doing with him, honestly—”

Mama cut her off. “Pray spare me the details of how you acquired any such wisdom.” Her mother let out a pent-up sigh. “I am not the kind of mother who is ill-advised enough to ask for perfection from her daughters, Quince, and I have never sought to make you anything but who you are. But for God’s sake, do be careful. For once in your life, don’t stir the pot.”

“I won’t, Mama. I promise.”

She would be everything poised and circumspect and correct. She would not give in to any of the temptations that came her way. She would be strong.

Chapter Thirteen

She was strong until the very moment she saw Strathcairn walk through the door of the orangerie. How could she not see him, when she had been watching the door like a sentinel? It seemed all of Edinburgh had been on watch as well—every head in the room turned to look at him as he strolled into the ball as if he had not a care in the world.
 

He stopped just inside the doorway, and stood, letting the gawkers look their fill. Letting them whisper and wonder and judge and gossip about the marquess who was rumored to be a highwayman one day, and exonerated the next. Letting her insides go all topsy-turvy with some terribly wonderful combination of excitement and guilt—excitement that he was here, at last. And guilt, because she was the reason he was being stared at so rudely. Poor man.

Poor, clever, magnificently unapologetic man.

Strathcairn had clearly abandoned any and all attempts to blend in. He wore an austere suit of midnight blue velvet, unadorned except for the rows of shining silver buttons marching two by two down the front lapels.
 

Practically daring her to try to snip even one of them off.

Clever, annoying, infuriating, magnificent man.

She wouldn’t even try, of course. She had learned better. She would have her thrill from him another way. Because even if her mother had warned her to be good, and not disappear into the shrubbery, there was no way she was going to resist the sheer force of Strathcairn’s magnetism.

He had left off powder, and wore his blazing ginger hair in a simple queue tied with an uneven length of blue velvet ribbon that trailed off on one side, grazing his shoulder. Practically begging her to pluck it off.

Talk about baiting a bull.
 

Of course he didn’t know she was his bull, did he? And she was going to take care to keep it that way. The only thing she was going to attempt to steal this evening was a piece of his heart.

Or perhaps a different, less tricky piece of his anatomy.

But she was getting ahead of herself. First, she had to dance with the man.

Who was making it extraordinarily difficult. Directly after his entrance, he confined his conversation almost exclusively to the gentlemen present—perhaps his brief tenure as an accused highwayman had him shoring up his personal battlements with the New Tories. But he was also engaging to speak to each of the footmen.

Which was rather odd. Because the Winthrops normally employed only two footmen, Thomas and his brother, Roderick—all of the other liveried young men standing about the doors, or circulating through the room with trays of punch and lemonade, were hired on specifically for Mama’s ball.

And now that Quince was paying enough attention to have a good look at them, the hired men had none of the characteristics typical of footmen, who were chosen for their imposing, uniform height and good looks. These fellows were of varied height, and not one of them could be considered anything close to handsome. How curious.
 

What on earth was Strathcairn up to?

Quince skipped the next dance in order to suss it out, prowling down the side of the room, trying not to let her attention wander to the diamond earbob Lady Farquhar fiddled out of her ear. “My, lady, if you please,” Quince called. “You dropped this.” Or the silver card case the Honorable Mr. Edward Enwright was leaving on the side table. Or the loose button on Lord de Lacey’s coat.
 

Tonight she was going to be good, and confine herself to the challenge of Strathcairn, and Strathcairn alone.

But it was almost as if people were trying to lose things.

Oh, by jimble. Abominably clever man. She had the measure of him now. “Setting thieves to catch your thief, are you, Strathcairn? Or just setting a trap with footmen?”

“Lady Quince.” His bow was everything courteous and correct, but the smile he gave her was full of equal measures of admiration and annoyance. “How could you tell? It’s meant to be a secret plan.”

She did not even try to hide her pleasure in impressing him. “Well, since you asked me, which you normally don’t, but you should, because I will tell you that you really oughtn’t use men to play footmen who are so obviously soldiers.”

“So obviously?”

“They walk like guards. All—” Quince demonstrated the rhythmic, slightly rolling, side to side gait of men who were used to marching in formation. “And look at Roderick, there.” She pointed to her family’s footman. “He’s attentive, but he’s not ‘at attention’ the way your men are. I should judge your footmen to be straight from the Castle’s garrison of Royal Dragoons.”

“Damn my inattentive eyes.” He shook his head even as he smiled. “Just as I said—you see things others don’t.”

“Pish tosh. Don’t waste your time flattering me, Strathcairn. I’m not allowed to disappear into the shrubbery with you this evening. Mama has warned me expressly.”

He had the good grace to flush, and it certainly did warm that impression of Grampian granite nicely. “Are you allowed to dance with me?”

“I am, and I should like nothing better.”

“I hope you’ll be kind enough not to mind my missteps. I’ve been away from Edinburgh so long, you see, I may have forgotten how to make the proper figures in a complicated Scots
ceilidh
.”

The riddy warmth that heated her face this time had nothing to do with embarrassment, and everything to do with pleasure at this charming echo of their first meeting. “Strathcairn, are you flirting with me?”

“Aye, I am. Is it working?”

Too well. But it would never do to tell him so.

Her answer was instead a low, melting curtsey. “Come along, my lord, and I’ll do what I can. And if nothing else, I am sure we’ll serve to amuse.”
 

She threw herself into the enjoyment and excitement of the dance, a rollicking reel called the Dashing White Sergeant. Every time his eyes met hers was exciting. Every touch of his fingers was a thrill. Every minute that she spent in his presence was a minute that she was simply and utterly happy—she did not know when she had ever been happier.

For the first time in three years she relaxed, and stopped thinking and watching and worrying and planning, and gave in to the sweet temptation of the moment.
 

And the most tempting thing in that moment was that midnight blue velvet ribbon, hanging so perfectly imperfectly from his queue. Her fingers brushed against it once, then twice as the steps of the dance required her to lay her hand across his shoulder. By the third time the dance brought them together for the step, her fingers acted without asking her brain for permission, catching one end of the ribbon end between her fingers, and gently tugging the loop from the bow as they crossed back to back.
 

Strathcairn turned his head toward the gentle pressure, but Quince was already circling around in the opposite direction, weaving her way in and out of the other couples, winding the ribbon discreetly around her hand.
 

Oh, it was lovely, the secret slippery joy. It was brilliant and beautiful and as balletic as anything she had ever stolen or ever hoped to steal, this single thin piece of ribbon that had no value to anyone but her.
 

It would be her secret souvenir, a treasure to savor alone in the comfort and quiet of her room, a token of whatever affection they felt for each other. Like a maiden with a medieval knight’s favor.

Quince laughed at such a fanciful idea. She was no innocent maiden, though Strathcairn just might make a convincing crusading knight with his pleasingly granite jaw. But he looked much better in a suit of midnight velvet than ever he would in a suit of armor—chain mail would likely be atrocious at showing off a gentleman’s legs.

The musicians drew their bows in the concluding notes of the dance, and Quince surreptitiously stuffed the soft velvet ribbon deep into her lacy bodice. She knew her smile was all across her face, but she did not care. She was with the handsomest man at the ball, and he was smiling back at her, and reaching for her hand.
 

“Thank you for that dance, Lady Quince.” As he escorted her off the floor, his hand came to rest lightly in the small of her back, just at the spot where her laces were tied.

The touch was all that was gentlemanly and correct, but she felt the contact all the way up her spine. Heat, and something that certainly wasn’t fellow feeling, blossomed in her chest. “You are very welcome, my Lord Cairn.” She gifted him with his correct title. “It was a pleasure.”

“A pleasure which I assume we may not repeat?” His fingers played lightly against the lacing of her stays beneath the muslin fabric of her chemise dress, and pressed, just enough. Just enough for her to understand him. Just enough for her skin to warm and her breath to catch up in her chest.

She had to collect herself to speak. “At least not for a little while. I have been tasked with being agreeable to all the guests, not just the handsome ones.”

“Why, my wee Lady Quince, does that mean you think I’m handsome?” His smile was not quite the full butter boat, but it would do.

“Strathcairn. I have said it before, and I will say it again. You have a mirror and a valet—”

“I don’t have a valet, actually. I have a secretary of uncommon, and even exceptional abilities, but he leaves me to dress myself. So I should like to take your compliment all for myself.”

“Well, then you shall have it. You ken you look very well indeed, you great vain popinjay.”

He laughed out loud, just as she’d hoped he would. “My head shall swell with such praise.” He paused, and tugged her hand gently, so she remained close by his side. “All teasing aside, my lady”—he did not even bother to ensure they might not be overheard—“you must know. You must know that it has been an awful few days, until the bastard showed himself. And even after— But just knowing that I would see you this evening, and that you would be yourself to me, and not be looking at me askance, as if I might have held Sir Harry Digby up in a wood.” He smiled. “And you have been yourself, and been lovely. I don’t know when I’ve ever had so much fun dancing. Even more than the last time.”