How to Marry a Highlander (7 page)

He turned his beautiful gaze upon her. “I niver said I didna like ye.”

Her heart stumbled. “Then why do you speak to me as you do? And why didn’t you come to the park with us yesterday or to Lady B’s today?”

He shook his head. “Yer a meddlesome woman.”

“You’ve just insulted me again.”

“I’ve no tact, Miss Finch-Freeworth.”

“That isn’t true. At least, not when you speak to your sisters. You are gracious and solicitous with them. It’s only with me that you are rude. You are trying to frighten me off.”

“Mebbe.”

“Well you cannot. Not yet, at least. Now you owe me on our wager, my lord.”

His cheek creased. “Aye?”

“Abigail and the bookseller.” She lifted a forefinger. “That is one. I demand payment.”

“They’re no betrothed yet.” His eyes twinkled.

“Not
yet
.” She couldn’t help smiling. “But clearly they
like
each other. I thought . . .”

“Ye thought to collect in advance?”

She was a little breathless. He stood close and she could not now hear the carriages passing or the shouts of an apple vendor on the corner over the pounding of her heart. “I hoped you might consider it.”

“What? Here in the street?” he said in a low voice.

Yes
. “In private, if you will.”

“I will.”

“You
will
?”

“I’m a man o’ my word, miss.” His mouth tilted up at one side.

“Would you say my name again?” she breathed.

“Miss Finch-Freeworth.”

“Teresa, that is.”

The twinkle in his eyes seemed entirely for her. “That wouldna be proper, would it?”

“Perhaps not, but I should like it quite a lot.”

He moved a half step closer. “What have ye got in that bonnie head o’ yers, lass, that makes ye believe ye’ve got leave to make demands as ye do?”

Dreams. Hopes. The desperate wish for somebody to understand her. “I am a distant relation to the king and imperiousness is in my blood.”

“I dinna believe ye.”

“Hm.” She could not hold his gaze any longer. “Lord Eads, Mr. Yale says you can be trusted with a woman’s safety,” she said to her gloved fingers twined together. “But, it is the most curious thing, you see: It turns out that I do not feel in the least bit safe with you.”

“That surprises ye?”

“Eighteen months ago I thought I knew . . .
something
. Even the other day when I went to your flat I thought I did. But the more I see of you the less . . . the less . . .”

“The less like a game it seems to ye.”

She looked up. His handsome face was sober.

“No,” she said. “It was never a game. Only . . . I wish you would speak to me.”

“I’m speaking to ye nou.”

“About something that matters. About something real.”

He did not look at her as though she were queer. He did not scowl or frown or shake his head in confusion like everybody in Harrows Court Crossing always did when she spoke her heart.

“I did remember ye,” he said quietly. “Hou can a man forget the sweetest smile he’s ever seen?”

Oh
. “Sweetest?”

His gaze traced her features. “Aye.”

“Why did you pretend you didn’t recognize me?”

“I wanted ye to go away. I want ye to go away nou. I’m praying ye’ll go away o’ yer own accord so I willna have to make ye.”

“I cannot,” she said through the clog in her throat. “I made a promise to your sisters.”

He paused a moment. “Will ye have a ride aboot the park?” He gestured to the boy with the horse.

She blinked in surprise. “With you?”

“Aye.”

“Now?”

His cheek dented again. “Aye.”

“I haven’t got a mount here, and I am not dressed for it.”

“Tomorrow morning, then?”

“My lord, are you . . .” It was not possible, not after what he’d said. “Are you
courting
me?”

He laughed. “Ye’ve no patience for uncertainty, do ye, lass?”

“Please don’t call me lass. And no. But . . .
are
you?”

“I anly wish to thank ye for the day ye’ve given ma sisters.”

She sucked in her disappointment. “In that case I had better go inside and see what’s what. The day I gave them wasn’t quite ideal.” Teresa started up the steps. The earl followed.

She halted two steps above him. “Lady Beaufetheringstone is holding a ball three evenings from tonight. Will you escort your sisters?” She fully expected him to decline this invitation above all. To him there could be no good in returning to the place she had first seen him.

“Aye, I’ll do it,” he said, took the two steps in one, and looked down at her. “Teresa Finch-Freeworth o’ Brennon Manor in Harrows Court Crossing,” he said quietly, as though savoring the syllables upon his tongue. “Ye’ve no idea the sort o’ man I am or the deeds I’ve done.”

“Then either you will have to tell me and allow me to make my own judgments, or I shall have to judge you according to the deeds you do now. Shan’t I?”

He shook his head but he offered his arm. She laid her hand upon it.

“There,” she said as briskly as she could. “This isn’t so hard, is it?”

Duncan wanted to laugh. “Managing female,” he muttered.

“Barbarian Scot.”

“Saucy—”

“I asked you not to call me lass.”

“Ye asked me to marry ye too, but I havena done that either, have I?”

“Not
yet
.”

An expensive carriage with wheels rimmed in red, shining panels, and a matched quartet drew up on the street behind them. A young fellow disembarked. Without showy display, the diamond lodged in his neck cloth and the cut and tailoring of his garments proclaimed his wealth. He paused to speak with his coachman.

She drew away from Duncan and went to the porter at the door. “Who is that gentleman?”

“That’s Mr. Reginald Baker-Frye of the Baker-Fryes of Philadelphia, miss,” the porter confided with a weighty nod.

“Who are the Baker-Fryes?”

“Money, miss. Piles of merchant gold. Father just passed on and this one inherited the lot. Here to see to business.”

“Is his wife traveling with him?”

“Not married, miss.” He scoffed. “Why should he be when he’s got scores of servants? If I didn’t need a missus to mend my stockings and cook my dinner, I’d be a single man too.”

Duncan watched in alarm. A wealthy young man had dropped down as if from heaven. He could see the gears turning in her mind, storing every detail.

“Thank you for that enlightening information,” she said, and with a quirk of her pretty pink lips went into the parlor and ordered tea.

Her brother sat with a paper on his knee, the only person present other than a tiny grey-haired lady dressed in black. Sorcha entered and took up her cup with a snap of her narrow wrist that dashed tea across Duncan’s dearly acquired new breeches.

“Oh,” she said with a sharp flash of her eyes. “Pardon, brither.”

His other sisters entered and conversation turned to ball gowns. He left. There were limits to his dedication to his mission.

In the foyer he passed the wealthy young American.

“Sir,” Baker-Frye said with a nod, then glanced into the parlor. His steps faltered. Duncan followed his astonished gaze to Moira standing near the doorway. She cast down her eyes and curtsied to him.

Baker-Frye drew his hat off and bowed from his waist. “Madam.”

“Guidday, sir.” She lifted her lashes with a shy smile.

Finally the American dragged his gaze away and ascended the stairs.

Poor fellow. It happened to most men when they first saw Moira. But Duncan had never before seen his diffident sister respond.

He glanced back at Miss Finch-Freeworth. Her eyes shone as she transferred her attention from Moira to him. She wiggled her cinnamon brows and took a breath of obvious satisfaction that swelled her bosom above the modest neckline of her gown.

The air abruptly seemed thin indoors.

Tomorrow he would renew his attempts at distracting her from the wager. For today, he’d concede defeat.

H
e called for her too early, he suspected. But he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to distract her from her mission today.

Straightening his cravat as he waited for the door of Yale’s house to open, he knew he was a fool. He’d spent half the night thinking of her pretty smile, lily pad eyes that could laugh with a twinkle, magnificent bosom, and round behind. He’d spent the other half of the night deep in dreams that upon waking had him hot and uncomfortable.

He was early because he wanted to see her.

Twenty-six days
. He could bear this for twenty-six days.

A footman led him to a parlor where Miss Finch-Freeworth was perched upon the edge of a straight-back chair before a writing table, her head bent to her page.

“Lord Eads,” the footman said and withdrew.

She jerked around, her lush pink lips making an O.

“My lord! You came this morning!”

No
. But if he had to witness her creamy breasts jumping against her bodice many more times he’d be hard pressed to resist the temptation for that sort of relief. The lush circle of her lips didn’t help any.

“Guidday, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” He bowed. His waistcoat was tight across his chest, his shoulders were cramped in the coat, and he despised top boots. But he’d not go about like a ruffian and shame his sisters or this good-hearted lass—this tempting, outrageous lass who knew far too much about a woman’s carnal needs than an unmarried lady should.

Hastily she dashed sand across her work then covered the page.

“Have you come to invite me to ride?” She glanced at his ensemble, lingering for a moment on the fall of his breeches, and her cheeks took on the hue of a ripe peach. Her gaze snapped up.

“What’re ye writing?” His voice sounded rough.

“You’ve done that thing again, where you ignore what I have asked and ask me a question instead.”

“Aye, I’ve come to take ye riding.” Though he’d prefer a different sort of riding than the sort she had in mind.

Her attention flicked momentarily to his breeches again, then swiftly up. Her pretty green eyes were wide.

Perhaps she did have that sort of riding in mind
.

He tried to find his brain. Despite his better judgment, he moved toward her. “What’re ye writing?” he repeated.

“Oh.” She waved her fingertips over the pages dismissively. “Nothing really.”

“Poetry?”

“Poetry?”

He halted close enough to see that the rosy glow had suffused her neck and the soft globes of her breast above her gown too. He dragged his gaze upward.

“Leddies always seem to enjoy poetry.”

“Not this lady.”

“’Tis a relief.”
Relief
. Nowhere near in sight. Not the sort he most needed. He shouldn’t have come. She bit her pretty pink lip and flicked the tip of her tongue to moisten it and Duncan nearly groaned aloud.

“Why?” she said, her eyes glimmering now. “Since you claim you are not courting me, you needn’t write me poetry.”

“Ye’ve a clever tongue, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” A tongue he’d like to see more of. But if he was imagining a virgin’s tongue in action, clearly he’d been celibate for far too long. “An I dinna claim I’m no courting ye. I’m in fact no courting ye.”

“Then if you will await me here, my lord, I will go change into my riding dress and call for my mount to be saddled so that you can take me riding in a decidedly un-courting-like manner.” With a quick smile she curtsied and crossed the parlor, leaving in her wake a light scent of lemon.

For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy her scent. He would never again let himself come close enough to her to indulge his senses entirely. In the flat he’d made the mistake of touching her skin. He’d not do that again.

He glanced down at the writing table at the blank page with which she’d covered her writing. He looked back toward the door. It stood open, but if she were anything like most of his sisters she’d be at least a half hour preparing to go out.

The temptation was too great. He could never know her intimately. This could be his only opportunity to know her at least privately. And he’d committed much worse crimes for much worse reasons in the past.

He brushed the cover sheet aside. Her hand was neat, with a feminine curl to the capitals and a light freedom in the stroke. A peculiar sensation stirred beneath his waistcoat. He liked her hand. It was like her.

Her prose was light and clever, yet with the same warmth and animation that shone in her spring eyes. The lines told of a village matron who tended toward gossip and her two daughters, and their adventure ordering teacakes for the Ladies of Harpers Crest Cove Auxiliary Benefit. Their series of mishaps was amusing, the characters were drawn with wit and an eye toward satire that was, however, ultimately compassionate. He pushed the page aside and read the one beneath. Then he covered them and went to the window.

She appeared at the door minutes later. Her voluptuous figure was encased in a skirt and short coat the color of sunrise with a crisp white shirt beneath and a jaunty little hat adorning her hair. “I’m ready.”

“Yer luvely.”

Her cheeks glowed. He shouldn’t have said it. He shouldn’t be thinking it. He shouldn’t be imagining how much he would enjoy removing that pretty dress from her curves one item at a time.

“Thank you, my lord. My horse is also ready. Are you?”

No
. Once she mounted, her gown would be tucked around that round behind and he’d never have a chance—not at ignoring his body’s reaction to her or at relief. He hadn’t thought ahead of the potential dangers of this outing. It was possible he hadn’t been thinking at all since the moment she had appeared in his flat and proposed marriage to him.

“Aye. I’m ready.” He set his jaw and went forward to suffer through the most torturous ride in the park he had ever thoroughly enjoyed.

T
eresa stood at the edge of Lady Beaufetheringstone’s gorgeously appointed ballroom immersed in the golden glow of sparkling chandelier candles and glittering champagne glasses, and allowed herself a silent breath of relief. The orchestra cheerfully sawed out the notes of a country dance and guests stepped to the tune amidst the laughter and chatter of those watching. It was a magical evening and Teresa was barely even bothered by the conspicuous absence of a reneging Scottish earl.