Once Upon a Highland Autumn (36 page)

Caroline didn’t even
like
her suitors—well, they weren’t really
her
suitors—they were courting her dowry, and a connection to Somerson. They needed her money, but they didn’t need her.

“Is it truly such a difficult choice? You are twenty-two years old. Time is of the essence.” Somerson said coldly. “Surely one gentleman stands out in your esteem. Do you find Speed handsomer, or perhaps Mandeville’s conversation is more enjoyable?”

No and no!

She looked up at her half-brother, a man twenty-four years her senior, and one of the most powerful earls in the realm, ready to plead her case, but saw at once that was pointless. He’d married the daughter of an equally powerful earl, had nine children, and seemed happy enough with his wife, though Charlotte was a virago, a gossip, and a glutton. She weighed eighteen stone, and was never without a plate of sweetmeats close to hand.

Speed was the male version of Charlotte. Somerson was just like Mandeville, obsessed with his own importance.

No, there would be no point in arguing, or refusing. Somerson had decided, even if she had not, could not. Caroline’s stomach turned over, and she closed her mouth. Her half-brother’s face was hard, and without the slightest bit of sympathy. She was simply a matter he wanted settled as quickly and quietly as possible. Caroline was an unwanted burden now her mother was dead. She knew he’d choose for her if she refused to do so, and it was impossible to say which gentleman would be worse. She shifted her feet, which made him stop pacing to regard her like a bird of prey.

“Caroline?” he prompted.

The curling vines in the carpet threatened to rise up and choke her, though her own misery was already doing the job well enough.

She forced a smile. “I promised Lottie I’d help her choose a gown for her wedding trip. There really has been so much to do for
her
nuptials that I have not had a moment to think about my own,” she said as lightly as possible, twisting the ruby ring, her mother’s legacy, on her finger.

“It’s been two days,” Somerson admonished. “How much time could it possibly take to make such a simple choice?”

Caroline shut her eyes. It was hardly simple. She’d been a sentimental child, and had grown up to be a young woman with starry-eyed ideas of what romance and marriage ought to be. She’d always thought she’d know the moment she set eyes on the man she wanted to marry. She’d feel a surge of love that would warm her from her toes to her crown, and angels would sing. She felt only horror when she looked at Mandeville and Speed. Her skin crawled and crows croaked a warning.

Flee.

The idea whispered in her ear.

She swallowed, and met Somerson’s eyes, steeling her courage to refuse, but the ice in his expression chilled her. She had been raised to be obedient, even when the yoke chafed. “Tomorrow—I’ll give you my decision tomorrow.”

His eyes narrowed as if he suspected a trick. She widened her smile till it hurt. “At breakfast, is that clear?” he said at last.

“Perfectly,” she murmured. “May I go?”

But he’d already turned away, as if he had more important things to think about and she’d taken up too much of his time. She curtsied to his back and left the study.

Upstairs, Charlotte was shrieking at the modiste, berating the poor woman because the lace wasn’t sitting properly at Lottie’s bosom. Caroline felt sorry for the dressmaker—it was past midnight, and this was the third time Charlotte had changed her mind about her daughter’s wedding gown. Caroline had no doubt Charlotte would let her half-sister-in-law get married wearing a burlap sack if it got the matter done faster, and got Caroline packed off, out of sight and out of mind forevermore.

A distant door slammed, and a maid rushed down the steps, nearly colliding with Caroline.

The poor girl was flushed, and she nearly tripped trying to curtsy and run at the same time. “Oh, excuse me, my lady—more treacle tarts are needed upstairs at once.” She bolted down the kitchen hallway like a frightened rabbit.

Caroline set her hand on the banister. She lifted her foot, held it over the first step, and stopped.

There was another loud objection upstairs, and Lottie burst into noisy tears.

Caroline stepped back. She should go up to help soothe her niece, or go to bed and think about her choice, but there was no point in that. She could never bring herself to pick Speed or Mandeville.

Flee.

She turned, wondering if someone had spoken, but there was no one there, just the modiste’s cloak and bonnet, hanging on a peg beside the front door.

Flee.

Caroline grabbed the cloak and swung it over her shoulders, and clapped the bonnet onto her head. The brass door latch was cold under her palm. Her heart pounded. Another shriek of rage echoed down the stairs, and she opened the door and stepped out, shutting it behind her, cutting off the dreadful sound. For a moment she stood on the front step, looking up and down the dark street, wondering which way to go. It was yet another choice—and one she couldn’t wait until morning to make. Taking a breath, she pulled the hood close to her face and turned right.

She hurried away from the lights of Somerson House, moving into the shadows. If anyone bothered to look for her tonight, they’d find her gone. If not, then even Somerson would understand her choice when he sat down for breakfast tomorrow.

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WHAT A LADY MOST DESIRES,

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WHAT A LADY MOST DESIRES

The Duchess of Richmond’s Ball, Brussels, June 15, 1815

H
e was the only man in the world who had the power to stop her breath just by walking into a room.

Even now, when she hadn’t set eyes on him for over a year, the familiar dizzy sensation stopped her in her tracks on the grand staircase that led down to the Duchess’s ballroom.

It wasn’t that he was the handsomest man here. There were many officers present, from five different armies, all equally resplendent in their dress tunics. At least half of them had fair hair that shone just as brightly as his did under the light of the inestimable number of candles that lit the room. Many were as tall, or taller, and had shoulders that were just as broad as his.

It wasn’t high rank or exalted title that marked him out, or that he was both a diplomat and a cavalry officer. Rather it was his quiet confidence that compelled people to look at him, to take note of Major Lord Stephen Ives, and mark him as unusual, as if his good opinion mattered, carried weight. To look in the gray depths his eyes and be found wanting was a harsh blow indeed, as Lady Delphine St. James well knew.

They had met the major in London at another ball, over a year ago, and she had spent just a few minutes in his company, but it had been enough. What she had read in his eyes that night had changed her forever. From that moment, he was the one she measured all other gentleman against, and she found every one of them wanting by comparison.

Even now, after all the months that had passed, Stephen Ives still had the power to make her breath catch in her throat, weaken her knees, and make her heart race. He had made it clear that he did not feel the same, and she desired above all things to know why. If she could choose one dance partner tonight, one man to escort her to supper, it would be—

“You,” she whispered to the air, her eyes fixed on his back.

He turned as if she’d shouted the word. He looked up to where she was standing on the stairs, and she felt a thrill run through her body as their eyes met. She read surprise, then a moment of dismay before he smoothed his features to a flat expression and nodded a brief acknowledgement. The thrill in her breast fizzled and died. Nothing had changed, then. He liked her no better now.

Still, she smiled sweetly at him, though he did not smile back, or show any sign of moving from where he stood. The crowd took up every inch of space between her place on the staircase and his position on the edge of the dance floor. It would be quite impossible to cut through the crush to reach his side.

Impossible was not a word Lady Delphine St. James endured.

“Excuse me,” she said, pushing past a Dutch officer exchanging pleasantries with a lady in blue silk. “Your pardon,” she murmured, squeezing by a red-coated lieutenant, keeping her eyes on Stephen Ives all the while. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, probably hoping she was heading somewhere else.

She made a quick curtsy to the Duchess of Richmond, her hostess, at the bottom of the steps. “Good evening, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly. The duchess merely nodded. If she found Delphine’s haste unseemly, she did not remark on it. There were other, more important guests to see to. Delphine glanced up to see if Stephen had moved. He hadn’t. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? She picked up her skirt and hurried on.

Someone stepped into her path, forcing her to stop.

“Why Lady Delphine—what an unexpected pleasure.”

She almost cursed aloud. The gentleman bowed, and she gazed at Stephen over his bent shoulder before he rose again and blocked her view of her quarry.

Her withering glare turned to surprise. “Oh, it’s you, Captain Lord Rothdale.” He was a friend of her brother’s, or rather a compatriot in Sebastian’s debauchery.

“Captain Lord Rothdale? Is that any way to greet an old and dear friend?” He preened, showing off his Royal Dragoons uniform, making the gold braid glitter in the candlelight. “You promised to call me Peter when we met at your father’s home in London. Don’t let the uniform scare you away. I may be one of the heroes, but I am still as tame as a house cat, I assure you.” He smiled at his own joke and picked up her hand, though she hadn’t offered it, and brought it to his lips. For a moment she wondered if he intended to lick it, cat-like. The intensity of his eyes on her bodice reminded her of an animal far more dangerous than a mere tabby. “How may I be of service this evening, Darling Dilly? You appear to lack a dancing partner.”

Her jaw tightened at the sound of her family nickname on his lips, and she tried to withdraw her hand from his. He refused to let go. Instead he tightened his grip, leaned closer still, and she could smell rum on his breath. The glitter in his eyes had more to do with the amount of the spirit he’d consumed than the pleasure of her company. He had arrived foxed then, since the duchess was serving champagne, not rum, which made his condition all the more shocking.

She tried again to free her hand, but he gave her a teasing smile and held on. She felt her cheeks heat, and a scathing insult came to mind, but this was hardly the place. Rothdale stepped closer still.

“Dance with me, Dilly. Or better yet, come out to the terrace, and I’ll whisper lavish compliments in your ear. Rumor has it we’ll be off to battle come sun-up. Don’t you want to give me a proper send off?”

She did indeed, but not the kind he hoped for. She felt a flare of anger. “Please excuse me, Captain,” she said in her tartest tone, emphasizing his military title to remind him where he was, and who he was. She swept a cold glance over the uniform he was dishonoring by such boorish behavior, but he didn’t move. He laughed.

“Now don’t be like that. I’d like to know you better. I had no opportunity to enjoy your company in London. You were always out when I called.” He had the audacity to run his fingertip down the exposed length of her bare arm, from the edge of her short puffed sleeve to the top of her lace glove.

Delphine enjoyed flirting as much as the next lady—in fact, she was a renowned charmer, but not like this, not here. She tried again to pluck her hand free, but still he would not let go. She drew a breath, stiffened her spine. She was going to have to make a scene after all. She clenched her free hand around her fan, ready to deal him a crushing blow with it even as she opened her mouth to rebuke him for his boorish behavior.

“Lady Delphine, I believe this is our dance.”

Stephen Ives was standing next to her, and her breath stopped yet again. She shut her mouth with an audible snap.

He bowed and held out his hand, waiting for her to take it. Rothdale released her fingers as if they were on fire, obviously surprised to see the major. His handsome face reddened with displeasure.

Delphine clasped Stephen’s hand like a lifeline and let him lead her away.

The music began—a waltz. Stephen set his hand on her waist and swept her onto the floor. She should thank him, but he was staring over her shoulder at Rothdale as the captain disappeared into the crowd.

“Do you know Captain Lord Rothdale? He’s a friend of my brother’s. He is not—that is, he and I are not—” She realized she was babbling.

His eyes remained on Rothdale. “We are in the same regiment.”

Oh. Delphine felt like a ninny. He didn’t add to his terse comment, or offer any pleasantries. He had rescued her from a boor at a ball, but it appeared it was now entirely up to her to change the subject, to charm him if she could, to make him like her.

She had the advantage of being at a summer party in a room filled with flowers and candles, and she was in his arms, waltzing. She wasn’t about to waste such an opportunity talking about anyone else. The room was warm, but the glow she felt had much more to do with being held in Stephen’s arms. She could smell his shaving soap, the wool of his tunic, the heady fragrance of flowers as they whirled past the open windows.

“Goodness you dance well,” she tried again.

“I spent six months in Vienna. They invented the waltz.”

She felt her cheeks heat. Where was her famous charm and glib tongue now when she needed them most? “Ah, yes. You were at the peace conference, part of the embassy. I have heard stories, of course, about all the glittering parties with the kings and queens of Europe, the Tsar of Russia, the Emperor of Austria . . .” He looked slightly bored. She swallowed. He was a diplomat, and most unlikely to want to gossip or repeat salacious stories about crowned heads or anyone else. “Was the congress successful?” she asked.