Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (7 page)

Harcourt relaxed in his chair, surveying the group. He turned and winked at Yancy. “Can
you
imagine marrying into
this
?”

He wiggled his fingers at the animated throng lining both sides of the table.

The emphasis on the two words wasn’t lost on Yancy.

“Harcourt,” he warned, fully aware Isobel angled her head to stare at him.

Her gaze held wounded accusation.

“No, I suppose not.” Harcourt toyed with his napkin. “You’ve always said you won’t ever marry.”

Chapter 8

Isobel choked on a suppressed gasp.
Never marry
? Lord Ramsbury was all but betrothed. Matilda Darby had made that clear as polished glass at Adaira and Roark’s ball last December. Why would he keep such important news from his closest friends?

After her one and only dance with his lordship, Isobel had sought the ladies’ retiring room. The girl, for Miss Darby was scarcely more than a child, had followed Isobel into the chamber.

Miss Darby shouldn’t have been present at all, as neither she nor her aunt, Cecily Yancy, had received an invitation. However, as houseguests of the Oldershaws—close neighbors of Adaira and Roark—little could be done when the two women had attached themselves to the Oldershaws’ coat sleeves.

Or so Adaira had muttered upon spying the interlopers entering the ballroom.

A feline smile on her painted lips, Miss Darby cornered Isobel by blocking the doorway to the ladies’ retiring room.

“I think it only kind to tell you, a union has been arranged between Lord Ramsbury and me as soon as I reach my eighteenth birthday. We are . . .” Miss Darby coyly lowered her lashes, feigning diffidence. “We are on
very
intimate terms, if you understand my meaning. Goodness, we’ve resided under the same roof since I was five, practically my entire life, and it has always been understood we would marry.”

That someone so young was versed in the ways of the flesh, and Isobel had yet to be kissed, was somewhat—no, wholly—disconcerting. More than disconcerting. Appalling. Particularly, his lordship’s taking advantage of someone so young, and a ward underneath his roof, to boot.

Now, months later, a wave of angry humiliation engulfed her. Miss Darby had experienced his lordship’s kisses, something Isobel would never do. Heat scorched her, and she curled her toes in her soft slippers.

I am not jealous
.

None of that mattered. The earl had compromised the girl. Though Isobel admitted she still found him sinfully attractive. Nevertheless, nothing could come of it.

For pity’s sake, he’d bedded a near child.

It wasn’t altogether uncommon. Girls married in Scotland as young as twelve. But he hadn’t married Matilda yet he had enjoyed her favors. Another blot against his already-dark character.

“Shall we make our way to the salon?” Yvette scooted her chair back, indicating an end to the meal. She beamed as Ewan took her hand, and they both stood.

Ridiculously in love, those two, and most of the time, Isobel admired their relationship. Today, however, it served as a painful reminder of her limited prospects and made her restless and discontented.

If only her parents would allow her a Season.

It didn’t have to be in London. She’d quite happily settle for Edinburgh’s smaller Season. At least she’d have a chance to see the historic city, take in the famous sites, and perhaps, meet someone an iota less rustic than the Highlanders frequenting their table on a regular basis.

When their aunt had taken ill and needed a companion for several months, Seonaid had been allowed an extended visit to France, and to escape imprisonment, Adaira had fled to Gretna Green with Roark. Why couldn’t Isobel have her own adventure? Just one tiny exploit to sustain her for a lifetime?

You’ll not be content with o
ne.

No, but one was better than none.

Isobel glanced round the table before her attention sank to her plate. She stared at the congealed blobs of food. She could stall, object she hadn’t finished eating, except her appetite had dwindled to nothing. Better to get the blasted chess game behind her.

“I don’t believe Miss Ferguson has quite finished her meal.”

Isobel flung a startled peek at Lord Ramsbury. He’d noticed her nearly full plate when no one else had.

“No, I’m satisfied, thank you.” The food had stuck in her throat like cold, lumpy porridge, and she couldn’t gag down another bite.

Lord Ramsbury needed this comeuppance. He truly had no idea what he’d gotten himself into.

She examined the mantle clock. Half past one.

If she concluded the chess game in thirty minutes, she would have time to work on Yvette’s gift and catalog the relics from today’s digging before preparing for dinner.

She wasn’t being arrogant or a braggart about her chess-playing skills. The movements on the checkered board played out in her head, much like a theatrical performance on stage. She simply selected the most advantageous plays.

Could she extend the game to make it last thirty minutes? She might have to sacrifice a knight. She could nick the earl’s isolated pawns to compensate. A slight thrill swept her. Lord Ramsbury might very well prove to be a worthy opponent.

She couldn’t wait to see his face when she captured his queen. Eagerness tingled along her nerves in anticipation of discovering precisely how clever Lord Ramsbury might be. Let the others gawk all they wanted. The earl had brought this on himself.

“Let’s be about it, shall we?” Isobel laid her napkin on the table before smoothing her skirt.

In an instant, the duke stood and extended his hand. “Please permit me the honor of escorting you to the salon.”

Isobel rose. “Thank you, Your Gra—”

“I think it most ungentlemanly of ye to demand an audience and humiliate Miss Ferguson.” Mr. Ross rose with the others. He stood angry and rigid, his hands fisted at his sides, glowering at Lord Ramsbury.

Isobel gaped before snapping her mouth shut. Should she be grateful or angry? His defense, although unexpected and heroic, bordered on insulting. “I assure you, I shan’t be humiliated, Mr. Ross, but I thank you for your concern.”

“I admire yer courage, Miss Ferguson, but yer a woman. He’s England’s War Secretary.” Mr. Ross shot a contemptuous glare Lord Ramsbury’s direction. “Ye
dinnae
stand a chance, lass.”

She set her teeth against the retort that thrummed against her lips. Lord, she wished she possessed Adaira’s daring. Isobel would tell Mr. Ross to go bugger himself. Instead, she hid her true feelings, and inclined her head, forcing a gracious smile.

On his way to the door, Dugall whacked Mr. Ross between the shoulders. Dishes and silverware rattled and clanked when Mr. Ross snatched at the table’s edge.

Dugall did that on purpose, bless his wayward heart. She met his eyes, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.

“You haven’t seen me sister play chess. She be fine. The earl, on the other hand . . .” Dugall raised two fingers to his brow in a mock salute before swaggering from the hall.

Isobel placed her fingertips on His Grace’s extended arm.

Hmm, no odd tremors tingled anywhere at the contact, and the Duke of Harcourt exemplified handsomeness. She pressed the solid, muscular forearm beneath her fingers.

Not a single quiver.

Upon entering the salon, she immediately swept to the pedestal table nestled in a nook before a bay window. After flinging her shawl over the back of her chair, she sank into her seat.

The others settled themselves around the room; everyone except Duncan and the clan members engaged in training practice in the bailey. The duke and Mr. Ross commandeered the two armchairs nearest the chess table.

Of course, they would.

She braced for Lord Harcourt’s pithy remarks and Mr. Ross’s dark glowers throughout the contest.

Fabulous.

Harcourt crossed his legs and relaxed into the Pomona green and Apollo gold chair. He apparently intended a lengthy stay.

She would see about that. A swift appraisal of the longcase clock revealed another ten minutes had passed since the meal ended.
Bah.

Looking wholly out of place perched on the dainty carved piece, Lord Ramsbury took the seat opposite her. He shifted to get more comfortable, but the parlor chair groaned in protest. Carefully, he eased his long legs under the table. The chair complained again, and he stilled.

Lips quivering, Isobel arranged the ivory playing pieces. She caught Father’s eye as he joined Mother on the settee before the fireplace. “Father, might I trouble you to bring his lordship a sturdier chair?”

After exchanging chairs, his lordship dropped into the stronger piece of furniture. “Much better.”

“Yes, I was afraid, given your size, the other wouldn’t bear up well.” Isobel turned her attention to the black figures.

“
Dinnae ken
why these fragile things be in here,” Father muttered. “There be not a man within the keep who can sit comfortably in one.”

He sank onto the brocade settee beside Mother. She’d taken up her sewing and busily stitched, no doubt making another garment for Adaira’s babe.

“Are you implying I’m stout?” Humor laced Lord Ramsbury’s voice.

Surprised, Isobel raised her eyes to his. “Nothing of the sort, my lord. You simply have a well-muscled, manly form.”

Inwardly, she groaned.

Do shut up, Isobel.

“‘Well-muscled form
?
’” Lord Ramsbury’s eyes twinkled, although something more powerful glittered in their depths.

“Indeed, a
well-
muscled,
manly
form,” came His Grace’s droll affirmation.

Shut up!

Sensations of the earl’s firm body mashed to hers on the stable floor bounded forth. Her nipples prickled, giving her a severe start. She almost dropped the chess piece. Grasping it tightly, she lifted the bishop, avoiding his lordship’s eyes.

“Light or dark?”

Isobel slanted a glance to the reed thin figure of Mr. Ross. She doubted he weighed as much as she, despite the fact her head didn’t quite reach his shoulder.

“I shall take the black.” Lord Ramsbury rotated the board until the ebony pieces lay before him.

Isobel gave him a wry smile. “I assure you, I don’t need first-move advantage.”

He tapped his manicured fingers on the edge of the board. “Didn’t entertain the notion for a moment. I believe the light pieces more representative of the fair maiden who challenged me.”

Isobel gaped at him. Did he wax poetic?

The Duke of Harcourt chuckled heartily as the ladies tittered in approval.

Male cries of, “Hear, Hear,” almost drowned out Mr. Ross’s disapproving grunt.

“Well said, my lord.” Yvette beamed her approval.

Ye gods, Lord Ramsbury had them all bamboozled. His handsome face and pretty manners might hide his deceptive, blackguard’s heart from them, but Isobel remained impervious to his wiles and schemes.

Keep telling yourself that and maybe you’ll come to believe it.

With a final glance about the room, she set her attention to the board. He would soon regret his magnanimous gesture, for she had every intention of laying him low.

As she trotted Emira from the keep’s outer gates tomorrow, she’d give him a victorious wave.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Yancy fingered the purplish raised mark on the back of his hand. Isobel’s fingernails had left a nasty welt.

When the first game ended in a draw, he would have sworn on his dead mother’s grave, Isobel was as surprised as he at the stalemate. Now, an hour later, their audience having dwindled to Miss Seonaid, Miss Farnsworth, Ross, Harcourt, and Alasdair, he wasn’t convinced she hadn’t deliberately sacrificed her pieces the first go round.

Such a brilliant strategist would have made one superior general.

He’d long since put aside his valiant notions of permitting her an easy victory. The game they were immersed in was a test of skill and strategy, and he feared Isobel would whip him soundly.

Skimming the board, he relaxed against his chair while she nibbled her lower lip and scrunched her nose in concentration.

Adorable.

Running her fingers, over and over, across the glistening pearls at her neck, she stared at the board. All at once, her face lit up. Her gorgeous eyes dancing jubilantly, Isobel made her move.

“Checkmate, my lord.”

She’d done it.

Beaten
him
, the master player.

He, the Regent’s choice for War Office Secretary, had been bested by a slip of a girl.

Grinning, she leaned back into her chair, radiating satisfaction.

Now what
?

“Isobel, you won.” Miss Farnsworth jumped from her seat, dropping her embroidery on a nearby table before rushing to give Isobel a hug. “I’m sorry, my lord, I mean no offense, but I thought you being the War Secretary, and Isobel . . .”

“No offense taken, Miss Farnsworth.”

Yancy stood, and then bowed deeply. “Congratulations, Miss Ferguson. You were a most worthy opponent. Never in all my years of playing the game, have I encountered such acumen or supreme strategy.”

He didn’t exaggerate.

Astonishment registered on her face and her cheeks pinkened to match the ribbon across her crown. She fiddled with a bishop. “Thank you, my lord.”

Isobel rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve some matters I need to attend to before dinner. Thank you for the matches, my lord.” She dipped into a quick curtsy, and then, accompanied by Miss Farnsworth, left the salon.

Ross trailed behind them, trying to get Isobel’s attention. She strode from the room so quickly, the fellow practically ran on his spindly legs to keep up.

“Now she gets to leave the keep unattended.” Harcourt offered the obvious with a victorious show of his teeth.