Highland Rogue, London Miss Page 13

  Esme had to fight not to express her anger. And she was glad Jamie hadn’t married Catriona. Whatever anyone else thought, he would never marry for mercenary motives, and he had his pride, too.

  “Although perhaps I don’t have to tell you that,” Lady Elvira added with a significant look.

  Esme bristled even more at the insult to her husband, then realized not only was she not really married, she herself had implied that her husband had wed her for her dowry.

  Lady Elvira moved eagerly forward. “But enough of Edinburgh society. Tell me, Lady Dubhagen, what was it like in Jamaica?”

  “Hot,” she replied as she quickly got to her feet. She’d had quite enough of Lady Elvira. “Very hot. If you’ll excuse me, I fear I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  “Not at all!” Lady Elvira protested. “I do so want to hear about the West Indies.” Her smile grew rather sly. “And it must be a relief to you to be away from your most attentive husband.”

  Esme hurriedly came up with an excuse. “I’m feeling a little unwell.”

  Lady Elvira’s eyes immediately flicked to Esme’s torso. When Esme realized what she might have implied, she did feel sick.

  Fortunately, the woman had some sense of decorum, for she didn’t ask any more questions. “You must promise me you’ll call again and tell me all about the West Indies,” she said as she followed Esme to the door.

  “Yes, I will,” Esme replied, although she would rather spend a week looking for the most obscure legal precedents in existence than call upon Lady Elvira again.

  As Quinn paced in the drawing room that evening, he wasn’t sure if Esme would be attending Lady Marchmont’s ball with him or not. Even though she’d told him about the invitation, after what had happened last night and her tense manner this morning, he wouldn’t be surprised if she elected to stay in her room. He almost hoped she would, because he wasn’t at all sure what he should say, or do, if she appeared.

  Nor, after seeing Mollie and learning of her situation, did he particularly feel like another evening spent at a party among the rich.

  He heard a noise at the door and turned to find Esme standing on the threshold, watching him. She wore a blue silk gown with a rounded neckline that revealed far too much of her cleavage. The fabric flowed from the bodice to the floor, where the tips of white satin slippers with small blue rosettes peeked out from beneath the hem. Her hair was dressed high atop her proudly poised head, and white roses were interspersed with the ornately dressed brown locks. A pearl necklace, as lovely and perfect as she, lay against her slender throat.

  Yes, she was perfect. Perfect not just in spite of her lively mind and sharp tongue, but because of them. Perfect, because of her dedication and devotion. Perfect—but not for him. Never for him.

  She was Jamie’s sister, after all, and he owed Jamie more than his life. Because of Jamie, he’d found some measure of redemption. Because of Jamie, he’d been able to put the skills and knowledge he’d gleaned in the most unsavoury places to good use helping others.

  No matter how tempting Esme was, how passionate or how she enflamed his desire, he shouldn’t jeopardize the most important friendship of his life by giving in to lust.

  Not that it was all his fault. Whoever would have guessed such a fiery passion lay beneath Esme’s usually cool, intellectual demeanor? Whoever would have suspected her kisses would be so intoxicating?

  Didn’t you? his heart whispered.

  Wasn’t that why he’d teased and goaded her, to get beyond that cold wall of indifference? Hadn’t he wanted to make the pink flush come to her cheeks, to get any sort of response from her, even if it was scorn?

  He could deny it all he liked, but deep in his heart, he knew he’d wanted Esme McCallan, with her ink-stained fingers and furrowed brow, her shapeless dresses and untidy hair, her clever, inquisitive mind and devotion to her brother, from the first moment he’d met her.

  So now he couldn’t meet her gaze, and she just as quickly looked away before she glided silently into the room.

  He’d always been aware, on some level, that she was graceful. Having felt that lithe, slim body along his own, now he was even more aware of the way she moved.

  “Is the carriage ready?” she asked.

  To anyone else, that question might sound quite calm and dispassionate. Perhaps once it would have to him, as well. But not today. Not now. He could hear her constraint, see it in her body.

  “Not yet,” he replied, remaining beside the sofa.

  She nodded in acknowledgement and wandered toward the window.

  The neckline at the back of the gown dipped low, too, exposing an expanse of skin from her nape almost to the center of her back. How soft and smooth it looked! He wanted to run his finger up and down her spine and make her shiver with anticipation. He wanted to let his lips take that same path as she lay beneath him, naked and—

  “My lord, the barouche is at the door,” McSweeney announced.

  Cursing his imagination, that gown and McSweeney for intruding, Quinn wordlessly held out his arm to escort Esme from the room.

  From the downturn of her lips, she wasn’t happy or pleased to be with him. She probably wished McHeath was escorting her.

  After their servants had helped him into his coat and her into her cloak and they were in the carriage, neither of them said another word until they were nearly at their destination, and she finally broke the silence. “Did you learn anything more about the earl’s financial situation or Mr. McHeath?”

  “Mr. McHeath is apparently exactly what he seems, a fine, honest, upright young solicitor,” he replied.

  He shouldn’t be annoyed at the pleased look that came to Esme’s face. After all, McHeath was one of the sacred order of solicitors. Nevertheless, and in spite of his faith in Mollie’s assessment of men, it was still too early and there was too much at stake, to trust him completely. “Which isn’t to say he is. My informant may be mistaken.”

  Annoyance flared in her eyes, but he didn’t care. Anything was better than that cool detachment. It always had been.

  “I’m well aware a handsome exterior can hide a duplicitous nature,” she said, gazing out at the street as if she’d rather look at damp gray buildings than him.

  Enough, he thought with sudden determination. Enough of this speculation about her thoughts and feelings. He was tired of hoping that one day, she would realize that he’d changed and was no longer the wastrel he’d been in his youth.

  Here, now, he would find out if she could see beyond his past misdeeds. “Are you also aware that a man can change? That remorse and regret can affect him and make him see the error of his ways?”

  She turned the full force of her inquiring eyes—like a bright beam of the summer’s sun—onto him. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve seen the error of your ways?”

  “I’m attempting to tell you that in spite of my past and any necessary liberties I may have taken with you recently, I’m not a completely dishonorable reprobate. And if you hear I was visiting certain disreputable establishments, that’s only been because of the job Jamie sent us here to do, not for my personal enjoyment.”

  He didn’t know if she believed him or not as she continued to regard him as if she was trying to look inside his heart.

  Let her, if that meant she would venture past the outer surface to the remnants of the good, honorable man that still existed within him.

  If she would make the effort and open her mind, and her heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Esme had never been so glad to get anywhere in her life, for their arrival at Lord and Lady Marchmont’s spared her the need to answer right away. Her feelings were so jumbled and confused, she had no idea what to say to MacLachlann. One moment, she was sure he was simply teasing and tormenting her, the next she believed he truly liked her and felt something more than lust. Then she would fear she was only seeing what she wished to see, and should know better than to fall victim to his charm and good looks.

&n
bsp; Why could she not remember who he was and his wasted opportunities when he looked at her with what seemed like genuine remorse and sincerity? Why did she forget that they were here together because they had a job to do, and nothing more?

  Why could she not subdue the longing to be in his arms, to feel his lips upon hers, to give herself up to the passion he inspired?

  One thing was clear as they entered the spacious foyer crowded with other guests, maids and footmen and she felt Quinn’s steadfast gaze upon her: she had to get away from him, if only for a moment, to calm her racing heart and restore her normal mental processes.

  A solemn, plain-faced maid past the first blush of youth helped her from her cloak. “Oh, dear, I fear I’ve got a tear in the seam of my gown,” she lied, tilting her head ever so slightly as if surveying the damage while trying not to ruin her hair.

  “The upstairs sitting room is being used as the ladies’ dressing room,” the maid offered.

  “Excellent!” Esme cried. Not waiting for Quinn’s response, she hurried up the wide curving marble staircase to the right of the foyer.

  The upstairs sitting room was at the top of the stairs, a lovely chamber painted in pale blue, with simple plaster work and light oak furnishings upholstered in light blue satin damask.

  At present, the only occupants were three maids waiting expectantly. One had a needle and thread at the ready, another hairpins and combs, and the third smelling salts.

  She might require that maid’s services before the night was out if she couldn’t control her nerves, Esme thought as she went to the cheval glass and pushed a flower more firmly into place.

  As she regarded her reflection, she told herself to remember that this gown, this hairstyle and these thin shoes were as good as a costume. Quinn hadn’t found her attractive before this journey to Edinburgh and he’d probably cease to find her attractive when they returned to London. He would likely wonder what had come over him, as if his passionate desire had been a sort of temporary madness.

  Perhaps it was, and perhaps once she returned to London, her feelings for him would be what they’d been before, too.

  Yet deep in her heart, she knew that wasn’t true. Something had changed between them, permanently and irrevocably, here in Edinburgh. No, from that first kiss.

  “Ah, Lady Dubhagen! I was hoping to meet you here!” a young woman cried, hurrying toward Esme from the doorway, her red silk gown swishing about her ankles and her diamond necklace and ear bobs sparkling in the candlelight. “Forgive the rudeness, but I simply cannot wait for a formal introduction. I’m Finula Blackmure, Sir Walter Blackmure’s daughter.”

  “How do you do?” Esme warily replied, taken aback by the pretty auburn-haired girl’s enthusiastic greeting.

  “Quite well, thank you.”

  Another young woman, also likely not more than twenty and fashionably attired in lavender satin, came to stand beside Miss Blackmure, who glanced at her with a smile and said, “This is Lady Penelope Ponsenby. She’s been most anxious to meet you, too.”

  “You have?” Esme replied, not sure what the thrill would be.

  “Oh, yeth!” the dark-haired Lady Penelope replied, smiling as she lisped. “We want to hear what it’th like to live on a thugar plantation. It mutht be quite thrilling, with so many thervants and things.”

  Miss Blackmure giggled as she drew Esme away from the mirror. “I’ve heard some of the slaves are quite…well, nothing like English gentlemen. Primitive and so very…muscular.”

  As if they were animals in a zoo to be stared at, Esme thought with disgust, not human beings.

  “No, they aren’t like English gentlemen,” she replied. “Unless you took an English gentleman, his wife and children, locked them in a ship for several months, starved and beat them and, should they even survive to reach the shore, worked them like livestock. Indeed, I wonder how you would fare in such circumstances, should you be so unfortunate.”

  She was about to detail some of the atrocities female slaves were subjected to, but restrained herself. These goosecaps would probably faint.

  As it was, Miss Blackmure blushed as red as her gown and Lady Penelope had blanched.

  “I believe Lady Penelope requires your help,” Esme said to the maid with the smelling salts as she swept to the door, feeling much more like herself and ready to beard a lion in his den.

  Or encounter Quintus MacLachlann in a ballroom.

  But as Esme surveyed the gathering in Lady Marchmont’s glittering ballroom illuminated by two large chandeliers and several wall sconces, the light reflected by mirrors that went the length of the wall from floor to vast ceiling, she couldn’t see MacLachlann anywhere.

  She couldn’t enter unless she was announced, and she couldn’t be announced without her husband.

  As she surveyed the room again, she also began to regret her intemperate response to the two young women upstairs. She should have controlled her anger. No matter how infuriated, she shouldn’t have reacted as she had. They might begin to suspect something was not right.

  The sound of low male laughter came from a nearby room and a narrow wisp of smoke drifted from beneath the closed doorway as a masculine voice said something about rum punch.

  The gentlemen must have gathered there, including MacLachlann. Or so she hoped.

  She rapped on the door, and it was opened by a short, plump man whose barrel chest made her think of a pigeon.

  He looked surprised to see her, or perhaps he was taken aback that any woman dared to interrupt the male camaraderie, so she took refuge in her role. Batting her eyelashes, she smiled and said, “Is Lord Dubhagen here?”

  “I am summoned!” Quinn announced as he strolled into view, his thumbs tucked into the small pockets of his dark green satin waistcoat. “Gown all fixed, my little plum cake?”

  “Yes,” she said as the rest of the men stared at her with unabashed interest.

  Never had she been more acutely aware of the sort of bold scrutiny that other women endured daily, as if they were no more than a statue to be gazed upon, or an object to be possessed, instead of a person of flesh and blood and feelings. Unfortunately, tonight she had to bear it and act her part. “Shall we go to the ballroom?”

  “Until later, gentlemen,” MacLachlann said breezily as he took her arm and steered her toward the ballroom.

  Yet once he was out of the room, his expression grew grim, as if he wanted to be anywhere else, with anyone else.

  This was probably not the best time to mention her conversation with the young ladies. She could do so afterward. Or perhaps not at all.

  “The Earl of Dubhagen, Countess Dubhagen,” the tall, bewigged butler announced as they entered the ballroom, which had become even more crowded.

  Esme noticed Lady Penelope and Miss Blackmure leaning toward the gentlemen beside them and whispering behind their fans while keeping their eyes on Esme and her supposed husband. She could easily guess the sort of thing they would say about the Earl of Dubhagen’s hot-tempered wife who had spoken so harshly.

  Whatever the others were talking about, she and MacLachlann had to act as if nothing was wrong as they greeted their host and hostess. Lord Marchmont was a healthy-looking, middle-aged fellow in excellently tailored evening dress. Lady Marchmont, clad in a rich, burgundy velvet gown trimmed with gold-tipped lace, with a beautiful ruby necklace and matching dangling earbobs, gave them a welcoming smile.

  “Charmed, my dear, truly charmed,” Lord Marchmont said before giving Quinn an approving glance. “You’ve done well for yourself, Dubhagen, I must say. I’ve heard the tropical heat is bad for women, but it seems your wife has bloomed like a hothouse rose.”

  “She’s beautiful in any climate, my lord,” MacLachlann gallantly replied, while Esme did her best to smile like a simpleton.

  The older nobleman’s expression was blessedly paternal as he regarded her. “Trust the handsome fellows to get the prettiest wives.”

  “As you yourself have done,” she simpered, althoug
h that was no lie. In his youth, Lord Marchmont had probably been the object of many a woman’s fancy and Lady Marchmont had clearly been a beauty. She was still beautiful and, unlike some former belles, didn’t seem desperate to cling to her lost youth, an attitude that made her seem not just lovely, but wise.

  The butler came and whispered something in Lord Marchmont’s ear. He nodded, then spoke to his wife. “It’s time to begin, my dear.”

  As they moved onto the floor for the opening quadrille, Esme drew back closer to the wall. Jamie had tried to teach her how to dance as she prepared for this journey, but she was far from confident of her ability and didn’t want to look incompetent.

  Fortunately, Quinn didn’t seem any more eager to dance than she, until he suddenly took her arm.

  “I don’t want to dance!” she whispered desperately.

  “Calm yourself, my dear. That wasn’t my intention. Come with me.”

  He sounded determined, not seductive, and since she didn’t want to draw any attention, she allowed him to lead her toward the terrace and out into the cool night air.

  Where they were away from everybody and nobody could see them. Where they could do almost anything…

  “Why is everyone looking at you as if you’ve stolen the silver?” he quietly demanded as he let go of her. “Or is it me? Have I a stain on my shirt? Is my cravat crooked?”

  She might as well tell him. He would probably hear about it sooner or later anyway. “I lost my temper in the dressing room and was a little blunt in my reply to some of the young ladies.”

  “Blunt? What did you say?”

  She didn’t want to answer, although the words themselves hardly mattered. And they shouldn’t linger here anyway, alone in the dark. “This is hardly the time or place for an interrogation.”

  “I have to know what you said, so I can be prepared if anybody talks to me about it.”

  He was, regrettably, right.

  First, though, she would explain the circumstances, so he would understand why she’d been driven to answer as she had. “Miss Blackmure and Lady Penelope Ponsenby wanted to know about slaves. It was clear they were predominantly interested in the male slaves and their physical attributes, not about their suffering. I couldn’t contain my disgust and annoyance and spoke accordingly.”