Highlander in Disguise Page 8

  When the dance ended, Drake escorted her into the gardens, where several of the guests had come out for air, including, she noticed with mild interest, Mr. Fynster-Allen and Miss Amelia Crabtree, who walked along slowly, obviously caught up in deep conversation.

  Who could blame them? It was a fabulous night for strolling along—a rare cloudless night in London. A cool breeze kept the air clean of soot, and the torch-lit gardens looked magnificent. Anna and Drake walked down the center path, remarking on the many rosebushes in full bloom.

  They paused at a wrought-iron bench beside a hedgerow that had been cut to resemble giant chess pieces. Beneath the bishop they sat, side by side, admiring another stand of roses, until Drake looked up at the moon and said, “Moonlight is very becoming to you.” He lowered his gaze and smiled warmly at her.

  Anna’s heart fluttered. “Thank you.”

  “You are indeed a handsome woman,” he added with a smile.

  Handsome? Her heart stopped fluttering—why did that remark always make her feel like someone’s spinster aunt? Why couldn’t she be beautiful, or, at the very least, pretty?

  Drake put his hand lightly on her knee, and Anna stared down at the hand in surprise, willing it higher.

  “Ah… the moon is lovely, isn’t it?” he asked absently.

  “Yes,” she said, and watched, fascinated, as he squeezed her knee, then caressed it with his palm. She was distantly aware of more people walking about, another couple on the other side of the hedgerow— and she could hear the girlish laugh of a woman. But her attention was riveted on Drake’s lips now, hoping fervently that he would kiss her.

  “This night reminds me a bit of a poem,” he said absently as his fingers casually stroked her knee. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “Yes, please,” Anna urged him, and shifted a little closer as she tried to block out the light chatter of the couple on the other side of the hedgerow.

  Drake glanced at the moon again and said, “In the moonlight was her heart thus taken; a chaste kiss, another vow forsaken. And when the sun rose again on her lovely face, there she did lie in love’s sweet embrace.”

  Anna sucked in a slow breath and lifted her face, nearer to his. “It’s lovely… who is the poet?”

  He laughed low; his gaze fell to her lips. “Would it surprise you if I said it was me?”

  Now her heart was beating wildly. He would kiss her. He would kiss her! “I did not know you were a poet,” she murmured, lifting her face higher.

  “I merely dabble at it,” he said, and as Anna closed her eyes, she heard Lucy’s laughter somewhere close by. Drake pressed his lips to her cheek at the same time he removed his hand from her knee.

  Anna opened her eyes; Drake was not looking at her, but down the path. “Would you like a refreshment?” he asked absently. “A cider to warm you, perhaps?”

  “No, I—”

  “It’s really rather chilly,” he said, standing. “I’ll fetch a cider for you. Rest here and I will return forthwith.” And with that he went striding off into the dark, leaving her to sit alone on the wrought-iron bench.

  Blast it! Anna folded her arms beneath her bosom and fell back against the bench, pondering what might possibly have gone wrong—after all, she was on a garden bench in the moonlight, practically sitting on his lap, for goodness’ sake….

  She heard the woman’s girlish giggle again, and realized another couple was still on the other side of the hedgerow.

  “Aye, of course we’ve a name for it,” she heard the man say.

  Ardencaple! Anna sat up with a start—Lockhart momentarily forgotten, she quickly inched to the left side of the bench, leaning as far back as she could, straining to hear without actually shoving her head into the hedge shaped like a bishop.

  “What do you call it in gallish?”

  “Ach, lass, ’tis Gàidhlig, then,” he said pleasantly. “And the word is gealach.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I can say that!” the woman said, laughing.

  I don’t think I can say that, Anna silently mimicked her.

  “All right, then, let’s try another, aye?” he said. “What is your given name?”

  “Catherine,” the woman said, and Anna instantly deduced it was Catherine Peterhouse, whom she had seen earlier this evening openly ogling Arden-caple.

  “Catherine, lovely,” he said. “Can you say ‘Caitriona’?”

  “Kay-tree-una,” Miss Peterhouse said very carefully and ar-tic-u-late-ly.

  “Aye, ye said it perfectly, ye did!”

  “Did I?” she squealed, and Anna rolled her eyes, twisted on the bench, and leaned toward the bishop-shaped shrub, pushing aside some of the branches in the hopes of seeing him.

  “Let’s have another, shall we? Perhaps ye know someone named… Amelia?”

  “Amelia?” Miss Peterhouse repeated, sounding perplexed. “Umm… yes, of course, there is Amelia Crabtree.”

  “That’s the only Amelia ye know, then?” he asked, sounding, strangely, as if he was slightly disappointed with Miss Peterhouse’s answer. Confused, Anna quietly pushed farther into the giant bishop, but her foot kicked the torchère next to the bench and made it wobble. She instantly grabbed it, righting it before it fell over. When she turned to the hedge again, she froze—she could see his leg just inches from her face.

  “Yes, she’s the only one,” Miss Peterhouse said uncertainly. “What is the name Amelia in your language?”

  “Alas, it doesna translate,” Ardencaple said with a sigh. “Ah, here’s one, then. Lady Battenkirk! Would ye happen to know her?”

  “Lady Battenkirk,” Miss Peterhouse said carefully. “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with her.”

  “Pity, that,” he said, and sighed again. “I would think she’d have a splendid Christian name to translate.”

  Now he was talking nonsense! Anna’s frown deepened. He moved again, and then when he spoke, Anna realized he was even closer, and dared not move.

  “I’ll teach ye another bit of Gàidhlig if ye’d like. Ah, let’s see… what would ye call a very silly person?”

  “A fool?” Miss Peterhouse eagerly answered.

  “Aye, a fool. Here we are, then. If ye were to encounter a complete fool in Scotland, ye would say of him, fior òinseach.”

  “Feer awn-shok,” Miss Peterhouse dutifully repeated.

  “Very good indeed, Miss Peterhouse! And what would ye say to the òinseach if ye were to meet her?” A moment of silence followed. “Why, ye’d say, Moi nàir’ort!” he exclaimed so loudly that Anna jumped.

  Miss Peterhouse laughed. “Oh my! What does that mean, my lord?”

  “It means ‘Shame on ye!’” It sounded as if he was standing just above her, so frighteningly close that Anna reared back, and the shrub rustled in her wake.

  “What was that?” Miss Peterhouse asked.

  “Naugh’ but fior òinseach,” he said with a laugh. “Well, then, Miss Peterhouse, it is unfair of me to keep ye from the other men who desire to dance—”

  “Oh no, it’s really quite all right!” she exclaimed.

  “No, no…I willna be accused of monopolizing yer charming attentions. Shall we?”

  “Oh… yes, well. I suppose we must,” she said slowly, and there was a bit of rustling.

  Anna didn’t move until she heard the sound of their footfalls far down the path. Then she twisted around, folded her arms petulantly across her middle. The man was an insolent, overbearing goat who thought himself entirely too clever! And she was still smarting at having been discovered when she saw Drake coming down the path, a cup of cider in one hand and Lucy in the other.

  Oh, splendid!

  Nine

  A fter exhausting all four of the Amelias in attendance, as well as some suspected Amelias, Grif did not linger at the ball. He left Fynster in the hands of Miss Crabtree, although both had looked a little perplexed as he had strolled from their midst.

  He found a hack, returned to Dalkeith House on Cavendish Street in somet
hing of a huff. Not only was he no closer to finding the correct Amelia, but he could not shake the uncomfortable notion that Miss Addison knew something about him. Damn her devil eyes!

  A morose Hugh was in the drawing room before the hearth, his bare feet propped on a footstool directly in front of the flames, a near empty bottle of whiskey beside him. He glanced up as Grif strode into the room. “Ah, our dashing young dandy doth return,” he said in his best English-accented acerbic voice.

  As Grif was accustomed to Hugh’s pouting, he ignored it, looked around the room. “Where’s Dudley?”

  “Abed, lad. His gout is flaring again, and by the bye, have ye no’ seen the clock?” Hugh asked, gesturing lamely at the clock on the mantel.

  Two o’clock in the morning—Dudley would have been abed hours ago. Grif took a chair across from Hugh. “And how was yer evening?” he asked Hugh.

  Hugh laughed. “Full of dreams of a bonny Irish lass, with hair as red as blood and eyes as—”

  “No, no,” Grif groaned. “I canna bear to hear another ode of lament to Keara Brody.”

  Hugh made a sound of displeasure and reached for a cheroot that was languishing in a tray nearby. “What do ye expect, then? What else am I to do, locked away as I am? I’m no’ allowed to gamble, or to soothe me ruffled feathers with a bonny lass. At the very least, ye could regale me with tales of dancing ladies and fine wine and good gaming.”

  If only he could, but unfortunately, Grif brought only two things away from the Valtrain ball: One, that he had reached another dead end on the Amelia trail—and the trail was looking bleaker all the time. And two, that he had never met a more exasperating person than Miss Addison. “I’ll regale ye, I will,” he snorted disgustedly, “with the tale of a bloody wench who knows what we’re about!”

  Hugh took a long draw of his cheroot and casually released the smoke into small circles. “What do ye mean, then?”

  “I mean, Miss Addison—”

  “Yer favorite—”

  “No, no’ me favorite! Her sister! Her endlessly vexing and bloody impudent older sister, the most aggravating female on the face of God’s earth!” Grif exclaimed. “First she asked after Liam—‘Would ye know me friend, Captain Lockhart?’” he mimicked in falsetto voice. “And then, at Whittington House, she asked where she might find Ardencaple—‘Where would ye describe it as being?’ And again, this very evening, after the wench connives to get me into standing up with her, she has the bloody nerve to imply that I might be less than honest and hiding something!”

  “Oh aye, I can see why that would upset ye so, as ye bloody well are hiding something,” Hugh casually observed.

  “Mark me, Hugh, she knows something. I’d swear it on me life! The hell of it is, I canna determine what she might know.”

  Hugh took another draw of his cheroot as he considered it. “Impossible,” he said at last. “She knows nothing, for how could she? Unless she’s been to Scotland. Has she been to Scotland?”

  “How in God’s name should I know if she’s been to Scotland?”

  “Ye stood up with her,” Hugh patiently reminded him as he poured more whiskey into a tot. “Did ye no’ converse with her as a gentleman would?”

  “No,” Grif said petulantly.

  “No?” Hugh echoed incredulously, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “No.” Grif repeated emphatically. “I’d rather gouge at me very eyes than make polite conversation with that devil’s handmaiden,” he muttered. “She likes to see a man squirm, that one.”

  “There’s only one thing to be done for it,” Hugh said gravely.

  Grif looked at him.

  “Do yer squirming on her, lad!”

  Grif glared at him, but Hugh laughed. “All right, then,” he said, still smiling, “why donna ye write yer brother and ask him about the lass? Perhaps he can shed some light, aye?”

  “Aye,” Grif said, nodding. “Aye, that’s what I’ll do, then.”

  Hugh chuckled, picked up an empty tot, and poured Grif a shot of whiskey. “There now, Lockhart!” he said congenially. “Have yerself a spot of good Scottish whiskey before ye collapse into sobs like a wee bairn. How could she know what ye’re about? If she suspected, she’d have all of London on yer head.”

  That much was true. But he’d write to Liam all the same. With a snort, Grif ignored the tot Hugh offered him and reached for the bottle instead. Bottle in hand, he propped his feet up next to Hugh and joined him in staring morosely at the fire …while the memory of that searing kiss continued to frolic at the corner of his mind.

  In Mayfair the next afternoon, Whittington House was once again besieged by admiring young men come to call on Miss Lucy, and Miss Lucy greeted them all with a thinly veiled yawn and the serious study of her manicure.

  As she explained to Anna later that afternoon (who had been commanded by her mother to accompany them on a walkabout of Hyde Park), she found all her callers rather boring all in all, and really, there were only one or two who had sparked any interest.

  “Who?” Anna asked as the three of them strolled along the path.

  “Can’t you at least guess?”

  “How could I possibly guess? I’ve scarcely noticed your suitors, Lucy.”

  Lucy flashed a little smile and linked her arm through Anna’s. “Haven’t you really? All right then, I’ll tell you,” she said as they paused to admire a showy stand of hollyhock. “I’m a bit partial to the Scotsman,” she began, to which Anna rolled her eyes, “and Mr. Bradenton.”

  “Mr. Bradenton?” Anna repeated, a little taken aback. Mr. Bradenton had never called that she could remember, and had not been at any of the popular balls this Season.

  Lucy smiled and nodded dreamily. “He’s really so very handsome, and quite kind.”

  “Pray tell, Lucy… how could you possibly know if he is kind?”

  Lucy shrugged. “I’ve heard tell.”

  “I’ve not met him that I recall,” Mother said as they casually continued on.

  “You can hardly expect to make a match with a gentleman who does not, at the very least, call on you,” Anna reminded her.

  “Really?” she said sweetly. “If that is the case, Anna dearest, how will you ever make a match?”

  “Lucy!” Mother exclaimed. “Be charitable!”

  Lucy smiled and fussed with her parasol; Anna looked heavenward for strength. “There is one more,” Lucy said casually as her parasol opened, almost piercing Anna in the eye.

  “Is there,” Anna said, sighing wearily as Lucy swung her parasol up to block the sun over her and Mother. “Please enlighten us, for we are all aquiver with curiosity.”

  “Oh, Anna, how many times must I tell you that sarcasm does not become you?” Mother chided her.

  Lucy slanted a triumphant look at her. “Mr. Lockhart,” she whispered excitedly.

  The blood rushed to Anna’s neck; she quickly looked away and shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh. Him. And when do you expect he’ll return from Bath?”

  “Good heavens, not Nigel Lockhart! Mr. Drake Lockhart!” Lucy shot her a heated look, but then smiled softly. “Mr. Drake Lockhart. Is he not impossibly handsome?”

  “He is quite handsome, darling,” Mother agreed.

  “I really hadn’t noticed,” Anna lied, and did her level best to keep her expression stoic as she tried to keep down the myriad emotions bubbling to the surface.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Lucy asked in a loud whisper.

  “No,” Anna said decisively.

  “Oh, Anna!” Lucy whined. “Is it so difficult to humor me?”

  “Yes.”

  “My secret is… that Mr. Lockhart rather fancies me, too!” When Anna did not respond, Lucy roughly elbowed her. “I’m quite serious!”

  Anna couldn’t help but look at her—for once, her younger sister looked rather earnest and wide-eyed. “Do you know that he wrote a poem, just for me?”

  Anna’s heart suddenly plummeted.

  “He did! He w
rote a poem, just for me!”

  “Oh, how very romantic,” Mother said dreamily.

  Lucy eagerly nodded her agreement. “He recited it just last evening, in the Valtrain gardens. Would you like to hear it?”

  No, Anna did not want to hear it, she was certain she didn’t, but the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach prevented her from speaking immediately, and before she could utter a word, Mother said, “Of course!”

  The three of them paused on the walkway. Lucy put the tip of the parasol on the ground, stacked her tiny hands atop the handle, and with a smile, lifted her face to the sky and said, “ ‘In the moonlight was her heart thus taken; a chaste kiss, another vow forsaken. And when the sun rose again on her lovely face, there she did lie in love’s sweet embrace.’” She lowered her happy gaze to her mother and sister.

  “I had no idea Mr. Lockhart was a poet!” Mother exclaimed genuinely.

  They turned twin smiles to Anna. But Anna’s heart had stopped beating, and as she could not draw air into her lungs, she gaped at Lucy as she tried to grasp what Lockhart had done. Surely he had not given her poem to Lucy. Surely not.

  “It’s rather provocative, isn’t it?” Lucy whispered excitedly.

  But Anna was still gaping, trying to comprehend how Drake Lockhart could give her poem to Lucy.

  Lucy’s smile faded. She turned a frown to her mother. “Do you see, Mother? She takes the pleasure from everything!”

  Mother frowned at Anna. “Darling, is there nothing you can say to Lucy about her lovely poem?”

  Say? There was plenty she could say, all right, but her mother would be shocked by such vulgar language. “It’s… grand,” she made herself say. And it was a grand poem, especially grand when it had been for her.

  Anna trailed behind her mother and sister, her disappointment mounting, her confusion about Lockhart and men in general steeping inside her. How could he do such a horrid thing? Did he think she and Lucy would not compare notes? When had he done it? When he returned to her with the cider, he’d escorted them both back inside, and had left their side to dance with Miss Netherton. Maybe he had told Lucy of his poem for Anna and she had misunderstood. Oh yes, it had to be something as simple as a misunderstanding on Lucy’s part, for what gentleman would create a poem and read it to two women?