Lucy Muir (3 page)

Another man might have enjoyed such notoriety, Lord Murray mused, but he preferred a quiet life and found the prospect of unlimited adulation daunting. Still, he could not embarrass his host by leaving, any more than he could shirk his responsibilities and return to Perthshire unbetrothed. His aunt was getting too old to supervise the running of a large Scottish castle, and he had no younger close single female relatives to take over the reins.

Besides, his people expected him to have a wife to attend to her share of the many duties entailed in running a Highland estate, and were becoming impatient with his tardiness in fulfilling his obligations to his name. Only this last week his housekeeper had taken him to task about it. True, his butler had defended his laird’s single state, but only because of his long-standing rivalry with the housekeeper. Lord Murray had seen the reproachful look in Balneaves’s eyes that told him the butler felt his lord was forcing his faithful servant to defend the indefensible.

Lord Murray took another sip of the fine claret and silently thanked his host. Lord Atwood had been most congenial, as had Lady Atwood and their two children. He had not known, however, when he accepted the baron’s offer of accommodation, that his host had had a single daughter of marriageable age. He most likely would not have accepted Lord Atwood’s hospitality if he had known, given his stated purpose in coming to London. It could lead to complications, should Miss Atwood conceive a partiality for him that he did not return.

Yet Miss Atwood might well be a possibility in his search for a bride, Lord Murray admitted to himself. She had the proper background and breeding, and she was very beautiful—tall, with sleek dark brown hair, a fine figure and clear blue eyes. She would not look amiss in his castle by the loch. He shook his head to clear it of his fantasies and placed his empty glass on a side table. It was time to join his hosts.

* * * *

As the guests began arriving, Lord Murray knew that he would indeed have many women to choose from as unmarried girl after unmarried girl was presented to him. They all regarded him with apparent admiration, some shyly, some boldly, and some, from their deep breaths and fade-away looks, seemingly ready to swoon. He did, however, notice a few looks of disappointment as they surveyed his clothing. A wry smile touched his lips as he realized they probably expected him to be clad in full traditional Highland attire.

For his part, he found that while many of the young women were attractive, none particularly stood out as anyone he wished to know better. And as time passed, the sheer number of women presented to him caused them to blur together. He was beginning to wonder how he would ever be able to make a choice of a bride when he could not even distinguish the ladies one from another, when his eye was caught by two girls standing together in the receiving line. They were of the same height and build, and dressed similarly, but of strikingly different colouring, one of them having red hair, and the other black. Sisters, perhaps?

A Mr. and Mrs. Hartwell were presented to him, and then the first of the two girls stood before him.

‘‘Lord Murray, may I present Miss Hartwell? Miss Hartwell, Lord Murray, Earl of Abermaise,” his host said formally.

Miss Hartwell curtsied, and Lord Murray surveyed her with pleasure. Tousled red curls framed a very appealing face across which a few charming freckles were scattered, and a pair of frank hazel eyes returned his scrutiny unabashed.

“Miss Hartwell, I am indeed delighted,” Lord Murray said sincerely. “I hope you will save me a dance this evening?”

“I shall be pleased to do so,” she replied simply as she passed on, and Lord Murray found himself facing the second girl.

“Lord Murray, I should like to present Miss Laurence.”

Not sisters with the different surnames, Lord Murray thought as the forms of introduction continued automatically. Yet there must be some connexion, for it was obvious the girls had intentionally dressed alike. Miss Laurence’s gown was of the exact style as Miss Hartwell’s, high-waisted with short puffed sleeves and a band of floral embroidery about the hem. It differed only in colour, Miss Hartwell’s being ivory, and Miss Laurence’s a pale green. They carried identical fans, matching slippers peeped beneath their gowns, and the very ribbons in their short curls were set in the same place.

Lord Murray surveyed Miss Laurence’s beauty appreciatively as she dipped into a graceful curtsy. She had most unusual colouring, with black hair and green eyes. In the green gown she looked like a sea nymph, he thought fancifully. As she arose from her curtsy, Miss Laurence fluttered long black eyelashes over her intriguing eyes, and her red lips formed an inviting smile. The minx is flirting with me, he thought, and returning the smile, he asked her to save a dance for him, as well.

* * * *

“What did you think of Lord Murray?” Celeste whispered to Phoebe behind her fan as they passed into the ballroom, following closely behind Mrs. Hartwell as she searched for chairs for the three of them in the crowded room. Mr. Hartwell had already vanished into the card room.

“He is not precisely well-looking,” Phoebe said judiciously, “he is too dark and rugged, but his eyes appeared kind.”

“I think he is the spirit of the Highlands come to London,” Celeste proclaimed. “He looks so strong  and brave.”

Phoebe laughed. “That is as good a fancy as any, since he cannot be Malcolm Graeme ‘of flaxen hair and bonnet blue.’ ”

“He could be Rhoderik Dhu,” Celeste argued, determined to see Lord Murray as a piece of Mr. Scott’s romance come to life.

Mrs. Hartwell found three chairs together in an acceptable location, and the girl’s speculations about Lord Murray ended for the moment as they settled into their places and surveyed the company with interest. The cream of London Society was in attendance. Phoebe and Celeste did not recognize many of the guests, for they did not often mix in such august company, but they could easily identify their rank and status by their rich clothing and many jewels.

Not long after the friends sat down, the musicians began to play the first dance, and they waited hopefully to be asked to join the couples on the floor.

“Here comes your first partner,” Phoebe said to Celeste as she spied Mr. Arnold slowly making his way to them across the crowded floor. Celeste expressed her feelings by rolling her eyes, the action earning her a sharp rap on her knees from Mrs. Hartwell’s fan.

“Mind your manners, miss,” Mrs. Hartwell admonished in low tones, and Celeste subsided. When Mr. Arnold requested her hand for the dance Celeste accepted quite prettily, thinking that Mr. Arnold was handsome and a graceful dancer, even if he had no conversation.

Phoebe sat the first dance out, a circumstance that did not trouble her unduly. It had happened to her not infrequently over the four seasons she had been out, particularly at entertainments in the homes of the higher ton. A plain girl of the gentry with no fortune, and worst of all, red hair and freckles, was rarely the first choice of a gentleman seeking a partner. She watched the other dancers with interest, noting that all the women seemed aware of Lord Murray’s every move. Their eyes followed him constantly and they looked at Olivia with envy, for Lord Murray had opened the dancing politely, if not entirely correctly, with his host’s daughter. Phoebe had to admit she felt a pang of envy herself. Lord Murray was indeed a fine-looking gentleman, she thought, remembering his kind eyes when he had requested she save him a dance. She wondered if he would claim it.

The first dance concluded, and Mr. Arnold returned Celeste to Mrs. Hartwell, politely requesting Phoebe’s hand for the next set. Celeste was asked to stand up with an impoverished young viscount, and as the evening progressed neither of the friends lacked for partners.

* * * *

Lord Murray found himself in great demand that evening, as his host had predicted. He danced with Miss Atwood first, and then several titled women, one of them an exceptionally beautiful woman of fair hair and stately presence. However, he did not forget his promise to dance with the young look-alikes, and directly after supper made a determined effort to find the two and fulfill his obligation. The room was excessively crowded, and his task was made more difficult by the many guests who impeded his progress by stopping him to speak, but he finally spied the bright red hair of Miss Hartwell and made his way to her side. He bowed to Mrs. Hartwell and claimed his dance with her daughter. Miss Hartwell smiled pleasantly at him as she gave him her hand, and he found her wholesome good looks held a particular appeal after the many bejewelled and silk-clad ladies with whom he had previously danced.

They joined the lively gavotte in progress, and Lord Murray found Miss Hartwell to be an uncommonly graceful dancer who did not have to concentrate upon the steps and could therefore converse easily as she danced.

“When I first saw you, I thought you and Miss Laurence might be sisters,” Lord Murray essayed, “but when you were introduced and I heard the different surnames I knew I was mistaken. Are you perchance cousins?”

“No,” Miss Hartwell laughed, her pretty hazel eyes dancing, “only friends, although we might as well be sisters. We have lived next to each other all our lives, and are rarely out of each other’s company.”

A lady bumped into Miss Hartwell on the crowded floor as she failed to take notice of her steps for staring at the Scotsman.

“How do you like finding yourself the Lion of London, Lord Murray?” Miss Hartwell teased, noting the cause of the lady’s preoccupation. “You could not have timed your visit to London better, what with the recent publication of
Lady of the Lake.”

“Do you also share in the benefits?” he teased in return. “You look like a Scottish lass yourself, with your red hair.”

“No, I fear London’s admiration of things Scottish does not yet extend to red hair. I have been informed a good many times that my hair is ‘a most unfortunate colour,’ ” his partner replied in a mock mournful tone. “Still, I have hope that may change. Perhaps you might inform the guests that red is a good Scottish hue?” she asked, looking at him hopefully. “Should you so inform them, they must believe it.”

“I shall be happy to oblige,” Lord Murray responded gallantly, realizing he had inadvertently touched on what must be a sore subject to Miss Hartwell. He approved of the way she made light of her distress.

When he returned Miss Hartwell to her mother at the end of the gavotte, Lord Murray claimed his dance with Miss Laurence, who had been returned to Mrs. Hartwell’s side by her previous partner. Miss Laurence, too, turned out to be an accomplished dancer, and Lord Murray had a sudden charming picture in his mind of the friends practicing their dancing together under the watchful eye of their dancing master.

“I commented to Miss Hartwell that when I first saw you I thought you might be sisters, what with your matching attire.”

“Then our ploy worked,” Miss Laurence surprised him by responding.

“You mean to imply you dressed as you did to attract my attention?” Lord Murray asked, amusement replacing his initial surprise at such plain speaking from a young miss.

“Of course we did,” Miss Laurence confessed candidly. “No doubt you think me shockingly forward to admit it, but I am only being honest. Surely you must realize that every lady present here tonight dressed with the same intention?”

“Every lady?” Lord Murray queried, finding Miss Laurence’s calculated boldness diverting.

“Perhaps not quite
every
lady,” she conceded, glancing at the chaperons along the wall.

The figures of the dance separated them, preventing further conversation, but Lord Murray knew that he was going to place both Miss Laurence and Miss Hartwell high on his list of eligible young ladies. Their refreshing lack of artifice reminded him of some of the forthright maidens of his own country.

After he returned Miss Laurence to her chaperon, Lord Murray sought out Miss Atwood, feeling he should claim one more dance with her that evening out of respect for his hosts. Not that it would be a hardship, he acknowledged, looking appreciatively at Miss Atwood’s generous figure, enticingly revealed in a clinging gown of peach sarcenet.

“It was kind of you to take notice of Miss Hartwell and Miss Laurence,” Miss Atwood commented as Lord Murray led her onto the floor. “They are so often ignored by those of superior birth, since Miss Hartwell’s father is a barrister and it is rumoured Mr. Laurence is engaged in Trade. Your attentions will ensure they have a memorable evening.”

Lord Murray looked sharply at his partner, imagining for a moment he heard a waspish tone in her voice, but her face revealed nothing but concern.

“I am surprised London gentleman are so shortsighted,” he commented mildly. “I found them both quite charming. You are well acquainted with Miss Hartwell and Miss Laurence?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, yes, they are quite close friends of mine. I try to include them in the entertainments we hold because their low standing prevents their being invited to many of the ton’s functions. But even my offices cannot get them admitted to some places, such as Almack’s,” she elaborated. “Poor Miss Hartwell, this is her fourth Season, and she has yet to receive an offer,” Olivia finished, feeling she had sufficiently demonstrated to Lord Murray how unsuitable both ladies were.

So, this was Miss Hartwell’s fourth Season, Lord Murray thought as he and Miss Atwood danced. Miss Hartwell was older than he had surmised, for he had assumed her to be of an age with Miss Laurence, who could not possibly have seen more than eighteen summers. Additional years were not necessarily a disadvantage, however. He turned his attention back to his partner, deciding that he was glad Miss Atwood was friends with Miss Hartwell and Miss Laurence, for it would make it easier to pursue their acquaintance.

* * * *

Seated in her chair by the wall, Phoebe watched speculatively as Lord Murray took the floor with Olivia for a second time that evening. They did make a handsome couple, both tall and dark. Olivia was the only lady Lord Murray had honoured with a second dance, and Phoebe wondered if the distinction had any significance. Although, she reasoned, good manners dictated that Lord Murray pay special attention to his host’s daughter. Yet she must not allow her dislike of Olivia to blind her to the fact that Olivia was very beautiful. Lord Murray might very well have asked his host’s daughter to dance a second time because he had found her particularly attractive. Perhaps she and Celeste had not caught his interest after all.