Rogue of the Isles (6 page)

Mari picked up her reticule and stood, smoothing the soft lines of the gown. “I was a little surprised that she had specifically issued an invitation to Jamie too.”

“Why would she not? He is the Earl of Cantford’s brother, after all.”

“Well, I hope he behaves himself and does not hover over me the entire night.”

Maddie smiled. “I suspect when the other girls see him, it will not be a problem. You will probably have to fight through the crush just to get near him.”

“I hope that happens. My plan for this Season is to find at least one debutante who will distract him enough to leave me alone. I will never find a beau—let alone a husband—if Jamie lurks behind me with a scowl on his face.

“Are you sure that is what you want?”

“Of course it is. Actually, it will be rather amusing to see those ninnyhammers, Violetta and Amelia, bat their eyelashes at him. Jamie is far too much of a rake to fall into the parson’s trap.”

Maddie gave her a strange look. “I do not think he is a rake at all.”

Mari laughed and hugged her friend. “He has not tormented you on a daily basis. The man is insufferably arrogant, so do not go falling for those good looks of his.”

She strode into the hall, not seeing the thoughtful expression on Maddie’s face.

Guests crowded every room of Lord Tindale’s upper floor when Mari and Maddie arrived with Aunt Agnes and Jamie in tow. The debutantes were a swirl of pastel colors while the matrons wore darker hues of burgundy, navy and grey. The gentlemen contrasted nicely in black superfine topcoats, snowy cravats and colorful waistcoats. Mari nearly clapped her hands in excitement at the swirl of activity.

The din of noise diminished as the butler announced them. An actual hush fell as Jamie stepped forward. He wore black trousers and topcoat, but the cravat and waistcoat had been replaced by a linen shirt and the MacLeod sash crossing his chest.

Mari held her breath. They’d had quite a row over what Jamie was to wear. He’d wanted to wear his kilt—Mari could just imagine the matrons swooning at exposed calves—and very muscular ones at that. She had finally convinced him it would be better to accept more conventional dress, but Jamie adamantly refused to wear a cravat—a cloth he referred to as a neck-strangler—and been equally stubborn about the sash.

Would the
ton
accept him?

Apparently, Society would if the interested looks of the mamas were any clue, although Mari noticed most of those gazes were centered on Jamie’s bare, bronzed neck and the top of his collarbones where the shirt’s top button was open. The younger girls edged toward him, slipping away from their spellbound chaperones.

“I told you,” Maddie whispered as a group of giggling girls invaded the space around Jamie. Mari found herself crowded out and practically pushed aside.

“Do let’s find the punch,” Maddie said, grasping her arm.

Mari let herself be led across the room, looking back once to find Jamie engaged in conversation with Violetta and Amelia. Both of them were fluttering their fans so quickly, Mari was surprised they did not squelch the candle flames on nearby tables. Jamie was grinning at whatever those two were saying. Good heavens. Could he actually be interested in those little gossips?

Well, wasn’t this what she wanted? Mari tossed her head slightly so her curls would float gently about her face and smiled at the young man near the punch bowl. He gave her a slight bow and moved away. Someone called Maddie’s name, and she excused herself.

Mari helped herself to punch and stood to the side, surveying the room. Yancy Newell and Nevin Faulkner were not far away, but both of them were glowering in Jamie’s general direction. Probably not surprising, since Yancy had escorted Amelia to some daytime events last spring and Nevin had done the same with Violetta.

“Excuse me.”

Mari turned to find Abigail Townsend, the Earl of Sherrington’s daughter, standing beside her. The girl was several years older and seemed resigned to spinsterhood with the drab-colored gowns she wore and her brown hair pulled severely back, but she had always been friendly if a little shy.

“Isn’t this
soiree
the perfect start for the Little Season?” Mari asked.

Abigail pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose and surveyed the room with a serious expression. “I suppose,” she said without much conviction. “I do not care for crowds, but Papa makes me attend.”

How could anyone not enjoy all this activity? Mari wanted to open her arms wide and embrace the noise, hustle and bustle. Parties were the very heart of Society. “But you must be interested in who is available for the Marriage Mart?”

Abigail shrugged. “I am a bit long in the tooth. I doubt a man would be interested in me.”

Mari was shocked at her candor. Abigail might be close to being put on the shelf, but did she believe the stories of her mother’s numerous liaisons—before she mysteriously died—would be laid on her daughter’s head?

“Do not be a ninnyhammer, Abigail. I am sure any number of bachelors would be glad to marry you.” Perhaps Maddie and she could help Abigail pick somewhat more fashionable clothes and arrange her hair more attractively. She was not truly unattractive. She just looked like a bluestocking.

“You are kind,” Abigail said and then noticed her father waving at her. “Excuse me. I must see what Papa wants.”

“Certainly.”

Several of the girls who had initially surrounded Jamie approached the punch table, apparently having given up temporary hope of besting either Amelia or Violetta. Mari greeted them warmly only to receive polite responses from two or three while the rest said nothing at all. All of them moved off once they’d filled their cups and soon mingled with the other eligible gentlemen.

No one else approached her, although Lady Tindale did stop to inquire if she were having a good time. She stammered that she was, thanking her for the invitation.

Mari slowly made her way through the throngs in search of Maddie. The matrons to whom she said hello only politely nodded. She spotted Maddie then but stopped abruptly since her friend was talking to Jamie. Mari noted the poutish looks on the other two girls’ faces. Maddie was no doubt rescuing Jamie from them.

Mari turned back to the crush of people. The glamorous glitter of the evening had worn off. She had expected to be gaily laughing and flirting with several—or at least one—young man, but no one seemed to notice her. The debutantes looked away as Mari passed by. A matron actually turned her back as Mari neared the French doors leading to the veranda.

She suddenly felt as though she had swallowed a lead brick. Embarrassment flooded through her as her stomach twisted and nausea hit her. She stepped quickly through the door, gulping as the cool night air embraced her flaming face.

How could she have been so stupid?

She was being given the cut direct. And it hurt.

Chapter Five

Jamie pushed his plate of half-eaten eggs and ham away. Normally he had a healthy appetite, but something was not right. He’d encountered Mrs. Stokely as he came into the breakfast room, but she told him she had business to attend and that Mari had a terrible headache and would be resting in her room for most of the day.

He didn’t think Mari was the type to succumb to lying abed, even if she did have a headache. Something must have happened last night. He wished he knew what it was. By the time he was able to get away from those blethering silly girls—thank Christ Miss Winslow had intervened—Mari was nowhere to be found. Neither was her aunt. When he’d asked Lady Tindale, she told him Mari had suddenly felt ill and called for their carriage to take her home.

Jamie had walked the few blocks back rather than wait for the carriage to return, but when he got to the townhouse, Givens told him Mari and her aunt had already retired.

What possibly could have happened?

The question still troubled him when he returned from Gentleman Jack’s pugilism school shortly after noon. Not that Jamie needed to be taught to fight. Every Highland lad learned to use his fists before he lost his baby teeth. For truth, that was how many lads
did
lose their small teeth. It made a man feel good to go a few rounds. It kept him from getting soft. For some reason, two of the men who’d eyed him sourly last night were particularly eager to square off with him this morning. He just hoped he hadn’t left either of them with a concussion.

Dobbs appeared in the foyer as Givens took his coat, even though Jamie was perfectly capable of putting his coat on the rack himself. Mari had explained it was insulting not to allow the butler to do his job.
How
it was an insult Jamie didn’t understand, but then many English rules made no sense.

“Will you be taking lunch, sir?” Dobbs asked. “It will be just you so I can set a place in the breakfast room or the dining hall.”

“Are Miss Barclay and Mrs. Stokely not home?” By the Saints. If the lass had left the house again—

“Mrs. Stokely has not returned, and Miss Barclay is still abed.”

“Still? What ails the lass?”

“I do not know, sir.”

Jamie started to scowl at him and then thought better of it. The man probably didn’t have an idea. “Send Mrs. Fields up with bowls of soup and bread for two,” Jamie said as he started toward the stairs.

Dobbs’s eyes widened. “You…you
cannot
go up there.”

“I am going to find out what is wrong.”

“But…but…” The footman shrank back as Jamie glared at him. “It…it is not proper, sir.”

To hell with what was proper. The English had far too many rules. If the lass needed a physician, he would send for one. Otherwise, Mari was going to tell him what was wrong.

He took the steps two at a time and knocked on her door. No one answered. He knocked again. “’Tis Jamie. Open the door.”

“Go away.”

“I willna.” He put his hand to the knob, half expecting it to be locked, but the door opened easily.

Jamie stopped just inside the door. Mari’s bedchamber was not as he had pictured it—although he probably should not have been
picturing
it at all. A dressing table with a gilded mirror graced one wall, but with a practical, straight-backed chair in front of it. The wardrobe and chest of drawers were of oak, the golden sheen of the wood reflecting the muted honey tone of the scroll-design wallpaper and the darker velvet russet of the drapes and coverlet on the bed—a bed definitely big enough for two, he could not help but notice.

Mari sat on the cushioned alcove window seat, knees to her chin, her wrapper covering the night rail she still wore. She didn’t turn around from staring down at the small courtyard.

“Do you not understand English?”

“Aye, lass, I do.” Jamie strode over to her, leaving the door open for propriety’s sake. He reached down and put his hand under her chin. She resisted, but he managed to turn her face to him. Her eyes were swollen from weeping, and her face had splotches of red—although he didn’t know if that was from anger or crying. Nudging her feet closer to the window, he sat down beside her. “What is it, lass? What happened?”

Mari sniffled, tears brimming in her eyes again. Jamie handed her the square of linen he still had tucked in his breeches from the bouts earlier. It wasn’t exactly a handkerchief, but it was all he had at the moment. She dabbed her nose and drew a shaky breath.

“I was cut last night. It was excruciatingly painful.”

“You were stabbed?” Jamie took her arms, pushing the sleeves up, looking for a wound. Her arms were soft, white and without blemish. “Did the cur cut your legs? I swear I will pummel the mon within an inch of his miserable life—”

“No, no. Not
cut
with a knife.” Mari hiccupped. “
Cut
. No one would speak to me.”

Jamie dropped his hands as Mrs. Fields appeared in the doorway. She frowned at him. She set the soup and bread on the small table near the window seat and then returned to the door where she stood and folded her arms.

“Thank ye,” Jamie said. “Ye may go now.”

Mrs. Fields planted her feet more firmly. “I’ll not be having my head removed by Mrs. Stokely when she finds out you came to Miss Barclay’s bedroom—and her in her night rail at that. You had best eat before the soup gets cold.”

More rules. Could the woman not see there was nothing unseemly happening? He was not a brute to take advantage of a lass who was nae feeling well.

“I am not hungry,” Mari said, using the linen to dab at her nose again.

“Ye must keep up yer strength. Ye will eat, lass. Come.”

“I do not want to.”

Jamie raised a brow. “Do ye wish for me to pick ye up again and carry ye to the table?”

Mari knit her brows. For a moment, he thought maybe she would be stubborn enough to have him do just that—not that he’d mind—but she lifted her chin and moved to the table of her own accord and sat down, folding her hands in her lap.

“Now eat.”

Her frown deepened. “No.”

With a sigh, Jamie pulled his chair close to hers. Picking up her spoon, he dipped it in the bowl and held it to her lips. “Eat.”

Mari clamped her mouth shut.

“Lass, I can force ye to open.”