The Husband Hunt (9 page)

He sensed Catriona's eyes on his face and turned unwillingly to stare at her. So, she was inquisitive about love, was she? And he, through no fault of his own, was suddenly expected to satisfy her maiden curiosity. He gave her a smile that warned that he was probably the worst candidate for the job. Because he was actually amused by the situation, because he hadn't figured out how to disentangle himself, he would comply with Olivia's wishes.

But no one had better blame him if the scheme backfired.

It was dark when a small group began to assemble in the ballroom below; the long mullioned windows caught glints of candlelight. Howard, Aubrey, Smythe, and even the estate gardener had been commissioned to form an impromptu band in the gallery above. The ladies of the household were still fussing about upstairs. Olivia had insisted that Catriona change into one of the daringly designed ball gowns that she had worn herself before her bereavement, a diaphanous pale pink creation that framed Cat's willowy curves like the petals on a rosebud. Olivia stared at her in wistful approval; the last time she had worn that gown, she had danced with Lionel, and he had told her she was the most beautiful woman on earth. Oh, to go back to those happier times.

Arabella entered the bedroom while Olivia finished dressing Catriona's hair, a task that proved more daunting than the older woman had expected as the mass of coppery curls resisted every effort to be tamed into a tidy coiffure.

Then, when Catriona was announced presentable—it was, after all, only a rehearsal for the real event—she stood examining herself critically in the mirror.

"I look half-naked. Is there not a warm wool jacket to cover me up? Something essential appears to be missing from this dress."

"You aren't wearing any shoes, for one thing," Olivia said. "I don't suppose you brought any dancing slippers with you from Scotland?"

"I must have left them at home with my tiaras and feathered turbans," Catriona replied, covertly yanking pins from her head while Arabella just as resolutely poked them back into place.

"Here." Olivia's voice was muffled as she made a foray into the depths of her wardrobe. "Wear these."

Catriona stared in chagrin at the dainty leather pumps. "They're far too wee. I'll cramp my toes. You see, I was born flat—"

"One has to suffer for beauty," Arabella said, shoving her down onto a stool.

Catriona endured the other woman's attentions with good grace, studying Arabella's aristocratic features in detail. She could see why the viscount had wanted to marry this creamy-skinned, blue-eyed beauty, but she didn't understand why Arabella had chosen another man in his place. She obviously still desired him, or she wouldn't have made such a fool of herself in the woods.

"I'll make sure the men haven't sneaked off for a brandy," Olivia murmured from the doorway. "Arabella, don't let her leave this room until I call you. She has to learn the meaning of making a dramatic entrance. Social impact is an art."

Arabella glanced up slowly as the door closed. She stepped back to admire the shoes she had forced onto Catriona's feet. "There. They're on. How elegant they look."

"Except that my toes are going to swell up like piggy sausages, and I'll be utterly miserable."

"Well, don't make such a vulgar observation aloud if they do. At least, not to the gentlemen who dance with you." Arabella hesitated a moment, her blue eyes beseeching. "And I do hope you won't say
anything
about the unfortunate incident you witnessed today."

"You mean when you were begging the viscount to touch your lonely breasts?"

The color drained from Arabella's face. "If my husband ever heard that, he'd call Knight out, and Anton would end up dead."

"Why? You're the one who said it. Not his lordship. Seems to me you're the one who should be shot."

Arabella looked as if she might cry. "But you aren't going to tell anyone, are you? Not even Olivia? Oh, please, Catriona. As a favor from one woman to another."

"I can hold my tongue." She paused, tugging a thread from her sleeve. "Why did you marry someone else if you still loved Knight?"

"I don't know if I do love him," Arabella said miserably. "I wanted him to kiss me to see if I still felt the magic. Not that someone of your inexperience would understand, but when a man like Knight kisses you, well, a woman falls to pieces and does anything he asks. It spoils her for anyone else. I didn't want to feel like that forever. I didn't want to be in his power."

"You might have tried your experiment before you wed another," Catriona pointed out, ever practical while at the same time her own natural self-protective instincts were aroused. Until recently, she never would have believed that a man's kiss possessed that much power. But even if what Arabella said was true, how could one hide from a love that all-encompassing?

"I know I was wrong," Arabella said wistfully, "but the trouble was, I was never really certain that Knight
would
marry me. He was always so vague about our future, so detached, and, well, who ever would have thought he'd change?"

"Not me." Catriona shook her head, more puzzled by Arabella's viewpoint than before. "He's been rather a tyrant since the night I met him."

"Promise me," Arabella whispered pleadingly as the door knob turned, giving Catriona's hand a fierce squeeze. "Not a word of this to anyone. I am never going to be caught alone with him again."

The door opened before Catriona could agree; it seemed that everyone was making a fuss over nothing. "They're waiting," Olivia said with a soft giggle of anticipation. "Isn't this exciting?"

"Oh, aye," Catriona said wryly. "I'm completely beside myself."

"Come on, then." Olivia dragged her to the door and into the hall. "Go down the stairs. Slowly. Slowly. No, dear, descend. Don't bounce."

"Float like a cloud," Arabella said, waving her shapely white arms in the air. "Float…"

"Float like a cloud, my foot."
Knight shook his head amusedly from the bottom of the stairs, where he and Wendell had been given orders to wait. "Sink like a bloody stone is more apt," he said, grinning. "Here comes the social disaster of the season."

"I heard that," Catriona exclaimed, suddenly afraid that she must look awkward in a gown designed for an evening of sophistication. The sight of him certainly gave her pause. He had changed into a crisp white linen shirt, a waistcoat, and a black evening coat that showed the breadth of his shoulders. Wicked merriment danced in his eyes and then faded; for a moment, she wondered if she'd imagined the glint of approval as his gaze flickered over her.

The arrogant grin that promptly returned to his handsome features reassured her she had. "Lionel's cousin looks very nice, Olivia," he said, clearing his throat. "Now, if we can teach her not to—"

He stopped in mid-sentence as Wendell rudely elbowed around him. "What the blazes are you doing, duke?"

"Shoving aside the throng that has come to admire the Scottish beauty who is taking the
ton
by storm."

Knight made a show of looking around. "Where is she?"

"Let this young lady meet me," Wendell said, "and know there is no other to win her heart."

Catriona laughed in delight. "No other what?"

"No other idiot," Knight said with a wry grin. "Allow me to introduce the Duke of Idiots."

Wendell put his hand to his heart. "'She walks in beauty like the night—'"

Knight raised his voice. "'—to give us all a dreadful fright.' What instrument of torture did those evil women use on your hair, Catriona? You look as if you've just walked through a windstorm."

She tapped her fan down against her wrist. "Do I have your permission to hit him, Olivia? Just once. One wee slap on the noggin."

Olivia stepped between them, attempting to keep a straight face. "You won't have to. I shall do it myself if he does not behave."

"I haven't seen him act this badly in years," Aunt Marigold said thoughtfully as she was helped into the hall by her faithful manservant Ames. "It makes me wonder."

"Whether he has a brain?" Wendell asked, gallantly taking her other arm.

"Knight, kindly come here," Olivia said, motioning to Catriona.

He sighed. "Yes. Fine. My turn to be tortured next."

Catriona tensed as he took her hand, prepared for his next insult. What she did not expect was the sting of pleasure she felt at his strong forearm supporting her. She could not take a step without acknowledging the sheer power of his masculine presence. No wonder he made fun of her. He could probably snap his elegant fingers and summon any woman he wanted. Hadn't Arabella warned her of his dangerous allure? Hadn't she experienced it firsthand and wished for more? Well, perhaps she should have wished for an antidote.

"You
do
look nice," he said in an undertone as they reached the ballroom floor. "I was only teasing before."

She pressed the back of her free hand to her forehead. "Oh, no."

"What is it?"

"I must be feverish. I thought I heard you giving me a compliment."

He smiled down at her. "Lesson number one, brat. You must accept a compliment as if it were your due."

"Well, perhaps if I had more practice in receiving them, I might be able to take your advice."

He drew his hand from her elbow and stared down at her, his gaze disarmingly serious. "I expect you will be sick of compliments before the year is over."

She waited for his familiar mockery to follow, but it never came. Instead, he gave her a fleeting smile and moved into the brightly lit room, leaving her to stare after his impressive figure and wonder what on earth he could be talking about and why her heart ached so.

*                        *                              *

More aware of her than he dared show, he walked into the ballroom and left her standing at the door. He realized that his behavior seemed rude, but the woman had begun to unsettle him in ways he could not seem to predict or control. One moment, she looked for all the world like a seductive angel; the next, he half expected her to pull out her aunt's dirk and let fly. Or recite Horace. Or cast a spell.

The only thing he could count on was that she would be herself and that, despite himself, he would end up utterly charmed by whatever facet of her character was revealed. Should he have expected less from his best friend's relative? Everyone had loved Lionel. Charm apparently ran in their bloodlines.

Slowly, insidiously, she was changing him. She was altering his perspective, bringing color to the dreary world he had withdrawn from. His rigidity had begun to crumble, and he felt comfortable with her in a way that would have been impossible with anyone else.

He suppressed a chuckle as she walked into the room. Heaven help the man who actually ended up marrying her, and at the thought of some young rogue's hands on her body, clumsily taking her innocence, his mood took an unexpected dive. He couldn't think of a single young buck in the whole of England worthy of touching her, and he had no idea where this sudden protective instinct had come from, unless it derived from a sense of obligation to Lionel and Olivia. Once again, he was astonished at the depth of his attraction to a woman who broke every rule in the book. But then, perhaps he was tired of rules. Perhaps it was time to turn rebel, take a chance, and live as his parents and reckless elder brother had lived, by the heart. From the corner of his eye, he watched her stand alone at the wall.

"You look positively brainsick, Knight," Olivia whispered beside him. "Are you going to dance with her or not? Come here, Catriona. My brother is going to be on his best behavior."

Catriona slowly approached, studying Knight in open skepticism. "Are you certain?"

He couldn't help laughing. "Suspicious creature."

Olivia glanced around the room, gesturing to the small group in the corner. To add to the fun, she had recruited the other household servants to form a set. "Ames—over here, if you please, Dorcas—and you, too, Mrs. Evans. We need four couples to complete the square. We'll start with a cotillion. Howard, when Arabella gives the signal, you are to begin playing."

Knight took Catriona's hand, engulfing her small fingers in his strong grip. "May I have the honor of this dance"—he gave her a teasing smile—"brat?"

She raised her chin. "I'd rather dance with the village idiot."

"Ah." He glanced around. "Wendell, she's asking for you."

Olivia gave them a hearty shove forward. "Watch me and Ames, Catriona. Knight, make sure she ends up on the same spot."

"I'll be lucky if she doesn't end up on the floor," he said, grinning. "She probably has two left feet. Of lead."

Catriona politely attempted to pry her hand from his. He impolitely tightened his hold on her slender fingers, chuckling at her elforts. "Wrestling with your partner is
not
a part of the dance," he said.

"Oooh—you infuriate me, you ham-headed lummox."

He grinned. "Poor relations have to endure so much humiliation."

"Aye, especially from the elderly members of the family." She frowned as he released her hand and leaned down to search for something on the floor. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for my false teeth and spectacles. We elders are always misplacing them."

"Oh, very amusing you are. I think I'd have a more gratifying conversation with an ape."

He straightened, the infuriating grin still in place. "But we're stuck with each other for the time being, and there's nothing we can do about it, is there?"

Arabella gave the signal. Howard paused dramatically before he started to play. Aunt Marigold settled into a fan-backed chair by the fire, prepared to point out every misstep.

"Nothing I can do?" Catriona said, walking him into the wall with a mischievous chuckle. "I can put a hex on your private parts, you scapegrace, for a start. We'll see if you laugh then."

He leaned away from her in mock horror. "I can see it now, the belle of the ball spitting out Scottish curses over a bubbling cauldron. What a sensation that will cause. Olivia, prepare the house for an invasion of admirers. Every eligible bachelor in Europe will flock to our door for his own personal curse."

"That's it," Catriona said. "I've run out of patience, and I am giving you the Evil Eye."

"Oh, no," he gasped, clapping his hands to his cheeks. "Anything but that."

"Yes, that." And she closed her left eye, frowning him into the ground with the other as she did her best to look like a prophetess of doom, which was difficult considering she could hardly keep a straight face. "There. Your fate has been sealed, and I'm not undoing it until you apologize. You realize this is a very serious matter. I'm not even sure myself of the ramifications of such a curse. No one has ever provoked me to this point before."

For an instant, he didn't even move. She watched him, her hand to her mouth, remembering her mother warning her that one must never hex, not in anger or in jest. Goodness, what if she had really hurt him? What a pretty kettle of fish that would be.

He glanced up at the ceiling. "Well, here I stand, prepared for the worst. No thunderbolts so far. Nothing is happening. I feel no strange quivering in my innards."

"Just wait. You're not so powerful as you put on," she said, backing away from him. "Your hair will probably turn green during the night, and your toes will wither up like walnuts."

"Only my toes?" he asked, lifting his eyebrow roguishly at her.

"Just wait," she said again with a devilish chuckle that promptly died as she turned and found herself face-to-face with Olivia.

"Is something wrong, dear?" the woman asked. "I realize the steps of the cotillion seem a bit complicated at first, but it really is the—" Olivia frowned, struck by the obvious irreverence in the air. "Are you teasing her again, Knight?"

"Me? I gave her a compliment." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "She returned the favor by putting a curse on my, ahem, my manhood."

"A curse on your—" Olivia blanched. "Oh, really, Catriona. What am I to do with you?"

Catriona turned away, refusing to acknowledge the naughty grin the silly beast gave her when Olivia wasn't looking.

"I am on my best behavior," he said. "Honestly."

Olivia sighed. "Why is it that I cannot believe you? Perhaps we ought to start with a waltz, just to help her over her awkwardness. We'll leave the cotillion until the proper dancing instructor arrives."

"Not a waltz, Olivia," he said, sobering as he stared at the graceful line of Catriona's back. A voice in the back of his mind warned him that was asking for trouble. "Oh, what the hell. Come, cousin Catriona. Ignore my teasing. I cannot help myself."

Something inside him knew that he had made a fatal mistake the moment he turned her resistant body to his. His hand encircled her narrow waist, drawing her closer, and in an instant he felt a quickening in his heart, all the more lethal because he had forgotten the power of purity. The women in his past had never looked at him with such unguarded emotion.

"Truce?" he asked quietly, guiding her away from the others.

She searched his face. She wanted to dislike him; he made her laugh one second and ache to strangle him the next. She had lived among dangerous men long enough to recognize that he posed a threat to her security, although not perhaps in the manner she expected. She had never encountered his dark sophistication before and had no defenses against it. Why should she be any different from the other women who had found him irresistible?

"You should dance with Arabella," she said, her voice catching. "She's not taken her eye off you all evening."

A smile creased his handsome face. "And what a boring, predictable eye she has. Not capable of anything nearly as exciting as a hex on my nether regions."

"She must have been capable of having some effect if you'd planned to marry her," she retorted.

"That seems like a very long time ago," he said.

"Aye, was it?"

"Ancient history."

"Perhaps not to her."

He smiled, his fingers closing around hers with gentle strength that took her off balance. "You know a secret about me. Now I must know another one of yours."

Her heart missed a beat at the intimacy of his smile. Suddenly, she found it hard to catch her breath; it was too tempting to trust him. "Do I look like someone who has secrets, my lord?"

"Everyone has secrets." His deep voice sent a shiver down to her toes. "Tell me yours. So we may be equals, if not friends."

She twisted to put distance between them, her attraction to him alarming. His arm held her in an iron band, drawing her nearer. "And you may use it against me," she said, smiling up at him uncertainly.

"But then perhaps we would be forced to trust each other."

She felt an undefinable emotion, an ache, in the area of her heart. "I think you should stop leaning down to whisper in my ear. Everyone is looking."

"No wonder." He drew her nearer to him. "You are something to look at."

She stumbled a step, her pulse quickening. He paused and glanced down at the floor. "Good God," he exclaimed, "where are your shoes now?"

"I slipped them off for a moment. Your paramour practically forced my feet into them, and they were crushing my wee toes to death."

He halted in his tracks. "She is not my paramour. Stop saying that, or I—I shall be forced to spank you."

"During a waltz?"

"I daresay it can be done," he said gravely, his eyes twinkling. "In your case, it should probably be performed on a regular basis."

She started to laugh. "And you expect me to keep your secret when you say things like that?"

He whirled her toward the corner. "Lower your voice, Miss Grant. Aunt Marigold is all ears."

"The woman loves to gossip."

"I could give her something to talk about," he said thoughtfully.

Catriona gazed up at him, not certain she should trust the boyish smile that lit his sardonic features. "Such as?"

"Such as giving my partner a passionate kiss in the middle of the dance floor."