“Yes, in the hallway as I was turning the corner.”
“ ’Tis the twistin’ that’s causin’ it. I know it hurts, me lor’, but ye’ll be glad ye’re workin’ it—ye truly will.”
“I hope so.” Kirk leaned back in his chair and took a generous drink. “By Zeus, that’s good.”
“Jus’ wha’ ye needed. Take another sip, and then tell ol’ MacCreedy aboot Miss Balfour and why ye think she’s avoidin’ ye. Ye canno’ keep a Scot from a spate o’ gossip.”
“Hell, there’s not a person under this roof who hasn’t involved themselves in my business, so why not you, too?” The whiskey was warming Kirk into a better mood with each swallow. “It began two days ago. As you know, I offered to teach Miss Balfour how to kiss more genteelly.”
“And she agreed?”
“Yes, and we had our first encounter.” The memory was so fresh that it almost stole his breath. Aware of the valet’s gaze, he said quietly, “It went well.”
“Tha’ is good.”
“Is it?” He frowned at his glass and took another drink, this one slower as he savored the whiskey. “I think it frightened her.”
“Ah—and now she’ll no’ meet ye at all.”
Kirk stared at the remaining amber liquid. “There’s a bit more to it than that. After the battledore match and everyone started whispering about me, I was angry.”
“Were ye now?”
“Yes, and I hauled her into the salon and demanded to know what she thought she was doing.”
“And other people saw this?”
“Yes.”
The valet winced.
“I know, I know, but I was vexed.”
“So now she willna’ speak to ye.”
“I believe someone else has a hand in it. It dawned on me this evening that Lady Charlotte and the duchess have been involved in keeping Dahlia and myself apart. I don’t believe it’s at Dahlia’s behest.”
“I see.” The valet shook his head. “Women do like to tie a man into knots, me lor’. There’s a maid I’ve been wishin’ to walk oot wit’, and she’s a cheeky lass. She’s no’ made it easy.”
“They never do.”
“Nay.” MacCreedy came to stand at the end of the bed. “If Miss Balfour’s been avoidin’ ye, then dinna ye think tha’ is all the more reason to go down to dinner and read yer poem, like ye promised to? Be visible, as it were, rather tha’ givin’ oop.”
“I’m not giving up. I’m merely looking for a more strategic position.” Kirk finished his drink. Before he’d even swallowed, the valet had scooped it up and refilled it. “You’re good, MacCreedy.”
His valet grinned as he handed the glass back. “I know me way aboot a whiskey bottle, me lor’.” He went to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of neatly pressed breeches and placed them on the bed with the other clothes. “If ye go to dinner and read yer poem, ’twill show Miss Balfour tha’ ye are no’ the sort as ye’ll turn into a hermit jus’ because things are no’ goin’ yer way.”
“She already thinks me a hermit.”
“She can think it all she wants, but if ye dinna go to dinner and read yer poem, then she’ll know it to be true, me lor’.”
He sighed.
“Or,” the valet added with a shrug, “ye can jus’ quit an’ leave it all be.”
“I’m a Kirk. Kirks never quit. I was going to go down after the performance.”
“But ye dinna know if she’ll still be aboot or no’.”
Kark paused. “That’s true.”
“Ye’ve a stout heart, me lor’; I’ve seen it meself. But ye’re missin’ the strategy o’ showin’ yerself to advantage tonight. Ye could win a bit o’ favor, which can only help ye.”
“By reading a poem. What foolery.” Yet the taste of Dahlia’s kiss was still fresh, and he longed for another. “Miss Balfour was very taken when I repeated a few lines of Byron in the library.”
“Mayhap ye could read her a poem fro’ the book ye bought her. ’Tis by Byron, is it no’?”
“Yes.”
“So read her a poem, and make her a gift o’ the book after. Tha’ would be a pretty gesture, and ’twill make the book seem all the more special.”
Kirk supposed there was no harm in trying. Anything was better than merely hoping, and that’s what he’d been reduced to doing. He took another sip of whiskey, its warmth easing the pain in his leg even more.
Perhaps I’ve been going about this all wrong. Perhaps I should prove myself to her, show her that I’m willing to meet her halfway. His gaze found the books he’d had the valet purchase for him and he remembered the smile on Dahlia’s lips when he’d quoted Byron in the library. It might be just the thing.
A scratching noise came from the door, and a low growl followed as a paw appeared under the door, reaching as if in search of a treat.
Kirk’s gaze narrowed. “One of the duchess’s pudgy pugs followed me here.”
“Ye dislike animals, me lor’?”
“Of course not. I just don’t like them in the house. They belong outside, where—”
A low, mournful howl erupted from the hall.
Kirk glared at the closed door.
MacCreedy unsuccessfully hid a smile. “He’s pinin’ fer ye, me lor’.”
“He’s pining for anyone who will give him food.”
Another howl, even more mournful.
“Should I let him in? If he sees we’ve no food, mayhap he’ll wander back oot.”
Kirk muttered a curse, grabbed his cane, went to the door and yanked it open. When the pug saw Kirk, he became a wiggling, happy ball of fur.
“What in the hell are you doing, yowling like that?” Kirk demanded.
The pug plopped his haunches onto the floor and then looked pleased, as if he’d performed a mighty trick.
“I’m not impressed,” Kirk told the mutt.
MacCreedy peered around Kirk. “Tha’ is Randolph, the oldest pug. MacDougal says he canno’ take the stairs on his own now, bein’ too feeble.”
“Or lazy.”
“MacDougal suggested tha’ as weel, me lor’. I’ll ring fer someone to fetch ’im.”
“Don’t bother; it’s not worth their time. I’ll carry him back downstairs when I go.” Kirk eyed the dog. “Don’t get any ideas, mutt. You are only to be allowed into this bedchamber this one time.”
The dog wagged his tail and peered up at Kirk in a way that made MacCreedy snicker.
Kirk snapped his fingers. “Randolph, come!” He turned and went back to his chair and whiskey.
Behind him, he could hear the tap tap tap of Randolph’s nails as the dog waddled after him. MacCreedy shut the door, smiling.
Kirk drank his whiskey as Randolph toured the room, snuffling the rug, the wardrobe, and finally the legs of Kirk’s breeches that hung over the side of the bed.
“Och, dinna muss his lordship’s clothin’.” MacCreedy rescued the breeches, placing them higher on the bed.
Randolph sniffed the place where the breeches had been and then sneezed.
MacCreedy tsked. “Ye’re a right wisty pup, aren’t ye?”
The dog wagged his tail as if to agree. Perhaps it was the generous amount of whiskey MacCreedy had poured, but Kirk found himself smiling at the cheeky dog. “He’s spoiled, but he’s well behaved. Except for the howling, that is.” He nodded toward the clothes on the bed. “I suppose I should get dressed.”
The valet brightened. “Ye’re goin’ to dinner and the entertainment after all, then.”
“I suppose so. You’d make a masterful negotiator, MacCreedy.”
“So Duke Wellington always tol’ me. Do ye know which poem ye wish to read, me lor’?”
“Lud, no.” Kirk rose and began dressing. “Poetry’s nothing but tripe, but if it makes Dahlia smile, I’ll do it.”
“An’ smile whilst ye do it.”
“Don’t ask for too much, MacCreedy. It’s enough that I’m even going.”
Randolph found a spot on the rug th
at seemed to please him, for after sniffing it thoroughly, he dug at it.
“Randolph, stop!” Kirk commanded.
The dog looked abashed, circled three times, and with a monstrous sigh, plopped down.
“Good dog.”
Randolph panted, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
“At least you do what you’re told,” Kirk said to the dog.
“And all he wants is a bone fer his trouble,” MacCreedy said.
Kirk looked at the book of poetry, a thought flickering through his mind. Finally, he nodded. “MacCreedy, help me into this coat and then hand me that blasted book. If I’m to do this, then I’m going to do it right. I’ll pick the shortest poem and memorize the blasted thing. Surely that will make Miss Balfour happy.”
“Tha’ is the spirit, me lor’!”
An hour later, the poem freshly committed to memory, Kirk was on his way to dinner, the book tucked in his coat pocket.
Fourteen
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
Roxburghe is fond of saying, “Never predict your fellow man, for you’ll fail every time.” Until Lord Kirk’s performance tonight, I didn’t understand the true meaning of that phrase. But now . . . oh my.
* * *
When Dahlia entered the Blue Salon she saw Miss MacLeod and Dalhousie sitting at the pianoforte, which had been moved to a prominent spot near the fireplace, rows and rows of chairs lined up before it. Now that dinner was over, the guests were wandering into the salon while Lady Charlotte fluttered here and there, handing out beautifully handwritten programs and trying to herd everyone to their seats.
As Dahlia approached, Anne pointed to the program on top of the pianoforte. “I see you’re playing two songs.”
“What?” Dahlia frowned. “I only offered to do one.”
“That’s quite all right,” Dalhousie said. “Apparently I’m reading”—he squinted at the program—“an edifying sermon.’ ”
Anne giggled. “You! A sermon!”
He sent her a mock-stern look before flashing a grin at Dahlia. “It wouldn’t be acting if it were true to life—right, Miss Balfour?”
Dahlia had to smile back. “Very true.”
“The big surprise is Lord Kirk.” Anne pointed to the final name on the list. “He’s reading a poem.”
“Which one?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“A pity, for I’ve been wondering about that since I heard him tell Lady Charlotte days ago that he’d do so.” Dahlia had to fight to keep the smile on her lips. The last few days had been difficult. After she and Kirk had had their disagreement about the battledore game, Lady Charlotte and the duchess had warned her about allowing Kirk to “set the pace” on the relationship and had opined that perhaps things were progressing “far, far too quickly.”
Dahlia had been embarrassed that they were so closely monitoring her relationship with Kirk, but that wasn’t why she hadn’t protested when the two older women had begun chaperoning her more thoroughly.
She had no fear of Kirk. He was painfully honest, and while he was more than willing to break society’s rules, she knew he would never, ever touch her in a way she didn’t want. The real trouble was that she was beginning to realize how much she did want him to touch her. She didn’t mistrust Kirk; she mistrusted herself.
Anne, who’d been arranging sheet music in a pile to match the program, glanced up at Dahlia. “Do you know both songs you’re to play?”
“I know one of them very well. The other one, well enough that only the musically inclined will know when I’ve made a misstep.”
“You’re fortunate, then, for I heard Miss Dapplemeyer say that she’d never even heard of the song Lady Charlotte put her down for.”
“At least she can plead off,” Dalhousie said. “But those of us who’ve been instructed to read an improving sermon are stuck, for we can’t pretend we’ve forgotten how to read.”
Anne laughed. “Yes, but you—” Her gaze suddenly locked over Dahlia’s shoulder, then she turned back to the sheet music. “Someone is walking this way.”
Kirk! Dahlia held her breath and waited. But as the seconds passed and no shiver warmed her skin and no breathlessness overtook her, she realized it wasn’t him. She was just turning to see whom it might be when Lady Mary’s nasally voice broke into her thoughts.
“Ah, Miss MacLeod and Lord Dalhousie.” There was a slight pause, then Lady Mary said, “And Miss Balfour. I’m looking forward to this evening’s entertainment.”
Dahlia turned to find Lady Mary and Miss Stewart standing behind her. They curtsied as she turned, so she returned the favor. “Good evening.”
They smiled and murmured a return greeting. Since their battledore match Lady Mary had been polite, but no more. So Dahlia was surprised when the taller lady offered a faint but encouraging smile. “Miss Balfour, I wish to speak to you.” She glanced at the others and hesitated, but then continued with a dogged air. “Miss Stewart feels that we owe you and Lord Kirk an apology. After some rather heated conversations, she has won me to her way of thinking.”
Miss Stewart added in a faintly husky tone, “The whole thing grew out of proportion very quickly. We didn’t mean any harm, either of us.”
Dahlia blinked. “I see. I assure you that you don’t need to—”
Lady Mary threw up a hand. “I do and I know it. I’m not very good at saying ‘I’m sorry,’ but allow me to do so now.” Lady Mary’s smile was stiff, but genuine regret shone clearly in her sharp gaze.
Dahlia smiled. “Of course. Allow me to say that I never intended for our little disagreement to become so public, either.”
“Neither did I.” Lady Mary picked up the program from the pianoforte, the candlelight catching the faint bruise that still discolored the bridge of her nose. “I see you are performing on the pianoforte. I look forward to hearing you play.”
“Thank you. I’m looking forward to hearing you sing.”
“I fear you’ll be sadly disappointed. I have no talent, you know. I’m only singing because Alayne—Miss Stewart—had to cancel due to a sore throat, and Lady Charlotte was determined to find a replacement.”
Dalhousie, who’d been idly riffling through the sheet music, drew back a little. “Miss Stewart, if you’re ill, it would be best if you’d confine yourself away from the rest of the duchess’s guests.”
Anne sent Dahlia a mischievous look. “Dalhousie fears illness worse than death.”
Miss Stewart chuckled, her voice noticeably hoarse. “Lord Dalhousie, I promise to stay far, far from you until I’m better.”
“Thank you, Miss Stewart. I, and my valet, who would have had to nurse me back to health, thank you.”
“You are quite welcome.”
“It’s a pity you won’t be singing,” Anne added. “I had the pleasure of hearing you sing at school, and you have a lovely voice.”
Miss Stewart blushed so red that she appeared to have been slapped. “Now I’m glad I’m not singing, for all of this praise would have made it too difficult to—” She coughed. “Excuse me, but—” She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and covered her mouth, coughing heavily the entire time.
Dahlia noted Miss Stewart’s flushed face and wondered if the poor woman had a fever. “Miss Stewart, perhaps you should ask the duchess to call her physician?”
“I’m fine. I shall berate my little brother when I go home, though. He was just beginning to cough and had a touch of fever when I left, and he insisted on a proper good-bye kiss.” She coughed again, too hard to speak.
Lady Mary threaded her arm through her friend’s. “Come, Alayne, let’s get you a glass of orgeat. That will do your throat the most good.” With a nod to the others, she started to lead her friend away when Dahlia stopped them.
“What! Miss Stewart dropped her handkerchief.” She picked it up and pressed it into Miss Stewart’s hand. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thank you, Miss Balfour. That’s very kind
.” With a smile, Miss Stewart went with Lady Mary to the refreshment table, which had just been set up at the other side of the room.
“Poor thing,” Dahlia said. “She was quite flushed.”
“And all of that coughing!” Dalhousie waved a sheet of music in the air as if to blow away Miss Stewart’s illness. “I hope none of us succumbs.”
Anne frowned at him. “You are such a child when it comes to illness.”
“I’m cautious. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Anne turned back to Dahlia. “If Miss Stewart doesn’t feel better soon, then someone must put a word in the duchess’s ear about fetching her physician.”
“I’ll be sure to—”
Lady Charlotte clapped her hands, her lace cap fluttering about her round face. “Come, everyone! Pray sit! Her grace will say a few words about our evening’s entertainment, and then we will begin.”
Everyone wandered toward the chairs. Dalhousie procured seats for Anne and Dahlia, who sat to either side of him. As Dahlia watched the others take their seats, she caught sight of Lord Kirk limping into the room, the last one to arrive.
His gaze swept the crowd and locked on to hers. For a long moment they gazed at each other, but then Lady Hamilton gestured for him to take the empty seat beside her. With obvious reluctance, he pulled his gaze from Dahlia and took the offered seat.
Dahlia pretended to listen to the story Dalhousie was telling Anne, but her attention was several rows back, fixed on Kirk. Was he still angry? She hoped not, but she had to admit that in the days after the match, the other guests had gone out of their way to be more solicitous. Too much so. Each time someone pulled his chair from the table or rushed to pick up something for him, she’d cringed. For a proud man, that attention must be onerous, and she reluctantly admitted it was partly her fault. The battledore match to defend his honor had painted him as incapable in some way. Blast it, I never meant for that to happen.
Lady Charlotte pinged a silver spoon on the side of a wineglass. “Her grace is going to welcome us.”
MacDougal assisted her grace onto the raised hearth. Dressed in an evening gown of blue gauze, the bottom of her skirt finished with a triple band of mustard-colored silk that mirrored the mustard silk tabbed at her waist, she was the picture of fashion and good breeding.