His gaze locked with hers and for a moment she thought he might admit his true feelings, but then he muttered something about needing to soak his aching leg, bowed, and limped from the room.
As the door closed behind him, Charlotte blew out her breath in a huge whoosh. “Goodness! That didn’t go the way we’d wished.”
“No. He was very bad for not telling us all. What a horrid history!”
“They have much to overcome.”
“Yes, they do. Both of them, I think.”
Charlotte dropped into a chair. “Do you really think there’s hope?”
“Yes. I would never waste our time.”
“I thought perhaps you were just saying that to be kind.”
“There were some positive moments.”
“There were?” Charlotte blinked. “When?”
“Miss Balfour had quite a positive reaction on seeing Kirk’s transformation. She stared at him as if fascinated.” Margaret picked up Randolph and took the chair next to Charlotte’s. “I think our Beauty is more taken with our Beast than she realizes.”
Charlotte nodded thoughtfully.
“Now we need to provide her with more reasons to be so.” Margaret patted Randolph absently. “What would a young lady in love with love wish to see in a suitor? Hmm . . .” After a long moment, she stiffened. “That might work . . . yes. It just might.”
“Oh, Margaret, I quite love it when you get that look in your eyes! What do you have planned?”
Margaret smiled, and for the next half hour, they plotted. And when they were done, they were both beaming with hope.
Four
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
I did not place Miss Balfour near Lord Kirk at dinner last night. After the scene Charlotte and I witnessed, it would be an error to allow Dahlia to think for a second that I was promoting Kirk as a potential match. Yet.
If there is one thing I know about the Balfour women, it’s that they possess pride and stubbornness in abundance, and must make up their own minds about whom they wish to pursue and be pursued by. That can make assisting them quite difficult. Still, I’ve never before allowed personal preference, mistaken as it can sometimes be, to get in the way of a good match and I shall not do so now.
Of course, last night was not without some glimmer of hope. Several times I caught Dahlia glancing toward Lord Kirk, and even though it was only to deliver the most burning of looks, it was good that she looked at him at all.
Still, we must change this. Over the course of her stay, we must find ways to remind her of the things she has in common with Lord Kirk. Meanwhile, he must show her that in order to please her, he is willing to leave his least desirable traits behind. If a man or a woman loves another—and I believe Kirk is in love with Miss Balfour, though he has not yet admitted such—he must be willing to improve.
We all must do so for those we love.
Bringing these two stubborn souls together will be a daunting task, and yet the match will be all the more worthwhile because of the difficulty—nay, the impossibility of it.
* * *
“Yer waistcoat, me lor’.” MacCreedy placed the garment upon the bed.
Kirk turned from the mirror where he’d just finished tying his cravat, yet another skill the valet had taught him. “Hand me a waistcoat, please. I’m— Oh. Not that one. Find another, please.”
“Me lor’?”
“It’s red satin.”
MacCreedy’s lips twitched. “Och now, can ye no’ wear satin, me lor’?”
Kirk lifted his brows in disbelief. “Do I appear to be the type of man who would wear satin?”
“I’ll no’ be answerin’ tha’, me lor’.” The valet chuckled. “ ’Tis satin, but ’tis the fashion fer all tha’.”
“Which I’m constrained to follow.” Kirk couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. Last night’s dinner had been an unmitigated failure. Reluctantly taking the duchess’s advice, he’d given Dahlia a wide berth, though he’d wished for just a few moments to speak to her. But judging from her icy glares, the time wasn’t right.
This morning, after a restless night during which he’d assigned the duchess’s advice to hell, he’d gone in search of Dahlia before breakfast, determined to have a much-needed conversation, but she was nowhere to be found. Later, he learned she’d left with her grace and Lady Charlotte to run errands in town. That had left him to mingle with the other guests, who treated him much as they had last night, with a mixture of awkward glances or morbid stares.
He ran his thumb along his scar, wondering if he’d have to put up with such looks for the entire three weeks.
“Is yer scar hurtin’ ye, me lor’?”
“No. I was just wondering how long it would take her grace’s guests to stop staring at it.”
“Och, ’tis rude o’ them.”
He shrugged. “It’s easier to get used to rude guests than to deal with this damnable neckcloth. It seems that since I’ve been buried in the countryside, fashion has taken a decidedly French turn. That is not a compliment.”
MacCreedy chuckled. “Fer all ye’re complainin’, fashion has no’ changed so much fer gentlemen. Is it possible tha’ ye’ve ne’er been one to dress, e’en afore ye buried ye’self in the country?”
“Perhaps. My first wife frequently lamented I possessed no fashion sense worth mentioning.”
“Tha’ explains it, then. Ye’ve been rejectin’ dressin’ to yer station since th’ cradle. I canno’ say tha’ I’m surprised, fer ye seem verrah set in yer ways, ye do.” MacCreedy gave the waistcoat a fond look. “This is verrah much in style, me lor’, which is probably why ye instinctively dislike it so.”
Kirk grinned. “I’ve good instincts, have I?”
Humor warmed the valet’s craggy face. “I’ve ne’er seen anyone wit’ a better aptitude fer recognizin’ wha’ is in style, me lor’. The problem is tha’ after ye recognize it, ye instantly decide to hate it.”
“At least I’m consistent.” Over the last two months, Kirk had grown to appreciate MacCreedy’s expert assistance. In Edinburgh Kirk had relearned the ways of the polite world, all the things he’d forgotten and many things he’d never known. He now realized that the death of his parents, especially his mother, when he was quite young had deprived him of a certain polish, something he’d never missed until now. He’d never been taught—or over the years had forgotten—basic things such as how to bow with grace, how to greet various members of the nobility, which were appropriate topics of conversation and which were not, and a variety of other foppish duties that no one in their right mind would wish to know.
He’d been quite happy not knowing those things until he’d met Dahlia Balfour, and there were times when he’d questioned his sanity in undertaking this mad quest. And all for a woman who wishes me to the devil. A single, slender, fragile strand of hope that somehow, some way, Dahlia Balfour might come to see him as something other than the man who tried to ruin her family pulled him inexorably to this course.
She’d damned well better appreciate my efforts. He left his cane beside the dresser and limped to the bed. “MacCreedy, please find a waistcoat that won’t make me look like a fop.”
MacCreedy wisely didn’t argue, but returned to the wardrobe.
Kirk leaned against the bedpost to take the weight off his aching leg. If he were home right now, he’d be sitting in his study reading the latest book on the Egyptian explorations, his newest interest. Either that or he might be trying his hand at the new Beethoven sheet music he’d ordered from London last month. That was one thing he had gotten from his mother, a deep love of music. She used to play beautiful pieces for hours, with a talent he’d never possess.
The thought of the waiting sheet music made him wish he was home right now, where every night Mrs. MacAllis cooked him one of his favorite meals, and his butler made certain that the fire in his study was just so. Instead, here he was, dressed in these damned uncomfortable clothes, hoping that Da
hlia would come to her senses and realize they were uniquely matched.
For they were more compatible in thought and action than any other two people Kirk knew. He suspected that Dahlia, young and romantic, didn’t realize how important or rare that was. Even if the duchess introduced Dahlia to every eligible bachelor in the kingdom, she’d find no man as well suited to her as he.
That’s why he was so determined to win this battle, silly as it was, concerned with satin waistcoats and how deeply one bowed to a duke as opposed to a viscount. But if it took a battle of society to win her hand, then so be it. She is worth it. More than worth it.
“I had yer coat pressed.” MacCreedy’s voice broke into Kirk’s thoughts.
“Thank you.”
“Och, ’twas fer me own benefit.” MacCreedy withdrew a perfectly pressed coat from the wardrobe and placed it on the bed. “A well-turned-out gentleman speaks jus’ as much to his valet’s credit as his own.”
“I’m glad I won’t shame you.”
“As if I’d let ye.” MacCreedy grinned. “I was a topnotch boxer in me day. I’m fairly sure I could take ye now, e’en though I’ve a score o’ years on ye.”
“I’ve no doubt.” MacCreedy was unlike any valet Kirk had ever known. After Wellington’s valet had been injured during the Spanish campaign and sent home, MacCreedy—the groom in charge of his grace’s horses—had been pressed into service for the exacting, crotchety commander. Under the duke’s precise direction, MacCreedy had learned the valet arts and was now a master valet. He could black boots to a high gloss, starch cravats into rigid and snowy perfection, and maintain a frosty air with the most impudent of footmen.
Yet because he’d first been a groom and had served the duke throughout the harsh, often desperate conditions of the infamous Spanish campaign, MacCreedy also knew things other valets didn’t—like how to clean and fire any sort of pistol, and a thorough knowledge of field medicine. The latter had been of special help, for the valet knew many remedies to ease a sore and aching leg.
Now, though, the valet wasn’t helping at all. Instead, he was holding Kirk’s dinner coat against the waistcoat. “The red color complements yer black dinner coat.” He looked hopefully at Kirk.
Kirk was fairly certain Dahlia would laugh at the ridiculous waistcoat. He had a sudden memory of her laughter—huskier than one might expect, and very attractive. It would be nice to hear her laugh again, anything other than the dark looks she’d sent him throughout dinner last night.
MacCreedy sighed. “Verrah weel, me lor’. If ye’ve decided, then ye’ve decided. As ye dinna ha’ anyone to impress but yerself, I’ll put awa’ the satin waistcoat and fetch ye a nice, safe wool one.” The valet pulled out a wool waistcoat and placed it on the bed beside the red one.
Kirk looked at the two waistcoats. Beside the vibrant sheen of the red satin, the blue wool looked bland and boring. He sighed. “Damn it, give me the satin waistcoat. I’ve gone this far to make myself a fop, so why stop now? Besides, I’ll be so uncomfortable in these”—he gestured toward his breeches—“that I won’t care about the waistcoat.”
MacCreedy’s craggy face cracked in a smile. “Och, ye’re back t’ tha’, are ye? How breeches nowadays cling?”
“I prefer looser ones.”
“Aye, as were the fashion twenty years ago.”
Kirk sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as his leg protested.
MacCreedy eyed him somberly. “I’ll order a bath fer after dinner. I’ve more ointment fer ye to rub into tha’ leg, too.”
“It has helped.”
“I could do more, if ye’d let me. The muscles need to be stretched, they do. Wit’ the proper work, ye could turn more easily, perhaps e’en ride. It’s e’en possible tha’ ye could leave yer cane behind and walk wit’oot a limp.”
Kirk looked up at that. “I wouldn’t limp? At all?”
“ ’Tis possible, if ye work hard enou’.”
“When this is over, I shall gladly pursue your advice. But for now, I fear that in trying to obtain that goal, you’d leave me limping worse than ever.”
“Aye, at least in the beginning.”
“Exactly. And I’ve no wish to look even less capable in front of Miss Balfour.”
MacCreedy shook his head. “Och, ye’ve a bad case o’ it, haven’t ye’, me lor’.”
“A bad case?”
“O’ love.”
“Miss Balfour and I are very compatible. That’s far more important than love.”
The valet shook his head. “Me lor’, I dinna think to hear such nonsense fro’ ye.”
“It’s not nonsense. I was married before and I know love.”
“Ah, so ye loved yer wife, but no’ Miss Balfour?”
“I loved my wife with the foolhardiness and drama of a youth.” He grimaced. “That was fine for the age I was, but no longer. What I feel for Miss Balfour is quite different. We are comfortable, she and I.”
“Poor Miss Balfour.”
“Why do you say that? Just because I see her without the falseness of a fleeting passion doesn’t mean that I don’t value her. She’s intelligent, pleasant, and pleasing to look upon.” More than pleasing, in fact. Her smile was breathtaking and she possessed a freshness that no other woman could match. With her brown curls and the most damnably attractive sprinkling of freckles, he would never tire of just seeing her smile.
Their relationship had been tantalizingly short, but in the months after they’d had their disagreement and she’d stormed out of his home and sworn never to return, he’d found himself missing her far more than he’d expected. Worse, he’d begun wondering about other things . . . like how she’d feel in his arms. If he closed his eyes even now, he could imagine exactly what it would feel like to trace a kiss between each freckle on her nose, across her cheek, directly to those plump lips—
“Me lor’? ’Tis a wee bit past seven. Ye’ll be late if we dinna get ye dressed.”
The waistcoat seemed to mock his thoughts. Fine. I may have to endure some foolishness to win Dahlia, but hopefully it won’t be much. She’s a pragmatist at heart, and she’ll soon realize that both of our lives will be more comfortable if we spend them together.
“Let’s get this over with. The sooner Dahlia realizes the silliness of this entire venture, the sooner we can return home and forget this horrendous event.”
MacCreedy sent him a humorous glance. “Me lor’, ’tis becomin’ more and more obvious tha’ ye’re no romantic.”
“Romance is for women and novels.”
MacCreedy winced. “Tha’ made me cold, it did.”
“Well, I’m about to make you ill. Hand me that wretched waistcoat and let’s be done with this.”
The valet helped Kirk into the waistcoat and then watched as he buttoned it. “I hope ye dinna think I’m pryin’, but did ye ha’ a chance to, oh, I dinna know, mayhap write some’at this afternoon? A poem, mayhap?”
Kirk turned to look at his valet. “You’ve been talking to her grace.”
MacCreedy picked up the coat from the bed and smoothed one sleeve. “Mayhap I ran into her and Lady Charlotte in the courtyard after I returned fro’ town.”
“With Miss Balfour, I take it?”
“Sadly, she’d already entered th’ house afore I arrived.” MacCreedy held up the coat.
Kirk allowed the valet to ease the coat onto his shoulders. “Her grace is a meddling woman.”
“Aye, but her heart is in th’ right place, me lor’. Ye canno’ say tha’ aboot many people.”
“I suppose. What did you tell her when she asked if I was writing a poem?”
“Tha’ I’d seen no evidence of such.”
“Nor will you. I’m not a poet. I do, however, know Miss Balfour better than her grace does. Speaking of which, were you able to procure the items I requested?”
“Aye. They’re on the table by the dresser.”
Kirk limped across the room. Three books sat in a stack. “Ah. An Egyptian h
istory, a study of the Roman ruins found in Bath, and Byron’s poetry.” He replaced the books. “Well done, MacCreedy. They are exactly what I was hoping you’d find.”
“ ’Twas hard to make a mistake when ye gave me such explicit instructions. The duke’s battle orders weren’t much clearer.”
“It helps that I know the reader’s taste so well.” This was much better than flowers. “So the money I gave you was enough?”
“Aye, I put the extra in yer lockbox along wit’ the bill. The Byron book cost ye a bit more than th’ others, which is odd seein’ as how it has fewer words.”
“The man’s work is sappy and dramatic, but since Miss Balfour’s taste runs in that direction, she’ll enjoy it.”
“She also likes histories?”
“Very much.” Kirk remembered her face when she’d found his collection of books on Roman history. Her eyes had widened, her lips parted, her skin flushed— He caught MacCreedy’s inquiring look and said shortly, “She’ll enjoy all three of these books.”
“Are you giving them to her tonight?”
Kirk looked at them thoughtfully. “No, not yet. She’s barely speaking to me now. I’ll find a better time and place.” He limped to the dresser and reclaimed his cane, pausing to look at himself in the mirror. Only a slender margin of the waistcoat showed where his coat opened and, as MacCreedy had suggested, it complemented the black coat well. Two months ago, he’d have never realized that contrast. Good God, I’m turning into a fop. Shaking his head, he made his way to the door.
“I’ll ha’ a hot bath ready when ye return, me lor’. It’ll do yer leg good.”
“Thank you, MacCreedy.” Kirk left and closed the door behind him. Tonight, he would not allow Dahlia to escape without some conversation. One way or another, he was going to break through the wall of chilly disapproval she’d built around herself.
* * *
In a bedchamber in the east wing, Dahlia admired her gown in the mirror. Thanks to her sister’s skill with a needle, the gown was far better fashioned than many purchased from the famed modistes on Bond Street. The short-sleeved ball gown was comprised of an undergown of blue silk, with an overdress of white silk and silver thread that made it glisten as she moved. White bobbin lace trimmed the hem and the low oval neckline, and the whole was tied with a wide blue sash. “I’m so glad the duchess is offering dancing this evening. I love to dance.”