Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Lady Inverhall, may I present Lord Marvant?” the Duke said, his voice drier than champagne left out overnight. “A most amiable gentleman and a devoted connoisseur of equestrianism, if memory serves.”
Elspeth turned around with a polite smile, her eyes flicking to his annoyingly handsome profile before settling on the unfortunate creature beside him.
“That is correct, Your Grace,” Lord Marvant replied, his words escaping through a congested nose.
He clutched a goblet of burgundy as though it were the crown jewels.
“And a very fine pleasure it is to meet you, Lady Inverhall. I have only had the honor of visiting Scotland once, though I must say it made quite the impression.”
“Impression, is it? How so, Me Lord?” she asked, already regretting the question.
“Well,” he began with the solemnity of a man delivering a lecture, “it was terribly green, wasn’t it?
Almost offensively so. Trees everywhere.
And sheep—dear God, the sheep! I had a terrible time with my boots in the countryside, mud all over the stitching, and these were from Harlow’s on Bond Street, mind you—quite impossible to replace. ”
Elspeth’s smile remained fixed in place, though her soul began to leak from her ears.
“And the air! So bracing. I felt assaulted by it. I recall turning positively pink from the cold, though my valet insisted it was a ‘healthy glow.’” He gave a nasally titter.
“Naturally, I was there to inspect a herd belonging to a Laird Mac-something-or-other. Mac… Ross? Or was it MacRintle? No matter. The horses were decent. Stocky. Hardy. A bit too rustic for my tastes. I prefer a more refined gait. Delicate hooves, you know, like Lady Featherstone’s mare, Celestine.
A divine creature. I once watched her trot a full circuit without disturbing a single plume on her harness. Remarkable!”
He paused to sip his wine and somehow managed to slurp it.
Elspeth considered throwing her champagne flute into the nearest potted plant and pretending to faint.
She glanced around the grand ballroom at the Duke of Markway’s townhouse, hoping for a rescue.
The chandelier glittered overhead, diamonds sparkled on necks and wrists, and soft music swirled beneath the hum of chatter.
And yet, none of it could distract from the thrum of frustration in her blood, or from the man beside her, who was now explaining the bloodline of a particular grey stallion as if he were reciting scripture.
Another sip of champagne. Another attempt not to scream.
It was the third suitor the Duke had presented this evening. The third tedious, over-perfumed bore in a cravat and waistcoat.
She glanced at the Duke, infuriatingly composed in his tailcoat, as though he hadn’t kissed her breathless just days ago. Now, he stood like a blasted statue, cool and indifferent, watching her be paraded about like a prize pig at a market.
His lips—those full, maddening lips—now formed polite, distant smiles for every prospective husband he summoned to her side. She wanted to slap him. Or kiss him.
Possibly both.
“Lady Inverhall, I believe Lord Marvant asked you a question,” he said lightly. “Are you quite well?”
Aye, well enough to throttle ye both.
“I am sorry, Me Lord,” she said, returning her attention to the man with great effort. “Could ye please repeat the question?”
“Oh, certainly, Lady Inverhall.” Lord Marvant was, of course, delighted to resume.
“I merely inquired whether you enjoy riding as well, or whether you prefer the gentler pursuits of embroidery and tea. I do find that many ladies find the saddle quite intimidating, what with the jostling and all. Though, of course, I imagine Scottish women are made of… sturdier stuff.”
She blinked.
His eyes—small, watery things—blinked back expectantly.
The Duke stood beside her like a thundercloud stuffed into formalwear.
“Aye, Me Lord,” Elspeth replied with syrupy sweetness. “I do enjoy a ride. Especially fast ones through the rough country. I find the jostlin’ keeps the mind sharp.”
Lord Marvant’s smile faltered. “Ah… well. Yes. Quite.”
He looked helplessly at the Duke, who—because he was an absolute fiend—merely shrugged.
“Thank you for your time, Lord Marvant,” he said. “If you’ll excuse us, there’s another acquaintance I would like Lady Inverhall to meet.”
“Oh! Of course,” Lord Marvant sputtered, fumbling with his goblet and sloshing a bit of wine onto his cuff. “I shall return to Celestine’s lineage. In my mind, I mean. It’s quite extensive.”
Elspeth did not bother to hide her sigh of relief as the man wandered off, presumably to corner someone else with tales of refined hooves and perilous mud.
She endured another introduction, and another. One with a portly belly and a yellowing beard, another with a unibrow and horrific breath. Each lord was more unsuitable than the last, their conversations a tedious drone about weather, politics, and tiresome anecdotes.
Heer mind, however, was preoccupied with one burning question.
How can I make him stop?
Just as the Duke’s latest victim, Lord Brownstone, was expounding on the merits of his prize-winning hounds, a familiar, mischievous voice cut through the din.
“Your Grace! And who is this vision of Highland sunshine you are hoarding all to yourself? Surely this cannot be the Lady Inverhall I know. My Lady, you are a ravishing sight in this red gown, if I may dare say so.”
The Marquess of Sarford appeared at the Duke’s side, a roguish grin on his handsome face.
“Lord Sarford.” Elspeth curtsied to him. “Ye flatter me too much.”
“That is my very intention, My Lady,” the Marquess cooed, bowing to her and taking her hand to kiss it. “I shall find myself very lacking if I do not devote time to appreciating your exquisite beauty.”
As he released her hand, Elspeth felt a flicker of something akin to relief, then a spark of an idea as she watched the Duke react to his friend.
She had noticed the subtle stiffening in his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw as he drained the last of his wine.
His mood, which had been so carefully neutral, seemed to shift.
Perhaps there is a way I can make him stop, after all.
“It appears the ton has grown terribly lax in their invitations,” the Duke drawled, his gaze flicking to Elspeth before landing pointedly on his friend.
“Quite so,” the Marquess replied, unbothered as he accepted two flutes of champagne from a passing footman.
“They even allow dukes with sour tempers but excellent taste in friends.” He turned to Elspeth with a charming smile.
“May I offer you a glass, Lady Inverhall? I daresay you’ll require fortification. ”
“Thank ye very much, Me Lord,” Elspeth said, pressing the flute to her lips.
Much as she cared little for such events, she had grown a liking for the bubbly refreshment of French champagne. Even more so, she liked how it emboldened her.
She found herself smiling then, a genuine smile that reached her eyes.
“What is so amusing, My Lady?” Lord Sarford asked, meeting her gaze.
“Pardon me directness, Me Lord, but His Grace has sometimes referred to ye as well, a nuisance,” she joked, her Scottish lilt softening the jab. “But I must say, I find ye perfectly lovely company.”
The Marquess let out a hearty laugh. “A nuisance, am I, Your Grace? Well, I do strive to live up to my reputation. Unlike some dukes I know, who are far too serious for their own good. One has to have a bit of fun, do you not agree?” He leaned slightly closer to Elspeth, his voice dropping to a loud whisper.
“Tell me, Lady Inverhall, does he ever crack a smile around you? Or is it all grim pronouncements and ducal decrees, as one would expect?”
Elspeth glanced at the Duke. His gaze was fixed on his friend, yet there was a dangerous glint in his blue eyes. The irritation was evident; Elspeth could feel the subtle tension radiating from him. His shoulders were drawn tight, his jaw a hard line as he rubbed his beard with his hand.
Aha, this is it.
“Oh, surely he has his moments,” Elspeth said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness, as she leaned heavily into the Marquess’s flirtation.
“Though I dare say, they are as rare as a warm day in January in the Highlands. One may as well find a fairy in the cupboard,” she joked as she met his gaze.
“Perhaps, Me Lord, ye might be able to teach him a thing or two about levity? Ye are so diverting.”
The Marquess chuckled, reaching out to lightly touch her arm. “It would be my pleasure, My Lady. Your wish is my command. But enough of this dour business. Perhaps we could begin turning your evening around with a dance? It sounds like the quartet is about to pick up again.”
“I would be ever so delighted,” Elspeth replied, her voice a little louder than strictly necessary, her eyes fixed on the Duke.
She saw a muscle tick in his jaw, the sudden clenching of his fists at his sides.
The mask is slipping…
Before the Marquess could offer his arm, the Duke moved swiftly. He grabbed Elspeth’s wrist, his grip firm yet not too tight, and pulled her away from Lord Sarford with a swift, decisive motion.
“If you will excuse us, old boy,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. “Lady Inverhall has already promised me this dance.”
Elspeth barely had time to register Lord Sarford’s surprised expression before the Duke escorted her to the polished floor, through the throng of dancers. The orchestra struck up a waltz, its melody sweeping and grand.
She felt overcome by the gesture.
The Duke’s hand settled on her waist, drawing her close, while his other hand clasped hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. A delicious shiver ran up her spine at his touch.
The contact was electric, a stark contrast to his earlier detachment. She was not surprised that he did not speak. Instead, his eyes remained locked on hers.
“What was that about, Yer Grace?” Elspeth whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Ye’re as confusin’ as tryin’ to sail a ship with no compass.”
“You were flirting with him,” the Duke growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her.
“And ye were ignorin’ me,” she shot back, a defiant glint in her green eyes. “What did ye expect? Ye parade me around to the most insufferable lot of suitors. I was most thankful when the Marquess—”
“Are you fond of the Marquess? Are his dandy, roguish ways more to your liking, Elspeth?” he whispered, his deep voice lowering on her name.
She shivered again.
“Are ye jealous, Hugo?” She narrowed her eyes at him and caught a flicker of surprise as she addressed him as intimately as he had.
Good. He deserves a bit of riling up.
He pulled her closer until the fine layers of silk and wool between them seemed laughably insufficient.
His warmth wrapped around her like a velvet snare, seeping through every thread of her gown, every breath she drew.
The ballroom faded away—the music, the glittering gowns, the false laughter—until it was nothing but a ghostly murmur at the edge of her senses.
There was only him now.
His gaze, searing and unreadable.
His body, all leashed power and dangerous restraint.
And the maddening awareness of just how little distance remained between them.
“Ye are a good dancer,” Elspeth offered, after he had chosen not to respond to her last question, at least verbally.
“And you, My Lady,” he whispered in her ear, his lips nearly brushing her lobe, “are an adequate partner.”
“Adequate? That is high praise comin’ from ye—”
“You, Elspeth,” he said, his mouth close enough to brush her skin, “are far more dangerous than I thought.”
They moved as one, a silent, potent current threading through the tide of dancers. Around them, silks shimmered, laughter rang, and whispers stirred like wind through leaves. Yet none of it touched her. Not really.
His hand tightened on her waist, guiding her into the rhythm with a force just shy of possessive. The waltz ceased to be a polite ritual and became something darker, deeper.
A conversation without words. A reckoning.
Elspeth could feel his anger thrumming beneath the surface, barely leashed. But she also felt more: attention, focus, heat. For the first time all evening, she had all of him, and the sensation stole the breath from her lungs.
Their steps quickened, and still he held her. As if he would not let go.