Chapter 2
Chapter Two
One of the past Earls of Standish must have had a naughty sense of humor, Barbara decided, studying the delicate cornices running along the edges of the ballroom’s ceiling. It was subtle; she doubted few people ever looked at them long enough, but once you knew what to look for, it was obvious.
That satyr was chasing that nymph. That satyr had caught a nymph—the artist had been quite keen on nipples, judging by the number he’d given her. And that satyr appeared to be holding a jug of wine, but examination proved it was something else entirely…which was long and thick and dripping liquid.
Barbara was quite certain the artist had been a male; she only knew her father and younger brother—and now her new brother-in-law—but one didn’t study ancient antiquities without realizing the male of the species was ridiculously obsessed with his protrusible copulatory organ, irrespective of true size.
In fact, if she had to guess, she’d wager the artist was poorly endowed—
A throat cleared nearby, and Barbara dragged her attention unwillingly away from the phallic architecture to the gangly young man hovering near her. Since he was blushing red enough to match his hair, she supposed he was preparing himself to talk to her: a woman! Practically a foreign species.
Wasn’t she related to him? “Good evening.”
He cleared his throat again. “Miss Fokette, would you care to dance?”
Her eyes narrowed in what Mother called her Ill-Advised Thinking Face. “Daniel, yes?”
The young man beamed and bowed low at the waist. “I’m honored to be remembered!
” He was the Earl of Standish’s youngest son, which made him her second cousin.
She’d met him briefly a time or two at social events, likely why he felt brave enough to approach her without a chaperone or introduction. “I am available for the next dance.”
She’d wager he was available for most of the dances, despite his family hosting the ball.
Poor lad, that pimple looked quite painful.
Still, she settled her expression into one of genuine regret—she’d become quite good at pretending—and extended her left foot just enough for the toe of her leather boot to peek from the hem of her skirt.
“Unfortunately, Cousin Daniel, I am not available. I do not dance.”
She could see the moment he remembered about her Unfortunate Circumstance.
His expression fell from hopefulness to pity, his expression a replica of the same way so many other young men had.
Her older sister Margaret had been a real beauty, but now she was married—and so scandalously!
—more than one young buck expected the younger Miss Fokette to begin flirting and smiling and generally enjoying events like this one.
No thank you.
Barbara had no interest in taking over Margaret’s charming place among the Ton, any more than she had of whirling in circles. Her foot was just a convenient excuse.
Her second cousin made his stammering apologies—apologies for her long-ago injury, or for mistakenly assuming she’d want to dance with him?—and bowed his way out of her life once more.
And Barbara stifled her yawn.
It was possible there was a man out there who would be more impressed by her mind than her inability to twirl about or make him feel important and intelligent…
but she hadn’t met him yet. If Cousin Daniel had truly been interested in her, he might have sat with her, asked what she’d been gazing at, discussed his father’s famed collection with her.
Or, miracle of miracles, offer to escort her to see his father’s famed collection.
Cousin Errol, the Earl of Standish, had recently acquired a complete set of ushabti she was just desperate to examine.
The only reason she’d agreed to attend this ball with her parents was for the chance at touring the Earl’s study.
Papa had promised he’d facilitate it with the utmost delicacy… but it hadn’t happened yet.
Stifling another sigh, Barbara turned back to the dancing couples.
Although she didn’t dance, she could admit there was a pleasant sort of artistry to the way they spun and bobbed; the debutantes in their pale pastels, the matrons in their bold colors, the men in somber black.
It had been several years since she’d made her debut…
It wasn’t the way she enjoyed spending time, but it was pretty, in an inane sort of way.
Margaret had always enjoyed dancing, and marriage had made her even more vivacious and lively. She wouldn’t be invited to another ball after the scandal, of course—no matter her connection to the Earl of Standish—but apparently falling in love had been a sufficient trade.
What would it be like, to find that kind of love?
Do not pout. It is unbecoming.
Was that Mother’s voice, or her own? Barbara had long ago given up on finding a man who wouldn’t be threatened by her intellect, or repulsed by her disability. And that was not a problem. She’d accepted it.
Hoping for love was too much, but perhaps, one day on her adventures, she could find pleasure.
Listening to Margaret giggle about it all these years, reading those naughty novels aloud to one another late at night in hushed tones, in case their mother heard…
Barbara’s gaze flicked back up to the cornices and the not-a-wine-jug the satyr caressed.
She could admit herself intrigued.
“Good evening.”
This voice was smooth. Dark. Creamy.
Unexpected.
Startled, Barbara’s gaze snapped to the newcomer and prepared to politely—and metaphorically—shove him away.
Oh.
He wasn’t like Cousin Daniel at all.
He was taller, for one, with broader shoulders, dark hair, and a confident smile.
His waistcoat was embroidered with a red—no, pink?
—design, an affection which, on him, was far from foppish.
His build was similar to those she’d seen chiseled in marble on Grecian temple walls, and his tanned throat disappearing into a crisp white collar and cravat was surprisingly intriguing.
Good heavens, and was that a dimple? Barbara found herself sitting straighter, intrigued. The single divot somehow made the perfection of the rest of him more approachable.
As the dimple deepened and his smile grew, she realized he was waiting for her to say something. Drat, what had he said? Oh yes.
“Good evening,” she squeaked in return. And yes, embarrassingly, it had been a squeak. Barbara swallowed and tried again, pleased when her voice emerged more in control of itself. “Have we been introduced?”
“Nay, but I dinnae allow such a wee thing to come in the way of a good time.” The Scotsman gave an elaborate bow. “I’m Sir Kenneth Fraser, and ye are Miss Fokette.” He straightened with a wink. “I asked around.”
She really shouldn’t acknowledge him, not if he’d approached her without an introduction—but he was Scottish, and everyone knew that the Scots did whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.
Besides, his voice was doing interesting things to her stomach, and Barbara admitted she wouldn’t mind staring at him for a few more hours.
Purely for artistic reasons, of course.
If one was to hold his not-a-wine-jug, just how large—
Barbara inclined her head. “How intriguing to meet you, Sir Kenneth.”
To her surprise, he reached out to touch her hand—no, to move her fan away from her face so he could see her better?
Before she could fully process that, Barbara was aware of the warmth which crept up her hand.
Oh, no wonder; the Scotsman wasn’t wearing gloves.
Another indication he didn’t quite understand social mores… and one Barbara found she didn’t mind.
“Miss Fokette, I find myself completely distraught.”
Sir Kenneth hadn’t released her hand. “Oh? We cannot have that, sir.”
“Aye, I am distraught at the thought of missing a dance with ye. Please say ye will reserve the next one for me?”
Barbara told herself it was stupid to feel disappointed.
The rake clearly had practiced such a line and charming grin—perhaps in front of a looking glass, perhaps in front of a dozen other women—and clearly knew nothing about her.
Still, she managed to arrange her expression into a polite smile as she tugged her hand away.
He didn’t release it.
In fact his hold on her tightened, and all she accomplished was pulling him closer, as he stepped nearer her chair along the wall.
“Unfortunately, sir, I do not dance.”
It should have been enough. After all, the Ton knew Baron Fokette’s second daughter was quiet, intellectual, and broken.
Sir Kenneth Fraser, apparently, did not know.
He didn’t release her hand, either. Which was quite a surprise when he plopped himself down in the seat beside her still holding her hand.
“Well, that is fine. We have more time to talk sitting here then. What were ye looking at, up there on the ceiling?”
Barbara was only half paying attention as she tried to yank her hand away. “I doubt you are interested, sir. I told you I do not dance.”
“Aye, ye said. I dinnae mind.” Tucked in the space between their chairs, where no one could see, he’d begun to rub small circles on her palm with his thumb. Small, inexplicable circles. “Was it the frescos, lass?” He inclined his gaze upwards. “Or the cornication?”
Cornication?
Narrowing her eyes thoughtfully, Barbara studied the Scotsman. He’d noticed her studying the ceiling and guessed at the object of her study?
Giving up on retrieving her hand, she tested the man. “The cornices?”
He was still peering upward. “Aye. A vaulted chamber, full of fornices, is called a fornication, aye?”
The way he drew out the word fornication with those delicious-looking lips, the quick glance he’d flicked her way, the way the dimple deepened for just a moment as he smirked…all told Barbara he’d been trying to shock her with a wicked word.
Well, she wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. With a sniff, she straightened, trying to ignore the fact the touch of his thumb was making her go all gooey inside.