Chapter 1
Chapter One
Rory rushed into the receiving hall of Dalhousie Manor and tried not to feel like the conspicuously ill-mannered guest that he was.
The hall, a grand, square room surrounded on all four sides by three levels of open corridors with a large skylight above, was blessedly empty.
He flicked a clod of muck off the sleeve of his greatcoat.
The fact was he was late.
A problem had arisen at Baile ìm that was beyond his control and had demanded as speedy a resolution as possible.
Namely, a roiling case of frothy bloat.
Not in him, of course, but his sheep.
Unable to resist a field of spring barley, a group of a dozen sheep had snuck in and feasted on the delicacy to their heart’s content—but not that of their stomachs. So, it had been a treatment of mineral oil to get them all sorted, which had taken painstaking time.
Which had made him late for his neighbor’s supper party.
He flicked more mud off his sleeve. He’d already been dressed for the evening when the frothy bloat emergency had come to light, and he hadn’t time to change clothes before rushing here.
His father—the Earl of Carrick—had gifted him Baile ìm after his return from Italy, as a way of preparing him for his future duties. “No son of mine will be throwing all I built into ruin.”
Da’s exact words.
And fair enough.
Rory had arrived a year ago determined to prove himself capable of succeeding at the honor and responsibility Da had bestowed upon him. He liked the work. Further, he liked that Baile ìm neighbored Dalhousie Manor—which included supper party invitations. A boon for a bachelor laird, truth told.
Tonight’s gathering was to introduce their newly-arrived guests to the area.
Of course, Rory was already well acquainted with Lady Delilah and Miss Juliet Windermere.
Delilah was sister to his closest friend, Viscount Archer—known to all as Archie—and Miss Windermere was their cousin who had lived with them since she was in leading strings—a sister for all intents and purposes. Didn’t say much, Miss Windermere.
Of course, who could get a word in edgewise in a house full of Windermeres.
He’d just handed his greatcoat to Rivers, Dalhousie Manor’s ancient butler, when a figure appeared at the far end of the hall. Rory’s body lit with recognition. “Miss Dalhousie,” he called out before thinking better of the familiarity.
It was improper, of course, but he couldn’t help himself. When he’d first arrived to take possession of Baile ìm, he’d thought his proximity might lead Miss Dalhousie to reconsider his marriage proposal, but very quickly he’d seen his nearness had no effect.
It had been surprisingly easy to shrug off the whole misbegotten idea.
Now, he noted a stiffness to her shoulders and an uncharacteristic rapidity to her step. Miss Dalhousie never held herself or moved so.
His head cocked. The woman approaching him was…
Tall.
Like a…
Windermere.
Raven-black hair parted in the center and pulled back into a chignon at the base of her neck and dressed in a moss-green silk evening gown that heightened the clear emerald hue of her eyes, it wasn’t Miss Davina Dalhousie approaching.
But Miss Juliet Windermere.
Rory’s mouth stretched into an instinctive smile of recognition, and his hand lifted in a small wave of greeting.
She returned neither. Her eyes only narrowed on him.
Though he’d known Miss Windermere for over a decade, he’d never held the impression that she much cared for him. For starters, she was always scowling at him.
Like now.
Further, if the rapid clip of her heels didn’t let up, she would barrel directly into him. He was bracing himself for impact when she came to a dead stop three feet away.
At nearly six feet and four inches, he was accustomed to standing head and shoulders above every woman he met. Not so with Miss Windermere. She stood only an inch or two below six feet, her gaze nearly meeting his on an equal plane.
“Miss Windermere,” he said, at a loss for any other words.
Something new struck him. He’d always thought her very similar to Miss Dalhousie, but actually the two women bore little resemblance to one another, other than a similar hair color.
Where Miss Dalhousie’s eyes were a lovely, limpid brown, Miss Windermere’s were the sort of jewel green that could cut, if one wasn’t careful.
Where Miss Dalhousie’s face was a smooth oval, Miss Windermere’s was the exact shape of a heart.
Miss Dalhousie’s nose was a cute, little button; Miss Windermere’s long and aquiline.
Miss Dalhousie was pretty as a picture.
And Miss Windermere was…
Absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
How had he never noticed that about her?
Without a return of his greeting, she reached up. For a wild instant, he thought she might slide her silk-gloved hand around his neck and pull his head down for a kiss.
And for an equally wild instant, he thought he might not mind too much.
Instead, she struck forefinger against thumb and flicked his right cheekbone.
A gob of dried mud flew across the room.
A befuddled beat of silence followed before he recovered and said, “Erm, thank you.”
She nodded curtly and brushed past, continuing on her way as if he’d been naught more than a minor inconvenience, her skirts an efficient silk swish in her wake.
His eye lingered an instant longer than necessary on that efficient swish of her skirts.
He gave himself a mental shake. Miss Windermere was practically a sister to his closest friend in the world.
Right.
Slowly, he followed her, for presumably she was making her way toward the dining room. Her legs were long enough that when she got them moving at a rapid clip, she could cover a great deal of ground in a hurry.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was attempting to place as much distance between herself and him as quickly as possible as they traversed one corridor after another. Though he was going to supper, it occurred to him that, really, he might be following Miss Windermere.
Strange, that.
Truly, though, what had just happened?
The facts were that he’d had a gob of mud on his face and Miss Windermere had done him the great favor of disposing of it. Except…
It didn’t feel like a favor.
It felt like an act of aggression.
Which left but one question.
What had he ever done to invite Miss Juliet Windermere’s wrath?
He stepped into the dining room and found a lively gathering already in progress.
Servants rushing to and fro, filling wine glasses, readying the first course at the buffet.
Mr. and Mrs. Dalhousie were seated at opposite ends of the table with all their guests and family between them—neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Robertson; guests of honor Delilah and Miss Windermere—who was presently being guided to her seat—a few more neighbors; the condescending Mr. Oliver Quincy who seemed to have a relative in every corner of England, Scotland, and Wales; and all the young Dalhousie offspring scattered throughout, including Miss Dalhousie.
Rory was relieved to find her seated down the table from the chair he was being ushered toward.
Relief was short-lived, however. For as he was lowering into his seat, he found himself directly across from Miss Windermere, who was studiously considering the tines of her fish fork.
She’d noticed, too.
His host’s voice rang out from the head of the table. “If it isn’t Kilmuir,” said Mr. Dalhousie, checking his pocket watch for all to see. “And nearly on time, too,” he finished with a hearty, unoffended laugh.
“The sheep,” began Kilmuir, the tips of his ears burning, as they always did when he felt in the wrong.
“Ah, my boy, this is Scotland,” said his host. “It’s always the sheep.”
This provoked a good round of chuckles around the table.
Rory felt another sort of heat on the side of his face—the heat of a stare. His gaze shifted, and he found Miss Windermere’s emerald eyes upon him. Reflexively, his mouth curved into a smile. Her gaze widened for an instant before startling away.
He followed her line of sight to find Delilah at the other end.
Of course. Those two had been close all their lives—since Miss Windermere had come to live with her uncle, aunt, and cousins after her parents perished in a tragic carriage accident.
With Delilah being the more conversable of the two, Rory hadn’t taken much notice of Miss Windermere beyond the fact that she was a relation of Archie’s and pleasant to be around in the general sense.
Until ten minutes ago.
Of a sudden, he intuited a truth about Miss Windermere. Unlike her cousin, she preferred to blend into the background. So, she used Delilah as a shield. He’d never really noticed her because she didn’t wish to be noticed.
Which was quite the trick, considering how striking she was. Those blush-pink lips. Those high, delicate cheekbones. Those emerald eyes that could peer into a soul and tell its secrets…eyes that contained both an openness and a mystery.
What had happened this last year that Miss Windermere had transformed into a siren?
“Lady Delilah,” said their hostess from her end of the table, “what news do you bring of your family?”
Delilah finished her sip of wine. “If Mama and Papa’s ship didn’t encounter any trouble on the Mediterranean, I believe they should be in Greece by now.”
“Greece?” asked Mrs. Robertson in her soft Scottish burr, a horrified expression on her face.
“Mount Pelion, to be precise,” continued Delilah, her crystalline blue eyes sparkling with mischief, delighting in horrifying upright ladies.
Where Miss Windermere was a dark-haired beauty, Delilah’s blonde curls cropped above her shoulders provided a light contrast. Apparently, short hair on a woman was considered scandalous, but Rory couldn’t see why. The style suited Delilah’s fine-boned features perfectly.
He gave a mental shrug. Ladies tended to construct such arbitrary rules for themselves. He supposed they got bored.
“Isn’t that correct, Juliet?” asked Delilah.
Miss Windermere nodded. “They’re exploring the legend of the Centaur’s Path.”
No legend or myth in the world was safe from the Earl and Countess of Cumberland’s indefatigable explorations. The ton viewed them and all their offspring as harmless eccentrics, but Rory saw the Windermeres for who they genuinely were—intrepid followers of their passions.
He admired that about them.
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Robertson around her spoonful of Scotch broth. “Wasn’t your sister the one who married a duke?”
Delilah nodded. “The Duke of Ripon. The Duchess was safely delivered of a young future duke last year and has spent every waking hour since painting him from all conceivable angles.”
Mrs. Dalhousie gave an approving nod. “And Lord Archer?” she asked. “Is he still on the Continent with his bride?”
“Indeed,” said Delilah. “Who knows when they’ll return to England.”
Mrs. Robertson gave a censorious tsk. “To be away from one’s homeland isn’t natural.”
Miss Windermere patted the corner of her mouth and set her napkin down. “Are you saying we Windermeres aren’t natural?”
Silence descended on the room—even the servants stopped in their tracks—and Mrs. Robertson’s mouth gaped slightly open.
Miss Windermere’s disingenuous smile relented. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
Mr. Dalhousie barked out a jolly laugh, and relief broke the tension, giving everyone permission to enjoy the rest of the meal.
As conversation flowed around the room during the fish course, Rory found his gaze straying toward Miss Windermere more than once.
He realized she’d always been like that.
Not one to mince words, but to fearlessly speak the ones that cut directly to the heart of a matter.
He also realized he’d always liked that about her.
“Lord Kilmuir,” murmured Mrs. Robertson to his left, “would you mind very much passing the gravy dish?”
“With pleasure,” said Rory. While the Dalhousies had servants to attend to the meal, their suppers weren’t such formal affairs that one didn’t spoon a dollop of gravy onto one’s own plate when warranted.
Without paying attention, he reached for the dish. But rather than encountering porcelain, he encountered…a finger.
His gaze cut over to find Miss Windermere’s gloved forefinger just below his. Her gaze startled up, and she yanked her hand back.
It had been the lightest brush of fingers.
He should give a sheepish smile and dismiss the entire encounter as the sort of thing that happened at supper parties.
The contact was passing…insubstantial…inconsequential.
And yet…
It felt like the opposite.
It felt like it held substance…
Like there would be consequences.
And the look in Miss Windermere’s eyes seemed to know it.