Chapter 3
Dragging her long wooden shepherdess’s hook on the thin crimson carpet, Linnie stalked the halls of Lord and Lady Rutland’s cheerful, redbrick townhouse on Chesterfield Street.
Given the Christmastide Season was as much a part of the McQuoid-Smiths’ blood as their fiercely proud Scottish roots, under normal circumstances—nay, under any other circumstances—Linnie would have been properly awed by the elaborate holiday decor.
Cascading evergreen garlands twined with holly berries, pine cones, and glittering gold and red cylindrical ornaments adorned the halls.
Sizable sprigs of mistletoe were affixed above the center of each white-painted, six-paneled door, hung there to catch couples at the threshold.
From the juniper trees throughout the corridors—each some ten to twelve feet tall—emanated that rich, deep, soothing evergreen scent.
Aye, Linnie found herself walking in a veritable wonderland and should be joyful.
Instead, she seethed.
Of all the bird-witted, fat-skulled, muttonheaded ninnies on this planet, Linnie was the absolute worst.
With every angry step she took, her fury grew.
A properly jubilant couple—the gentleman with his gold coronet of bay leaves, a perfect Julius Caesar to his jewel-studded, cobra-crowned Cleopatra—went sprinting past.
“At least some are enjoying the night,” Linnie muttered when the pair disappeared down the westward hall.
Nay, that wasn’t accurate. Given the ebullient energy throughout, the din of joyous laughter, and the bright-red cheeks and free-flowing laughter amongst every guest who wasn’t Linnie, there wasn’t a soul present not having a bang-up good time.
Linnie reached the northernmost point of the residence in the form of a long row of floor-to-ceiling crystal windows, which put an end to her aimless flight.
A slight lip served as a demarcation between the crimson carpeting and the wood parquet flooring.
Even through those frosted panes, the braziers throughout the marquess’s parklike setting cast a soft glow, made all the brighter by the blanket of stark white snow covering the earth.
Beckoned toward the sight, Linnie headed over. The light coating of frost blurred the scene outside.
She pressed her bare palm against the chilled glass, the icy film cold upon her skin. Then, when the ice began to melt, Linnie used the tip of her index finger to chip at the remnants until she’d cleared the way for a better view.
From amidst the star-studded, moonlit sky, small specks of white snow fluttered.
Linnie followed those tiny flakes as they fell to the earth, joining the blanketing of ones that’d come before them.
Without fail, the peace and splendor of winter had their usual calming effect on Linnie.
The anger drained out of her until it left a deep melancholy in its place.
She should have known better.
It’d been right there in front of her eyes. The moment her brother and Arran followed her and invited her to Lord and Lady Rutland’s masquerade, Linnie should have known they were up to something.
How many years had she and her cousins begged to join them?
And how many times had they patronizingly chuckled and vowed no lady in their family would ever attend?
Too many to count.
Linnie touched her forehead against the glass. Aye, the last thing a male McQuoid or Smith would do was invite one of their younger female family members to anywhere even remotely fun, let alone Lord and Lady Rutland’s masquerade.
After her younger cousins married and Linnie had been left unwed, she’d appealed to Campbell and Arran; with Brone now married, he’d taken on the role of overly protective big brother even more.
Not even pity had brought their acquiescence.
For that reason alone, she should have been suspicious.
Instead, she’d been too blinded with excitement and surprise to question them.
Only to arrive, flanked by her cousin and brother, and have them—in a pathetically bad approximation of shock—somehow notice Arran’s masked and costumed friend across the crowded ballroom.
Wonder of wonder! That friend also happened to be none other than Lord August Archdale, the Earl of Culross.
The windowpane reflected back the bitter smile twisting Linnie’s lips at the corners.
They’d taken Linnie for a deuced fool, and a deuced fool was precisely what she’d been.
Not fool enough to allow them to know in that moment just how hurt, angry, and outraged she was at the game they’d played with her.
Nay, she’d donned a pleased smile and expressed excitement about meeting the gentleman her family would have her marry. Then when Arran went off to collect the gentleman, she’d tasked Campbell with fetching her a mug of mulled cider.
The moment they’d turned their traitorous backs, Linnie had bolted.
Linnie, clad in all white amidst the sea of brightly colored masquerade guests, stood out like a pauper before the king’s court, which had certainly been the intention behind her costume.
Frowning, Linnie glanced down at the exquisitely made costume she’d loved at first sight and now hated on principle.
They’d known it’d be far easier to keep an eye on her and, if need be, follow her.
Well, unfortunately for her overbearing male kin, Linnie—along with every last female McQuoid or Smith—knew a thing or two about evading the dunderheads.
Linnie intended to hide and stay hidden until the marquess’s staff was ushering out the last guest.
Which also meant the only ton event she’d dreamed of taking part in long before she’d made her Come Out would now be spent tucked away in some back room, to stick it to her interfering brother and cousin.
Linnie sighed. The warm sough of her breath mingled with the frigid air on the other side of that panel and left a little puff of white.
Reluctantly, she pulled herself away from the window and considered the path leading to the left or right of her.
Closing her eyes, one arm outstretched, Linnie spun in several small circles that left her dizzy.
She stopped abruptly and swayed on unsteady feet. Then she headed in the direction her finger pointed.
As she went, she noted that the exquisite trimmings had been carried throughout the vast residence. There’d not been a single inch spared from festive adornments.
Upon six-paneled door after door hung exquisitely crafted wreaths. Berries, beads, and pine cones studded each evergreen circlet, with a red, gold-trimmed bow completing each.
The revelry enjoyed by the marquess and marchioness’s guests, however, grew more distant until those joyous sounds faded into nothing and only the errant crackle of nearby hearths filled the quiet.
Linnie’s steps slowed and she stopped outside one of her hosts’ rooms.
She frowned.
The bow affixed to this particular wreath had come undone and hung sadly, like two curtains hastily opened.
Setting her staff down on the wall, Linnie set to work retying the thick velvet fabric. She scrunched her brow up and concentrated on following the creases, which indicated the correct fold pattern.
When she’d finished, she paused to assess her work.
She adjusted the completed bow until the ribbon was just right.
With a pleased little nod, she fetched her shepherdess hook and let herself inside.
Linnie took a glance about the space she’d made her hiding spot for the evening.
The black-and-white marble floor, along with the stone and marble statues erected throughout which paid homage to past and current Deering relations, should have left the art room feeling cold and sterile.
And yet, in the same way the marchioness infused a welcoming warmth, that feeling pervaded even this space.
Linnie meandered about.
Soft, inviting white Rococo painted sofas, positioned strategically throughout, not only allowed but also invited guests to sit in comfort and take in the fixtures.
In a juxtaposition to the austere white, eugenia topiaries were scattered about.
As she wove between busts and life-size marble renderings of some of Deering’s ancestors, Linnie trailed her fingertips along the stone podiums.
Linnie reached the farthest recess of the art room and abruptly stopped.
“Never tell me you’re more interested in admiring one of Rutland’s immobile ancestors than me?”
Linnie froze, her fingertips frozen damningly upon the defined stone bicep.
Her heart pounded.
That voice.
A deep, mellifluous baritone she’d recognize amidst a sea of one thousand murmuring gentlemen.
She’d thought to never see him again.
She’d expected she wouldn’t, on account that she couldn’t. Not as long as he and Cousin Arran remained embroiled in a feud.
“Don’t be shy, sweet,” he urged. “Stop hiding in the shadows. Take off your mask and let me see you.”
Sweet.
Her belly fluttered.
Over the course of her lifetime, he’d called her any number of things: Linnie-Lou. Brat. Boo. Poppet. Moppet—which only he’d been able to make sound like an endearment. Megrim-Maker.
“Ah, never say you want to play a game of hide-and-seek, pet?” He sounded drolly amused at the prospect.
A smile teased Linnie’s lips. “I assure you I’ve not come to Lord and Lady Rutland’s masquerade to partake in children’s games.” Hanging on to the carved arms of the stone Lord Rutland, Linnie swung herself so she could steal a glimpse of him. “I’m no child,” she called over. Not any longer.
She hadn’t been for a long time. He’d just never seen her as anything but.
He chuckled. “That is good, sweet, as the last thing I’m looking to do right now is entertain an innocent.”
She rolled her eyes. He hadn’t changed in that regard.
Although, in actuality, even though he’d grumbled and groused about all the McQuoid and Smith lasses dogging after him and the older lads, he’d still allowed Linnie and the rest to join in.
“Let me see you,” he ordered.
Linnie stiffened. His voice contained a harsh, sharp quality she’d never recalled.
“I don’t like your tone,” she said archly.
“Is that right?” he asked with more cynicism-laced amusement.