A Lass Beloved (The Earls of Cairnfell #2)

Prologue

Lady Melbourne’s ballroom

London, England

Change had much in common with an ill-tempered tabby cat.

Lord Matthias Kinsey felt rather emphatic on the point.

One could seek for Change under sofas and beds—pleading in dulcet tones—only for it to dart away on an angry hiss. And yet, when least wanted, Change leapt into your lap, batted aside your book, and pricked your chest with its sharp claws, demanding attention.

For years, Change had eluded Matt.

Tonight, however, he had decided to snatch Change by the tail and drag it yowling into the light.

Lady Melbourne’s ball undulated around him, faces and voices moving in a synchronous murmuration that Matt had never quite learned. A pair of dancers swept close, forcing him to step back.

Matt felt like a timid wren in a room of gregarious starlings.

He wiped perspiration off his forehead with a handkerchief.

The room was stifling—the open window at his back offering little relief.

Granted, the heavy velvet curtain brushing against his right shoulder didn’t help either.

At least his position half-tucked behind the curtain hid his right forearm—or rather, the space where his right forearm should be.

Perhaps he would be spared frowning looks and averted gazes tonight.

As ever, he noticed the moment she entered the ballroom.

Miss Cecily Moulton.

Tall and lithe with rich brown hair and a charmingly pointed chin, Miss Moulton glided like an angel, the embroidered gold threads of her white muslin gown shimmering in the candlelight.

The sight of her caused a familiar tipping sensation in Matt’s chest. As if he had tumbled off a cliff when first he saw her six weeks past and had been falling ever since. Or perhaps, more apt, she was the fulcrum around which his thoughts revolved, his gaze constantly tethered to her movements.

Given the number of heads swiveling in her direction, the assembled gentlemen felt similarly.

In addition to her beauty, Matt suspected that Miss Moulton was kind. He had observed that she listened politely, head canting in interest. Once, Matt had watched her place a steadying hand under an elderly gentleman’s elbow and assist him to a seat.

To Matthias, Miss Moulton appeared the quintessential lady. Gracious. Amiable. Thoughtful. The sort who might not spurn him. Who might look past his deformity to the man within.

Perhaps. Maybe.

If only he could work up the courage to request an introduction.

Tonight . . . he was determined. He would rally his nerve—seize Change by the scruff, as it were—and finally speak with her.

Miss Moulton moved through the crowd, smiling and nodding at acquaintances, eliciting a ripple of cheery expressions. A handsome, blond suitor bowed and escorted her into position for a quadrille. She glided across the floor on slippered feet, blushing when her partner leaned to whisper in her ear.

Matt swallowed and rubbed his sternum. Anything to quench the ferocious ache, to cease this—

“For the love, Matthias,” a deep voice said at his left elbow.

Matthias startled, turning to meet his older brother’s hazel eyes.

“Cease this wallflower nonsense,” Gray continued. “You’re a wraith hovering at the edges of the room.”

Piers Kinsey, Duke of Grayburn, had never felt out of place. A year Matt’s senior, His Grace had been appointed to the highest echelons of Polite Society at birth. Not once had Gray sought Change. If an adjustment were needed, Gray commanded, and Change hastened to obey.

“Come to London with me. It is high time you officially entered Society,” Gray had said three months ago. “With Father gone, I am to be vested as the new duke. Father didn’t care to push you to find a bride, but I think the time has come.”

Translation—I’m duke now, and I refuse to tolerate my younger brother lurking about Dunmore like a specter.

For his part, Matthias hadn’t despised the idea. Conceptually, marriage held tremendous appeal, and London was considered the place to find a bride.

As ever, thoughts of marriage caused his gaze to drift to Miss Moulton. She performed a buoyant hop that wobbled the curls framing her lovely face and caused Matt’s heart to give a similar lurch.

His solitary palm perspired in its white silk glove at the thought of beginning a conversation with her.

He had scarcely spoken with a lady since his mother’s death four years past. If the Greeks still held Olympic Games, Matthias was quite sure he would win an olive wreath for Most Nervous to Speak with a Débutante.

Seizing Change required a rather alarming amount of verve.

Matt looked to Gray. “You know I find London . . . overwhelming.”

Gray half-rolled his eyes. “I allowed that Town could be confounding when first we arrived. But it has been nearly eight weeks, Matt. You have had time to adjust.”

Yes, well, Matt had twenty-one years to adjust to life with only one arm, and he feared even another twenty-one would fail to accomplish the task.

Add to that his shy tongue and blushing unease in company, and it was no wonder he had never “taken” to Polite Society.

Dunmore, the family seat in rural Scotland, was more to his liking—quiet with a stable of willing horses.

“Adjustment takes longer for some.” Matt lifted the stub of his right arm, truncated at the elbow.

“Balderdash and well you know it, Matt,” Gray scoffed. “The war rages with Napoleon. Admiral Nelson made losing an arm fashionable. No one bats an eyelash at a gentleman missing an arm or a leg. If anything, it renders him a hero.”

“My case is hardly the same.”

Matt’s missing limb didn’t represent courage in battle. It wasn’t a bitter souvenir of brave heroics.

He had simply been born with the defect.

The quadrille ended, and Miss Moulton smiled as her partner escorted her back to a waiting chaperone.

The older woman fanned her face vigorously.

Miss Moulton took the lady’s hand in solicitous concern.

The blond gentleman said something that earned a pretty laugh before he bowed and disappeared in the direction of the refreshment table.

“This endless staring of yours grows tiresome,” Gray sighed. “You will gather your courage and speak with a lady before this evening is over. That is an order. I’ve introduced you to no insignificant number of women over the past few weeks.”

But not the one I want.

“Think of the lady as a horse,” Gray continued. “That should do the trick.”

“I cannot imagine any lady would appreciate the comparison.” Matt clenched his sweating palm into a fist.

If ladies were as easy as horses, he would already be married. Matt claimed few skills, but a knack with horseflesh was one of them.

You want change, he reminded himself. Open your pathetic mouth and ask Gray if he will introduce you to Miss Moulton.

At the very least, that would meet Gray’s ultimatum.

Matt could do this.

He would do this.

“Brother—” Matt sucked in a deep breath. “—would it be possible to—”

“Gray! There you are!” a gentleman interrupted.

Matthias looked to the newcomer, unsure if he was grateful for the reprieve or frustrated to see Lord Stafford approaching them.

A full head shorter than Matt, Stafford was an overly eager sort.

He laughed easily and freely shared opinions on everything from the required pedigree of an excellent hunter to the importance of a properly starched neckcloth.

He had been Gray’s closest friend since their first day at Eton.

Matt envisioned their initial encounter had gone thusly: Young Gray stood in stony silence while Stafford prattled at length, and they decided that such a dynamic constituted friendship.

Not that Matt knew anything about Eton. He had never attended school.

“No need to parade the ducal misfit for all to see,” his mother had once said to his tutor. “It’s preferable to keep Lord Matthias out of sight.”

“Stafford.” Gray nodded to his friend. “We missed you earlier at White’s.”

“Apologies, old boy. I had business with my solicitor.” Stafford craned his neck. “I say, have you seen Lady Mariah? She promised me the next set.”

Gray’s jaw tensed, nostrils flaring. Stafford’s obsession with Lady Mariah Balfour irritated His Grace to no end.

The Balfours and Kinseys were like spilled brandy and a lit candle—instantly combusting when they crossed paths. Their family estates bordered one another in Scotland, and they had been at each other’s throats for generations.

Lord Stafford had visited Dunmore last winter, taken one look at Lady Mariah during Sunday services, and tumbled like a greenhorn out of the saddle and into a veritable lake of calf love.

“I can hardly continue our friendship if Stafford decides to marry that . . . that woman,” Gray had complained just yesterday to Matt. Woman being the mildest noun in his repertoire when referring to Lady Mariah. Harpy and shrew also made regular appearances.

Despite Gray’s disapproval, Stafford was dogged in his pursuit. Lady Mariah was captivating with her dark curls and bright, expressive blue eyes. Heaven knew, Matt had caught Gray studying her more than once.

Case in point—

Lady Mariah strolled into the ballroom on the arm of Lord Cairnfell, Lady Mariah’s younger brother and heir to the Earl of Northcairn, their father.

Gray hissed.

“At last!” Stafford crowed. “Come. Let us greet them.”

Stafford disappeared into the crowd.

Gray growled a string of profanity. He leaned toward Matt. “Speak to a lady. Tonight. No more excuses.”

Pivoting, he followed after Stafford.

No less than three gentlemen surrounded Miss Moulton now, including the blond man. She greeted them with a smile and animated conversation. The gentlemen didn’t appear overly wealthy or dashing. Miss Moulton even topped two of them by half a head.

Change. You can grasp it.

Straightening his spine, Matt lifted his chin.

He was going to go speak with Miss Moulton. He would request an introduction and—

“. . . have you seen Grayburn tonight?” a female voice drifted in.

Matt frowned, head cocking toward the sound.