Her Scottish Groom Read online

  By the night of the de Pontrevault ball, her new ensembles hung in her wardrobe. The comtesse had strictly forbidden her to wear any of them before this evening, despite her heated protests.

  “You must strike him like a bolt from the blue.” Gravel spurted as the ever present walking stick had pounded into it several days earlier. The comtesse had invited her for luncheon and they took a promenade afterward in the garden of her Paris house. Just at that moment, she scolded Diantha for wearing a new carriage dress in a shade of cornflower that turned her eyes to sapphire. “You’re stealing your own thunder!”

  “I did not put it on until his lordship left the house.” Her meek reply earned only a disapproving sniff. Regretfully, after returning home and avoiding Kieran’s eyes, she had complied with her friend’s dictate. She hoped it would work.

  After the hairdresser finished the tedious process of curling her hair and pinning it to her head, Diantha rose to her feet and stretched her back. Across the room, the maid sighed in disapproval as she finished laying out the ball gown. “Madame la comtesse would tell you to hurry and get dressed.”

  “I am quite ready to continue, now that the blood is once again flowing in my lower half.” She thanked the hairdresser, a slender man with pointed black mustachios, and turned to her servant as soon as he took his leave. As Florette helped her into the voluminous underskirt, Diantha asked anxiously if she had been wise to allow him to cut her hair into the fashionable but daring bangs.

  “Alors, milady, they are most becoming. One notices your eyes more.” She buttoned up the bodice and turned to pick up the overskirt from the bed. Diantha held out her arms to allow the other woman to fasten it over the bodice and skirt.

  She recalled her disappointment the first time Monsieur Worth had presented the gown to her. A mannequin had worn a dress of creamy satin unadorned with any contrasting color, ornamented only with three poufs down the back and a deeply flounced hem which fanned out into a train. Then he had snapped his fingers and an assistant had fastened the overskirt into place.

  In minutes the plain gown disappeared under a web of crimson lace which fitted the line of the bodice exactly before flaring to cover the skirt to the tops of its flounces. It had been cut to fall on either side of the bustle, held together below each pouf of satin by crimson velvet tabs sparkling with diamante buttons. More diamante glittered here and there on the overskirt, giving an impression of both severity and opulence. And it was red. She smirked as she imagined her mother’s expression of horror at the idea.

  A crimson velvet choker came along with the gown, but Florette placed a leather-covered box on the dressing table. “From milord.” Diantha opened it.

  “How lovely!” A necklace of rubies and diamonds in the shape of graduated bows nestled against the velvet interior along with a matching pair of earrings and an aigrette. She lifted each piece out to admire its painstaking workmanship.

  A quarter of an hour later, Diantha placed her gloved hand on the polished banister of the stairway and descended to the foyer. A sharp sense of disappointment overcame her when she discovered that instead of awaiting her at the bottom of the stairs, Kieran had prosaically disappeared into the library.

  Glaring at the closed door to that room, she sent for her opera cloak. Only after she wrapped its encompassing folds around her did she enter the library. Kieran sat reading a newspaper, a half empty snifter of brandy at his elbow.

  In his black and white formal evening attire, he looked downright stunning, an effect that only increased when he lifted his aqua eyes to smile at her.

  “You’re not even late. I was expecting to have another twenty minutes to read at least.” He finished off his brandy and stood to retrieve his black evening cloak from where it lay tossed over a chair.

  “Papa could never abide tardiness.” She watched him swirl the black cloak around his shoulders in one fluid motion. “Thank you for the jewels. They are lovely.”

  “I don’t suppose they’re very impressive next to some of those I saw your mother wearing.” He held out an arm to escort her through the foyer. “It’s an eighteenth-century set that came up for sale unexpectedly, and the comtesse informed me at dinner last week that I should look for rubies for you.”

  He spoke diffidently as they stepped outside into the dusk. A footman snapped to attention and opened the carriage door. “Presumably they go with your rig this evening?”

  Thinking of the elegant gown under her cloak, Diantha smiled at last. “Very nicely.”

  “I hope you don’t mind the lack of a tiara. There is a diamond one left among the family jewels, but it’s in Scotland.”

  The play of shadows and light from the vehicle’s lamp obscured the expression on his face, but she fancied he sounded almost shy about his offering. “Nonsense. The aigrette is perfect for my hair this evening.” She twisted her head to show him the glittering spray of diamonds holding a deep red rose in place next to the knot of hair at her crown. Long ringlets fell artfully from its back.

  “The earrings flatter you as well.” The timbre of his voice deepened as he lifted one of the baubles for closer inspection. “Delicate and unique.”

  She shivered as his fingertips stroked the delicate lobe. If she turned her head, she could plant a kiss on his palm. “We should go.” Barely able to whisper the words, she stepped toward the carriage. Kieran assisted her inside and waited while she arranged her flowing skirts before climbing in.

  During the short drive to the Hôtel Pontrevault, she had to resist caressing her ear where it still tingled from his touch. He had made no other attempts to wheedle his way into her bed, but she suddenly wondered if he intended the ruby set as a bribe. No, she thought, it would appear odd if he had not given her something out of the sizable dowry she brought him.

  As they approached their hostess’ home, the carriage slowed and joined a line of others waiting to pass under the gray stone arch into the courtyard. Her husband asked if she had visited the great house during her school days.

  “Yes, Sabine is dreadfully spoiled.” She chuckled. “Her family would come and fetch her to visit periodically, and she always begged them to let me come too.”

  “You were very close?”

  “Are.” She paused. “My parents would not allow me to correspond with her after she married, but on seeing her again, it was as if we had only been separated for a month. I suppose that sounds foolish, but it is so.”

  “Not at all. I was an only child.” His voice came out of the shadows wistfully. “I have a number of friends I feel the same way about.”

  Kieran looked out of the window at the slow-moving line ahead of them. “Whatever is taking them so long?”

  “It’s hard to maneuver several carriages in the courtyard.” Opposite from him, she peered out too. “The house was built in the seventeenth century on an odd-shaped piece of property, so it’s not an exact square. I don’t know why the designer didn’t put the garden on this side of the house and the courtyard on the other. I gather at the time this street was more prestigious than the one bordering the garden, but it would have been a more practical arrangement.” Catching herself, she subsided and changed the subject to a more conventional one.

  Although laid out off-kilter, the courtyard still presented an air of dignity as the carriage inched its way to the covered portico. Wrought-iron lamps blazed off of the glossy varnish of each vehicle, and illuminated a row of boxed shrubs set around its perimeter. Fairy lights glowing in the greenery added to the festive air as they descended from the carriage and mounted the steps up to the immense main door, now thrown open wide to admit guests.

  Strains of music greeted them before they entered, for the comtesse had engaged a quartet to play near the entrance. She herself chose to greet her guests at the arched doorway to an antechamber to one side of the vestibule, out of the drafts of the cool night air. To one side of her stood the current Comte de Pontrevault and his wife, to the other Sabine and her husband, Baron Serreux, in
whose honor she gave the ball.

  Footmen glided forward to take their wraps as soon as they stepped inside. Allowing her wrap to fall gracefully from her shoulders, Diantha smoothed the lace of her overskirt and dared a glance at Kieran.

  Her husband stood frozen in the act of handing his cloak to an attendant, his gaze riveted on her. Triumph bubbled inside, but she took care only to lay her furled ostrich feather fan on his arm. “Shall we proceed?”

  He continued to stare at her.

  “Kieran?”

  He collected himself and offered her his arm.

  Several minutes later the comtesse, resplendent in deep blue watered silk and black pearls, kissed her cheeks in greeting. “It would appear to be going well. He looks stunned.”

  Diantha glanced over to see the comte and her husband conversing. “I believe the word is ‘poleaxed.’”

  “What a dreadful sounding phrase.” Sabine inclined her strawberry blond curls toward them as she giggled. The gold embroidery on her gown and the diamonds at her throat glittered in the candlelight.

  “I suspect it is one of your grandmother’s trenchant phrases.” The lines around the comtesse’s eyes wrinkled in amusement. “I shall have to tax her with it next time I write to her.”

  “Do! Mama strongly disapproves of it.” Diantha gurgled with laughter as she moved away from them.

  Kieran’s ears pricked up at the sound of his wife’s amusement. She paused to speak with another acquaintance as he bowed over the hands of his hostesses and shook hands with the baron. Placing his fingers under Diantha’s elbow, he appraised her appearance out of the corner of his eye while they continued to greet other guests.

  He had come to think of Diantha as somewhat plain except for her excellent figure. Tonight, she looked like an exotic bird as she moved among the crowd. The rich color of the lace flattered her dark blue eyes, and the material itself frothed about her shoulders and low neckline in a way that made a man want to tug it down farther.

  As she strolled through the room ahead of him, the whisper of her train along the parquet floor enticed him to follow. He ran an appreciative eye over the way the pale satin material of her bustle flowed as she walked, until he looked about and saw several other men examining her covertly.

  When she halted in the doorway to the next anteroom, he took his place beside her, placing a possessive hand on the small of her back. She looked over her shoulder at him and raised an eyebrow at the gesture but said nothing. Then, with a disinterested shrug, she stepped away from him. For the second time in the space of an hour, he stood dumbfounded.

  Then his brows snapped together. He did not know what she was up to but he had no intention of stepping aside.

  Diantha, it seemed, had other ideas.

  He caught up with her as the ballroom opened out before them. She smiled up at him impishly. “I believe I see your marquise, my dear.” She gestured to the lovely widow who had thrown countless lures out to him since he had arrived in Paris.

  Without another word, Diantha extended her hand to a lanky young cavalier who hurried over with a flowery compliment. Laughing, she slipped away into the crowd without a backward glance.

  A light touch on Kieran’s arm claimed his attention. Beside him, Solange de Tourelle cocked her head and observed his wife’s departure. “She’s much prettier than I expected.” Her low voice purred into his ear. “But as you said, a trifle wet behind the ears. Come dance with me, mon cher.”

  Watching out of the corner of his eye, he did not think Diantha looked remotely wet behind the ears as she tapped the fan against her boyish escort’s shoulder. With her cheeks flushed she looked prettier than he had ever seen her before.

  “My dear Lord Rossburn.” His would-be inamorata tapped her foot as she waited for him. Without another word, he swung her out among the waltzing couples, but not without a last glower over his shoulder. The stripling bowed and left his wife when she held out both hands and bestowed a dazzling smile on a craggy-faced man who looked vaguely familiar.

  The marquise pursed her lips in distaste when she observed the encounter. “Mon Dieu, tell me that decrepit old woman did not invite Sir Harry Emerson.”

  Kieran stiffened. “If you refer to the Comtesse de Pontrevault, I should point out that she is a connection of mine.”

  Somewhat sulkily, his partner begged his pardon. They reached the end of the ballroom, where a small orchestra played in an arched alcove. Negotiating the turn to dance back up the room, a flash of jeweled buttons and white satin caught his attention. The unmistakable back of Diantha’s gown flared out gently as she whirled in the arms of the man he had come to dislike already.

  He broke in on Solange’s flow of inconsequential gossip. “Who is this Emerson?”

  A look of annoyance crossed her face. “A compatriot of yours, although assuredly not of our class. He owns a factory of some kind and is nearly as wealthy as your new father-in-law. I believe he bought his title a few years ago.” She shrugged, clearly tired of the conversation, and they finished the waltz.

  After obtaining champagne for the marquise and himself, he turned her over to her next dance partner with a sense of relief and went in search of Diantha. He found her engaged in an animated conversation with the factory owner and tamped down an unexpected flash of anger.

  Forcing a smile to his lips, he strolled forward and begged to be introduced. As she made the two men known to each other, he sized up the other man.

  Only a few inches shorter than he, Emerson possessed the rangy quality of a lean wolf. Kieran put his age somewhere in his late thirties, judging by the sandy hair going to gray and the faintly lined forehead. Although dressed in an impeccably tailored evening suit, the other man betrayed his background as soon as he opened his mouth, for he spoke with an unapologetic Yorkshire accent.

  “Harry Emerson, North Riding Shipyards.” He held out his hand. Despite Kieran’s hostility, he admired the man’s lack of pretentiousness and held out his own. As they shook hands, he realized Emerson was assessing him closely, too. “I’ve built a few steamers for Quinn over the years, known Diantha since she was a girl.” He turned his head to watch the marquise dance past before regarding Kieran with cool green eyes. “I’m sure your lordship knows what a lucky man you are to have married her.”

  His temper flared again but he replied smoothly. “Indeed I do, Sir Harry. In fact, I came over to ask her ladyship if she cared to dance.” He did not exactly lie, for he had expected to dance at least once with her. In the first place it was only proper, and also he had noticed during their engagement that while she was a graceful dancer, men often overlooked her.

  This did not appear to be the case this evening. In the friendliest manner possible, she smiled and informed him that while one waltz remained open for him, the rest of her dance card was filled.

  “In fact, here comes my partner now.” Handing her champagne glass to Kieran, she held out her fingers to the comtesse’s grandson. “Roch, your timing is perfect. The introduction is just starting.” As the first strains of the next tune played, she strolled onto the floor.

  He could not take his gaze off her satin-covered derriere for several seconds. Looking around, his lips pressed together. Several other men in the room eyed her backside just as appreciatively.

  While he did not precisely spend the rest of the evening dancing attendance on his wife, he did stay in her vicinity as best he could. By the time he claimed his waltz he had experienced a considerable sense of ill-usage.

  “Why didn’t you save me the supper dance?” He frowned down at her as soon as the music started.

  “You had apparently already asked the Marquise de Tourelle. Why are you in such a pet?” The diamonds in her aigrette flashed as she tipped her head back to look at him.

  Like a burr under his skin, the justice of her reply only served to irritate him further. He had spent the supper interval watching her dining with Sir Harry, who had, in his opinion, hovered unnecessarily close when not wai
ting on her.

  When he taxed her with this, she sighed. “You are exaggerating the case. While he is undeniably charming, and enjoys female company, his heart is unattainable.” Her face saddened. “He buried it when his wife died years ago.”

  “You have treated him with particular favor all evening.” Even to his own ears, the accusation sounded petty, for Diantha had not passed the bounds of propriety.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Why not? There was a plan afoot to marry me to him at one time. That’s why we came to London in the first place last year.”

  The sprightly music of the orchestra filled the silence between them as he grappled with this bombshell. It had never occurred to him that she might have had another suitor.

  As they twirled in silence, he noticed the fragrance from the rose in her hair and the fine texture of her skin in the light from the chandeliers.

  Remembering the night before their wedding when he had discovered her in her father’s library, he wondered if she had only given him an excuse for her drunkenness. When the music came to an end, he could only think to bow.

  Not until the carriage drove them back to the Avenue Montaigne in the small hours of the morning did he dare to ask her the question that weighed on his heart.

  “Do you regret not marrying Sir Harry?” He stared straight ahead.

  She paused before replying. “It wasn’t really a matter of regret. It was much the same as our own engagement. Mama and Papa simply informed me I would be married, and to whom.” No trace of self-pity entered her voice. “You came along before anything had been decided for certain between Papa and Sir Harry.”

  “That must have been difficult for you, being passed around like a refreshment tray.” He reached over to take her hand.

  A breath of laughter sounded beside him. “An apt, if lowering, description.” She rallied a little. “But as I said, his heart would never be mine.”