Never Tempt a Scot

Chapter 2

2

Brodie rejoined his friend Rafe to watch the dancers swirl around the assembly room. “What the devil was that about?” Rafe asked.

Brodie tried not to scowl. He’d been in a good mood until a moment ago. Surely he wasn’t that off his usual seduction methods, was he? He usually got slapped after a kiss, not before. His cheek stung faintly, but it was a strong reminder that English ladies weren’t nearly so easily charmed as the ladies in Scotland. They clearly expected more to result from a bit of fun.

“The wee lass who introduced herself. She wanted to speak to me.”

Rafe shot Brodie a sardonic grin. “Did she have anything interesting to say?”

“She wanted me to marry her.” Brodie smiled ruefully. “Damned innocent creature.”

Rafe’s laugh held a hint of darkness. “Brodie, my friend, here is your first lesson of life in England. No one in this room is innocent, especially the young unmarried ladies. They are far more dangerous than anyone else here tonight.”

Brodie took a glass of ratafia from a servant who passed them carrying a tray. “I’m not afraid of a wee hen.”

“You should be. Even the most fire-breathing dragon of a chaperone should be less feared than a young unmarried lady. You see, we are the prey.” Rafe tapped his own chest. “We’re the ones being hunted.”

“You let English lasses frighten you so?” Brodie chuckled. “My brother Brock wasna afraid of his bride. He simply ran off with her. Not even your brother and his fancy friends could stop him from claiming Joanna.”

Rafe’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You don’t understand. Your brother was doing what my sister wanted him to do. She was in charge of that adventure. Never assume otherwise. You forget, I stopped them on the road under the guise of a highwayman and caught your brother unaware. He stood no chance against us.”

“There were three of you, and he was protecting your sister. If he hadna been with her, he would have easily taken you all,” Brodie challenged. He would not let his friend speak ill of his brother. Brock had always looked after him and their younger siblings, Rosalind and Aiden.

“I seek no quarrel with you,” Rafe cut in more amiably. “My point was to remind you that the unmarried ladies here in England treat marriage as a serious business. If that chit has marked you as hers, you had better watch your back.”

“I thank you for the warning.” Brodie swept his gaze over the ballroom with fresh eyes, searching for predators in pretty skirts.

Rafe continued his lesson. “Allow me to provide an example. You might think that an invitation to a dark alcove is a good idea. But unless you can be certain that the lady issuing the invitation is set on nothing more than a bit of fun, odds are you’re walking into a trap.” Rafe tapped his temple. “Best to keep a sharp eye until you are comfortable recognizing which ladies do not have marriage in mind. Widows are always good.” Rafe nodded toward a curvaceous brunette dancing nearby.

“Widows?” Brodie repeated. “They dinna mourn their husbands?”

Rafe threw his head back and laughed.

“Depends on the widow, old boy. Many widows here are young and starved for a decent man’s touch after having been married to men thirty or forty years their elder.”

Brodie didn’t like the sound of that. He knew that women most often married older men for practical or social reasons, but in Scotland the age difference usually did not exceed twenty years.

“Now spinsters are also an option, if they make it clear to you that they have given up on marriage. In fact, the ones with a bit of financial security often welcome romantic entanglements without marriage being offered. They have too much to lose if they marry.”

Brodie listened to Rafe explain the various types of English ladies, from bluestockings down to cyprians.

“Now, these bluestockings, do they actually wear blue stockings?” Brodie asked. He was still foxed from their drinking earlier, and he was quite enjoying listening to his friend lecture about women. He was so foxed, in fact, that his vision was a bit blurred at times.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Rafe mused. “Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea where the name comes from. But you won’t get far with one of those. Take Lysandra Russell.” He discreetly pointed to a red-haired beauty in a green silk gown who had just been asked to dance.

“Aye, what of that one?” Brodie inquired curiously. He wouldn’t mind bedding that lass.

“Complete bluestocking. She’ll chatter to no end about science if you let her.”

“Have you?” Brodie teased his companion.

Rafe flashed him a devil-may-care-grin. “I might have . . . in the hopes of a kiss. Half an hour later, all I had was some rather useless knowledge about comets.”

“Comets?” That did mildly interest Brodie. While he was the most outgoing of his siblings, and by far the most scandalous, he did enjoy discussing things with women, at least when he wasn’t kissing them. In Scotland, he spent much of his time at Castle Kincade and rarely in town, which meant his choice of ladies, especially ones who were well educated, was far lower than it was in Edinburgh, London, or even Bath.

“Perhaps the lass would like me,” Brodie murmured as he watched her dance. She did have a pretty smile.

“Er . . . No. You must not have heard me say her name. She’s a Russell.”

Brodie still stared at him, having not a clue what the man was on about.

“As in Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester. One of Ashton’s friends?”

“Ah.” Brodie nodded. “One of the League of Rogues, is he?” Not that he was worried. English gentlemen were no match for Scots in a bout of fisticuffs.

Rafe nudged him. “Whatever you’re thinking about, forget it, my friend. Lucien won’t fight you with his fists if you compromise his beloved baby sister. They would likely only find pieces of you in the Thames. Best not to risk it over a bluestocking.”

“So, who am I to choose, then? I don’t see anyone left,” Brodie grumbled.

“Perhaps it’s time to quit this place. We made a good show here. We pleased the master of ceremonies and have been on our best behavior, more or less. It’s time to go to places more suited to our interests, wouldn’t you say?”

Brodie felt like smiling again. “I would indeed.”

“Are you any good at cards?” Rafe asked as they left.

“Quite good,” Brodie assured him.

“Excellent. I know just the place.”

Lydia was in the middle of one of the few dances she’d been asked for when she saw the handsome Scotsman and Rafe Lennox leave the assembly room. Disappointment stirred within her as the tall, dark-haired Brodie Kincade left her sight.

Lysandra joined her as the dance ended. “Are you all right?” Her face was flushed after that last quadrille.

“Yes.” Lydia was not as exhausted from the dance as her friend. She adored dancing, and while she was rarely asked to dance at occasions like this, she danced at home whenever she was alone. While Portia was out paying calls, Lydia chose to enjoy that time either reading, gardening, or dancing.

“It seems your great-aunt has taken your sister home.” Lysandra nodded toward the entryway, where they had last seen Portia and Cornelia.

“That’s one small mercy.” Lydia felt callous for saying that, but she had so few moments to enjoy herself in public without worrying about Portia and what fresh trouble she would stir up.

“Come and say hello to Lawrence and Zehra,” Lysandra suggested.

As they made their way through the packed room, Lydia was relieved to be lost amongst the crowd for a spell. Being responsible for watching over her little sister meant there was always a chance she would end up at the center of attention, and not in a good way. It was a relief to be merely among the throng and not have to worry what Portia was up to.

“Lawrence, Zehra.” Lysandra greeted her older brother and his new wife. Lawrence turned his attention to Lydia. “I’ve brought Lydia over, as promised,” said Lysandra.

“Miss Hunt, a pleasure to see you again.” Lawrence was a handsome red-haired devil and quite charming when he wasn’t brooding. Since he’d married Zehra, he’d been brooding less and beaming more. The man was clearly infatuated with his wife, but that didn’t stop him from being courteous. Lawrence bowed over Lydia’s hand.

She smiled. “It is my pleasure as well, Mr. Russell.”

He turned his attention to the woman at his side. “Please allow me to introduce you to my wife, Zehra. Zehra, this is Miss Lydia Hunt.”

Lydia smiled warmly at the dark-haired, olive-skinned woman. She was exquisitely beautiful. It was no wonder that the last time she had met Lawrence he’d been preoccupied, because he’d already met his beloved Zehra. There was quite a story behind it as Lysandra had informed her. Zehra had been captured in her father’s homeland of Persia by a rival tribe and sold into slavery, only to be secretly bought by Lawrence. Zehra was in fact a Persian princess and a granddaughter to an English peer. Once Lawrence had freed Zehra, he had kept her at his home, in secret, until he could stop a Persian slave trader who had wished her harm.

“It is wonderful to meet you, Miss Hunt.” Zehra curtsied, and Lydia did the same.

“Am I to understand we have rescued you from a bit of unpleasantness?” Lawrence asked.

“You have indeed, and I am most grateful. My sister, Portia, was quite determined to make a spectacle of herself. Our chaperone, Mrs. Wilcox, was quite upset. You spared me a long coach ride home, having to witness their duel of words.”

“Ah, I understand. Quite glad to be of service.” Lawrence shared a grin with his wife. “Well, we are ready to leave when you are. Or we can remain a bit longer.”

“I am ready,” Lydia assured him. In truth, she was tired enough to go home, knowing the moment her head hit her pillow she would be asleep. In London, balls could go into the early morning, when dawn turned everything a pale gray before the sun crested the horizon. But in Bath, balls ended promptly at eleven, and it was nearly eleven now.

“Then, shall we?” Lawrence waved a hand. The trio of ladies fell in line behind him, and they walked outside together, where Lawrence summoned their coach home. During the ride to Lydia’s residence, the women exchanged news of their mutual friends.

“We shall be attending the Pump Room tomorrow, if you would like to join our party,” Zehra offered.

“I would like that very much,” said Lydia.

“Wonderful. We will meet tomorrow after lunch, around two o’clock.”

Lydia thanked Zehra again for the invitation before she exited the coach at her townhouse in Royal Crescent. “And thank you for the escort home, Mr. Russell.” Lydia waved goodbye from the top step of the elegant home her father had recently purchased as their new residence.

Portia had convinced their father that Bath was the best place to find a husband, and so he had quickly purchased a home on the most fashionable street in Bath, the illustrious Royal Crescent. Lydia did enjoy living in the most elegant part of the city, but Bath was not as popular as it had once been. It seemed most of the younger crowd frequented other places, such as London or seaside resorts like Brighton. However, a wealth of older families still resided in Bath, and Portia was insistent she would find a handsome young man with a title and money here. Lydia knew that to find all three qualities of looks, good fortune, and a title wasn’t easy, but she could not convince her sister otherwise.

As she entered their townhouse, their butler, Mr. Annis, met her at the door.

“Did you have a good evening, Miss Hunt?”

“I did.” She’d certainly had fun with Lysandra, even if she hadn’t been asked to dance as much as she would have liked.

Annis smiled warmly at her. “I’m glad to hear it. Mrs. Kloester has a glass of milk and a few biscuits for you in your room. We anticipated your arrival after Miss Portia arrived home.”

“Thank you, Annis. Was Portia still upset? I hope she and Mrs. Wilcox did not quarrel too much during the ride home.”

“Er, no. Quite the opposite, really. Miss Portia seemed rather pleased about something. She went to bed humming.”

“Humming?” Lydia sensed impending doom, though she could not guess as to what form it would take. Her sister was up to something.

“If you need anything at all, I shall be awake another hour,” the butler said.

“No, go on to bed, Annis.” She started toward the stairs, then paused. “Annis? Is my father home, or did he go to his club this evening?”

“He’s home, Miss Hunt. In his study, I believe.”

Lydia changed course and headed for her father’s study. The door was ajar, but she knocked anyway.

“Papa?”

“Yes, my child?”

Lydia nudged the door open and slipped inside. Jackson Hunt was reading a book in one hand and holding a glass of scotch in the other. Her father was tall and fit and still quite attractive for a man in his early fifties. He had a ready wit and indulgent kindness that people often mistook for weakness, but he was in fact a shrewd businessman. With a tidy fortune and a country estate in Surrey, the Hunt family was well off enough that most society doors opened to them. Especially the homes where unmarried young men had caught a glimpse of Portia.

“How are you, my dear?” Jackson set his book aside and gestured to a chair across from his desk.

“Fine, Papa.” She seated herself and tried to plan her next words as best she could.

“Yes?”

“I am worried about Portia.”

“Oh? What’s the little bit gone and done now?” He gave a smile he only reserved for Portia, and it pricked at Lydia’s heart like a thorn. He had no special smiles like that reserved for her.

“She’s taken a fancy to a Scotsman. He was in questionable company tonight at the assembly rooms, and Lysandra Russell warned Portia not to take an interest in him. I am worried she is going to do something reckless in order to obtain a marriage to this gentleman.”

Jackson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “What kind of reckless?”

“Well, to start with, she walked up to this gentleman and introduced herself, rather than having the master of ceremonies introduce her. You know how strict the protocol is for the assembly rooms. She was lucky not to be cast out and banned from returning.”

Lydia had always thought the position of master of ceremonies was silly, but it was derived from the royal courts and was designed to supervise public behavior and help maintain a level of decorum and manners at social functions. If one displeased or upset the master of ceremonies, one would likely be disgraced.

Jackson chuckled at Lydia’s mention of Portia’s outburst. “Well, at least she goes after what she desires. It reminds me of myself. I was about your age when I first saw your mother. There was nothing that could keep me away from her.”

Lydia knew then that her request for Portia to be checked would go unanswered. Her father’s gaze grew distant. He was lost in the mists of the past, where his beloved wife was still alive.

“Papa,” Lydia said, trying to catch his attention.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Lydia. Never mind Portia for now. Did you enjoy the ball? Find any young man just up to scratch for you?”

“No.” She ran her fingertips over her rather plain rose-colored silk gown. “Papa, please listen to me about Portia. You and Great-Aunt Cornelia must keep a sharper eye on her.”

“I know, I know. We depend on you far too much, don’t we?” Her father sighed. “When your mother died, I was too quick to place so many duties upon your young shoulders.” That was not something Lydia would disagree with him on, but she sensed he was gently changing the subject.

“What if I were to send you to Brighton? You may take that friend of yours, Miss Russell, along with you. What do you think? I could hire a chaperone for you and keep your great-aunt here in charge of Portia while she hunts for a husband.”

The offer was far too tempting. She had been longing to visit a seaside resort and try her hand at bathing. But she knew her duty and couldn’t leave.

“No, I should stay here and help you with Portia.”

“Nonsense. Mrs. Wilcox and I can handle the child. Why don’t you go on to bed? We can discuss this more in the morning.”

That was the end of it. She would have no more luck tonight in convincing him. With a sigh, Lydia stood and nodded.

“Good night, Papa.” She came around his desk and bent to kiss his cheek before she headed upstairs. As she walked past Portia’s room, she saw a light on and was tempted to speak with her. Portia, while a vain creature often focused on gowns and balls, did enjoy staying up late to read, and Lydia thought it was best not to disturb her.

Lydia’s lady’s maid, Phyllis, stood waiting for her. They shared a tired smile as she helped Lydia undress.

“Would you like a bath tonight?”

“No, thank you, Phyllis. Go on to bed,” she encouraged the maid, who gratefully left her bedchamber.

Lydia combed out her hair and climbed into bed. A small glass of fresh milk and a plate of biscuits rested on the table beside her. She ate her midnight snack and wondered what to do. She couldn’t leave Portia alone. The trip to Brighton would have to be postponed.

She blew out the candle on her night table and settled into bed. But as sleep drifted near, her thoughts wandered back to the dark-haired Scotsman.

What if Portia were to successfully marry such a man? He would attend family dinners, father Portia’s children . . . For some reason, the thought made Lydia’s heart heavy. If anyone were to snare the attention of a handsome man like that, it would be her sister.

She was suddenly overcome with a foolish rush of tears, because she knew she would never have a chance to make a match with a man like that. She was too old, too uninspiring, and that knowledge crippled her with an unbearable loneliness that left her awake well past midnight.