Fated Love - Deluxe Version

Chapter 4

4

Isabel

A member of the orchestra took a few minutes to replace a string on his instrument after it breaking during the last song, and as he re-tuned his viola, the three ladies moved toward the rear of the crowd, not wishing to get in the way of the dancers preparing to go onto the floor. Isabel tried not to let Marcus disappear from her sight, but it was proving difficult with all these tall people crowding her.

"I'm going back to my room for a while," Penelope whispered. "I will return later. I'm not feeling..."

"I know what you're thinking," Charlotte said. "Olivia has disappeared and Mr. Santiago has not yet made an appearance. But it cannot be as bad as you think, because we've all seen her making moon-eyes at Marcus."

"And he at her as well," Isabel whispered, "let's not forget that!" She scanned the room now that the tallish man in front of her led his dance partner through the crowd. "Well, it seems my brother has also disappeared." She could see almost everyone, except the few people in the darkened corner near the massive coat-of-arms tapestry. God, she hoped he wasn't over there with Olivia. She stood on her tip-toes trying to see past the people blocking her view. "It seems I have to keep my brother from making a fool of himself."

"We'll come with you, Penny," Charlotte offered.

"No." Isabel leaned in to whisper over the noise of the crowd and the musicians preparing to play. "I'm going to save my brother from being killed in a duel— especially if he's off somewhere ruining Olivia's reputation. I doubt that the earl would take kindly to Marcus taking advantage of that particular willing miss."

"We will be back in a few minutes, or at least I will. Please do not leave this room," Charlotte said. "If something should happen to you—"

Isabel patted her cousin on the arm. "Nothing will happen. Jennings and Harris are on the premises. I'll be right here when you return."

After her companions left, Isabel moved closer to that darkened corner, placing her empty champagne flute on a tray as a footman passed. She thanked the man, then settled in to watch the dancers, still looking for her brother, whilst tapping her toe in time to the song.

As the music crescendoed, she backed up several steps to avoid a collision with an overeager dancer dressed in lederhosen spinning closer to where she stood. Suddenly, an arm came around her waist, pulling her backward into contact with an obviously broad and very solid, muscular male body. Shock that someone had actually touched her, albeit to rescue her, rendered her momentarily stunned. She could see nothing but the gentleman's arm, encased in midnight blue superfine catching her just above her waist. Looking down at the arm, the glint of three silver buttons held her attention as he held her close, turning her away from the impending wreck. The man then braced himself, and absorbed the impact from the spinning top on two drunken left feet, saving her from a most undignified fall.

While her rescuer gave a slight grunt at the moment of the actual crash, he supported her perfectly and Isabel never once felt unbalanced or in fear of falling. Then she realized where his arm was, and her heart began to race, not in fear, but something else, a sensation she couldn’t identify. A warm and pleasant one, and one that stirred a sense of excitement and daring. Something she was unused to unless on the back of an energetic horse in need of exercise.

She recovered her senses and immediately apologized. “I'm so sorry," she began before the man behind her released her, wondering if she hadn't contributed to the situation by sipping her champagne too quickly. She hadn’t meant to get in anyone’s way, she was just trying to avoid colliding with the drunken dancer.

The threat was gone as the man wobbled off toward one of the doors, and still her rescuer held onto her. His strong body sheltered her for a moment longer than was necessary she was sure, but she had no desire to leave his protective embrace.

"Don't apologize, my lady," a deep masculine voice, with a soft Scots brogue said. "You are not at fault. It appears our neighbor, Mr. Bartlesby, is rather fond of dance."

The stranger released her and Isabel gave thanks she remained in the dim corner as she righted herself, straightening her bodice which she had very nearly spilled out of. Thank the good lord that she’d not embarrassed herself in front of this man, whoever he was—because she had a feeling she was going to like him.

"Someone should do him a favor and tell him the spirits are not helping his dance at all." She brushed an imaginary wrinkle from her red velvet bliaut while she slowly inhaled and exhaled. When she felt appropriately collected, she turned to face the man and thank him for his assistance. And found her eyes level with a wide chest attached to a very tall masculine form encased in a perfect-fitting dark blue coat. No gloves. He wore no gloves. Isabel’s heart raced, pounding like hoofbeats at full gallop. His bare hands were large, strong, masculine. And they were on her body, under her breast, supporting her.

He’d protected her.

Turning her stunned gaze upward to see her savior, she got a view of a strong, square chin with a shadow of stubble beginning to appear, and a Roman nose that hinted of a previous break at one time. She had to step back to get a better look at him, and that's when she took in the kilt, knee stockings and highly polished black dress shoes.The white shirt was a bit snug across his chest, his coat was open and she saw he had no waistcoat on, and the shirt had to have been someone else's, or this man was still growing. The stock tie around his neck was loosely tied and the top button of his shirt was loose, obviously to make room for that muscular neck. He'd either not finished dressing, or had no respect for his host and hostess, for if he did he wouldn’t attend their affair so recklessly attired.

She apologized again, this time for staring at him, judging, and finding him filled with careless disregard for propriety and lack of respect for Lady Adina. The burly Scot smiled back at her. Though unable to discern the exact shade of blue, his eyes held a glint of mirth to them as he returned her stare, giving him a rather youthful appearance. His short dark auburn hair curled gently, and she had the sudden urge to touch it to see if it were as soft as it appeared but held herself back. To do so wouldn’t be proper. Isabel studied the breadth of his shoulders, as wide as the enormous fireplace near the dais, and remembered how hard that wall of his chest felt. Surely he was made of the same stone that built this castle. That was when she realized there was not an ounce of down padding in that evening coat.

It was all him.

And suddenly her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. For certain, if a woman had to be saved by anyone, this big, braw Scot was just the man to do it.

His form, and obviously rugged nature appealed to some primitive, desirous creature within her. Like a sudden awakening of something improper or illicit, it terrified her because she was drawn to it, and she shouldn’t be. She had to remember where she was.

Magnificent as his physical form was, this man's eyes held her captive. Even in the poorly lit corner, she could tell he possessed beautiful eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes. Deep azure pools flecked with gold, they were a color she'd never seen before. Just looking into them made her quiver inside and her heart race. She couldn’t let anyone see her in such a state, it would lead to gossip, and she hated being the object of gossip. And here she was, suddenly unable to form words, precisely when she needed to most, in order to thank him for his assistance, and leave.

Realizing something far worse than nearly being bowled over by a drunken guest, or even spilling out of her bodice… Isabel froze with fear. The man had touched her with his bare hands, placed his arm around her person and held her intimately, and…

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Had her tongue been paralyzed?

They’d not been introduced!

Seeing her discomposure, the kilt-wearing Atlas quickly came to her assistance. "I apologize, my lady, for not having anyone readily at hand to introduce us. I am Laethan Ross Gordon, seventh Earl of Rathcavan."

He bowed low from the waist, and when he straightened, she took in the handsome visage of the man in his blue-plaid kilted finery. She exhaled a dramatic breath. Introductions! He thought her flustered about not having been introduced. That was a far better excuse for her discombobulated state, because if he knew she’d been attracted to him, that would be even more embarrassing. Isabel would never be able to live that down.

Then she remembered. He was the earl! Dear God in heaven, she’d been ogling her host! She had to get away from him—before they were spotted together without having been officially introduced. If anyone gossiped it was sure to make the papers, even from up here in the middle of nowhere, Scotland.

While she was the one who worried over proprieties such as introductions, he was trying to make her relaxed. He gave her a casual grin, as though this happened every day to him. She wanted to laugh at her own cowardice and silliness, but instead exhaled that breath she held because of her nerves. Once she’d done that, her tongue became miraculously unstuck.

"Lady Isabel Halden, my lord,” she replied as she curtsied before him. "Thank you for saving me from a most indecorous fall."

He relaxed as well. "I am glad I could be of assistance." He took her gloved hand in his bare one, lifted it, and kissed the air above her knuckles. "M'lady."

The warmth of his breath through the fine silk fibers of her glove shot a thrill up her arm, piercing her breast. "My lord, I believe your aunt and grandmother were looking for you not long ago."

"Likely to introduce me to yet another matron with marriageable-aged daughters," he replied.

"Is that why you're hiding back here?"

"I'm not hiding." His eyes lit up even more when he grinned if that were possible. "I'm observing."

"Maybe so,” she said, trying to get a glimpse of the main entrance into the great hall, and looking for Charlotte to return. “But… shouldn’t you be mingling with your guests, my lord, and not observing from dark corners?”

Where was Charlotte? In the absence of having her cousin with her, she should return to the safety of the dais, and her aunt and Lady Adina.

"I just arrived," he defended himself. "Besides, they're my grandmother, aunt, and sister's guests, not mine."

"Not so," Isabel replied. "You are the earl. You own this castle, not your grandmother, nor your sister. That makes you the host." Smiling, she leaned toward him and whispered, "No matter how unpleasant the duties.” Speaking with him came easy and felt comfortable for her, even though propriety dictated they be formally introduced.

"I consider rescuing damsels from over-eager and inebriated dancers a far more pleasant task than meeting pushy, overly-perfumed matrons with just-out-of-the-schoolroom daughters."

"Sorry, but it's part of the duties of the title." She shrugged her shoulders and offered him a quick sympathetic grin, while she tried to look around him toward the steps to the foyer, from where she knew her cousin would enter.

"Well, if that's the case, throw me into the dungeon then, for I think I've found what I'd rather be doing."

“Oh? And what's that?” Now he was getting her attention with his disarming and infectious smile.

His physical presence surrounded her, weakening her knees more than just a little. That grin could drive an abbess into an affair with Satan himself.

"Rescuing a particular damsel…” His infectious smile reminded her of a mischievous young lad, and for some reason she found that attractive. Perhaps it was because she was not allowed to be playful anymore. Ever. At least not the way she used to before she’d gone to London for her first season. “…from a drunken neighbor who cannae hold his liquor.” That grin and his eyes softened, and if she were a younger, more naive lady, she could see herself falling for his seduction. “I rather like the idea of standing behind you and rescuing you, as needed of course, for the rest of the night. You could consider me your personal guard."

That forced a laugh from her and tried to cover it up with a cough. "I already have several of those," she said. "I don't need another." He quirked a brow, and she waved away the unspoken question. "Oh, it's nothing. Really."

"Well he obviously wasn't here to save you from Mr. Bartlesby."

"They are not in the ballroom," she said. "Besides, I was trying to get away from your spinning neighbor, but was not quick enough."

"Thankfully, I was," he said, his voice deep and sure. And was yet another reason, along with his build and his boyish charm, that she found this man captivating. “And I would do it again if the situation required." He glanced over her head and quickly scanned the room. “Tell me, do you hunt, Lady Isabel?"

The way he spoke her name sent a thrill through her. As though there was a hidden promise in the words, some unspoken thrill he was about to share with her. “I enjoy an exciting chase," she said.

"Then you are not blood-thirsty." His gold-flecked sapphire eyes were quietly expressive, exposing something about himself, which she realized he was only sharing with her and it prompted her honest reply.

She lowered her gaze apologetically. "I am not." Ever conscious of being watched and spoken of, she noticed the hands of several of the matrons covering their mouths as they glanced her way. Time to head off any precipitous gossip.

"Well, my lord, I shall leave you to your observing," she bobbed a quick curtsy, looking to get away before gossip started. "I promise not to tell anyone where I found you, so your hideout is safe for the time being. Though someone else is sure to discover your darkened corner, and likely for a more wicked purpose.” One she wanted no part of because people would talk.

He stared into her eyes, his lips curving slightly, again giving her a grin to melt her perpetually cold feet. "Not if the corner is already occupied."

Her heart stopped a moment, his meaning clear. It was why she was there to begin with—to search for her brother and his sister! Once she collected her thoughts from the shock of his lurid comment, she replied with the same cool hauteur she would use on a London buck who dared make such an illicit offer to her. "You may occupy it alone, my lord. Or with another guest. I don’t… care.” Isabel fled the corner, leaving behind her host and all thought of finding her brother.

Isabel was amazed that her feet obeyed the command issued by her brain. Until that moment, their conversation was relaxed and flowed easily. The man didn't salivate over her breasts, or mentally calculate the cost of the jewels she wore. And just as she had begun to hope he might be different, he had to ruin it all with an invitation to scandal.

As she strode away, she was still reeling inside from his touch and warm breath on her skin through the silk threads of her glove. In truth, she had flirted with him, so his words were partly her own fault. Weren't they? He now probably thought her too forward and inappropriate. That upset her because she found him incredibly handsome and charming—when he wasn't asking her to do something impermissible. Something scandalous, that people would talk about for months to come.