Highlander Undone (21 page)

A
ddie dashed up the outside steps to the Merritt townhouse’s front door where the doorman bowed her into the front hallway and she handed a waiting attendant her cloak.

She was late. Again. She thought she’d allowed the newly hired lady’s maid plenty of time to dress her hair. How was she to know it would take nearly an hour to tuck, coil, crimp, and tug her tresses into a fashionable arrangement?

She took three deep breaths. Jack would be here. How would things have changed? He had shown her what her body was capable of feeling with a reverence and ardor she’d never dreamt possible. Now, she was not afraid of how he would act, but how she would.

She suspected she would wear her heart on her sleeve for all society to see. Well, she didn’t really give a fig! She loved Jack. What of it?

At the entrance to the ballroom, she stopped and touched the slick, tinted salve that the maid had brushed on her lips. From there, her fingers traced an incredulous path across the gossamer-thin dusting of powder on her cheeks. Paint. She’d actually painted her face. And there was no second-guessing herself on the reason why; she’d wanted to look enticing. To Jack.

She felt another rush of the pleasurable anticipation she’d experienced every time she’d thought of him. She did not doubt he cared for her profoundly and passionately—and whatever his reasons for denying them a complete union, she knew it was only a matter of time before he did. She meant to hasten that moment.

And she would, she thought delightedly, her gaze traveling over her new ball gown. In this dress she could have affected the capitulation of a monk!

The thickly embroidered front panels of poor Louis XIV’s lavender-colored satin jacket had been remade into the close-fitting bodice of her dress. There hadn’t been a great deal of cloth left after Mssr. Drexhall had taken shears to the priceless antique, but there hadn’t been a necessity for much. The sleeveless bodice barely covered the crests of her breast, pushing up her fulsome endowments and nipping in tightly at the waist.

Sinuously curving drake-green silk inserts began beneath her arms at the side seams of the bodice and flowed in provocative lines beneath her bosom, twining together where they met. The same drake-green satin bow decorated an extravagantly draped bustle. The underskirt was palest lavender silk moiré studded with tiny silver beads.

It was exotic, quixotic, and undeniably sensual. She stepped into the crowded ballroom feeling confident, utterly feminine, and knowing she’d never spent money so well in her life—

“Ah, Mrs. Hoodless!”

Paul Sherville was at her side, his gaze greedily devouring her. “And who are you masquerading as, dear lady?” he mocked. “It is a masquerade ball, if you recall.”

Her nascent self-confidence teetered in the face of his leering derision. But just for a moment. In the next, she saw him for what he was: a weak, malicious man, so ineffectual in his own mind that he needed to taunt others to convince himself of his own superiority. How pitiful he was! As, she thought with sudden acuity, had been Charles.

“Why, Major Sherville, I didn’t feel the need to masquerade as anyone. I am quite happy with who I am. But let me see, whom might you be portraying tonight in all that black cloth? Wait.” She paused and let her gaze travel insolently over him before snapping her fingers lightly. “I have it. The Marquis de Sade!”

In answer, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them so that he towered over her. “You are feeling very brave tonight, Mrs. Hoodless. But I would have a care. One can think oneself invulnerable . . . until one isn’t.”

She had no idea what he meant. He really was ridiculous with his theatrical pronouncements and his threatening mien.

“Major Sherville, the only thing that shall disappear is you. When I turn my back,” and, suiting action to word, she moved easily past him, walking sedately into the throng.

Several times on her way to greet her hostess, she was hailed by former acquaintances, both people she’d known as a young girl and people she’d met through her brother. For the first time in years, she found herself looking about her with a sense of pleasure at seeing familiar faces rather than trepidation at encountering one of Charles’s cronies.

And when she was finally, as she knew she would be, greeted by one of Charles’s casual military acquaintances, she was gratified by how easily she responded to his polite conversational gambits and, with a touch of surprise, discovered he was not a monster but simply a tongue-tied young man in a red coat.

But she was not yet so confident in her newly rediscovered self-assurance that she was entirely comfortable with him. And she could not deny her relief when he bowed politely after escorting her across the room to where Lady Merritt held court and Addie found herself pushed to the front of the queue to greet their hostess. As she caught sight of Lady Merritt, her mouth twitched.

A huge construction of peacock feathers and life-sized gilded snakes rose a full two feet up from the top of Lady Merritt’s head. What appeared to be the remnants of a Persian carpet were suspended from her shoulders, flanking an enormous—and highly polished—sheet of metal. With a start, Addie realized it was a breastplate. Beneath this she wore a skirt so stiff with Oriental elements it could easily have stood by itself.

“Ah, Addie, m’dear. Queen Zenobia gives you greetings!” Lady Merritt held out her heavily beringed fingers.

“Queen Zenobia?”

“Yes, you silly chit!” Lady Merritt’s gracious greeting eroded into peevishness. “That is the problem with our society, the horrendous deficiency in young people’s education. How can you fail to recognize one of history’s most flamboyant queens?”

“To be sure,” Addie managed to say. “Queen Zenobia. Of course. Have you seen Jack?”

“No, I haven’t. He had Wheatcroft playing valet to him for quite a long time. I can hardly wait to see what he is impersonating.” Her gaze traveled in perplexity over Addie’s gown. “Who are you tonight, m’dear? I can’t quite put my finger on it. Helen of Troy? Guinevere?”

“Addie Phyfe.”

Lady Merritt’s smile was fond. Taking Addie’s hands, she pulled her close for a quick embrace, the sharper points of the breastplate digging into Addie’s skin.

“Your hair is stunning,” Lady Merritt said sotto voce. “And that dress! Your brother’s hand, no doubt.”

“Her brother had nothing to do with it,” Ted said from beside her. “Though I warrant I know who did.”

Addie turned to her brother. He was outfitted in severe black, his dark red locks brushed forward on his high forehead. Byron, he had informed her earlier this evening, also limped. “Oh, I doubt that, Ted.”

“I was referring not to the actual dressmaker,” Ted said, “but to the person who inspired it.”

Lady Merritt impatiently flapped a hand in Ted’s direction as Addie blushed. “Ted, why must you always be so oblique? Can you not simply say a thing?”

“It’s much more amusing this way.”

“Ted lives to be amused by the foibles of us mere mortals,” Addie said, her gaze passing over her reprobate brother. “But I have a notion that he shall shortly find himself much more involved in secular entertainments.”

“How kind of you to invite me to your party, Lady Merritt!” Zephrina Drouhin trilled charmingly in her unmistakable accent. As usual, her appearance was foreshadowed by the phalanx of red-coated army officers who invariably escorted her. They opened ranks to allow her to waft forward in a cloud of white-netted tulle, feathers, and seed pearls.

She curtsied prettily to her hostess and turned to Addie, a momentary frown marring her lovely features before recognition dawned in her wide blue eyes. “Mrs. Hoodless! How delightful to meet you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Drouhin,” Addie said sincerely, watching her brother with a twinge of malicious amusement. She had decided that the infatuation Ted had claimed Zephrina had for him was not all one-sided. It did her heart well to see her preeminently self-controlled brother put off his stride by this petite, disdainful little wretch.

Sure enough, Ted’s animation disappeared behind a bland mask of indifference as he bowed formally in his client’s direction. No one could be that cool. “Miss Drouhin.”

Zephrina arched a thin brow. “Good evening, Mr. Phyfe. Gentl
emen”—she turned to her little coterie—“Mr. Phyfe is the artist who is painting my portrait. He is a strict disciplinarian. ’Tis he who makes me decline all your vastly intriguing propositions to sit for hours posing for him in his studio.” Scowls were immediately directed in Ted’s direction.

“Pray, Miss Drouhin, do not allow my painting to interfere with any—even seemingly incidental—aspect of your social life. Please,” Ted said, seemingly all graciousness.

Addie held up her hand to hide her smile but did so too late; Zephrina knew she’d been bested. She snapped her fan open, frowning fiercely behind the long white ostrich plumes.

“I suppose you will want to begin my sittings all over again now that you have seen me in my swan guise.” She sighed heavily as her escorts all murmured hearty concurrence.

“Good heavens, is that what that is?” Ted asked. “I’d thought you were emulating a disemboweled pillow. You know: insubstantial, lightweight, delightfully inconsequential?”

Addie couldn’t stand there any longer. If she did, she risked breaking out into laughter. She turned her chuckle into a cough and, avoiding Zephrina’s suspicious glare, made her apologies, saying she needed a refreshment.

Only when she was well away did she peek over her shoulder. Ted’s reputation for blandness in the face of anything was undeniably being threatened. His countenance was darkening perceptibly. Zephrina’s was already red. They were squared off, facing each other, smiling determinedly through clenched teeth, those around them obviously forgotten in their concentration on each other.

Addie laughed again. Ted had apparently found Waterloo. Now it only needed time to determine who was to play Wellington and which unfortunate would be cast in the role of Napoleon.

“If you are laughing at my kilt, I am afraid I shall have to challenge you to a duel. We Scots take our plaids seriously,” a deep voice drawled.

She looked around, her heart racing, to find herself face to face with Jack. She returned his smile eagerly, like a young woman on spying her beau after a prolonged absence.

A flicker of puzzlement crossed his features.

“Ah! The dress. It is new,” he murmured. He barely afforded her new sumptuous gown a glance before his gaze returned to her face. “You are so beautiful, Addie.”

He’d barely noticed her gown, hadn’t commented on her hair, her jewels. He thought
she
was beautiful.

A sudden shift in the crowd jostled them apart, allowing Addie to see Jack wholly. Her eyes widened. True to his word, Jack was dressed in a plaid—a Scottish plaid regimental uniform.

The red jacket he wore open over a pristine white cambric shirt served as a foil for his extraordinary good looks. The elegant fall of the lace jabot and cuffs only emphasized the blatant masculinity she’d somehow never noticed earlier on in their friendship. Over one broad shoulder was draped the plaid, a dark blue and green with a yellow stripe that matched the pattern of his kilt. A sporran hung from his waist, and in his stockings the hilt of a ruby encrusted
sgian-dubh
glittered.

He looked uncannily at home in the garb, more poised than she’d ever seen him before. His stance seemed broader, his posture straighter. His calves were muscular, a deep scar crossing one knee. Only his hand, balled into a fist near his hip—where Addie knew officers wore their swords—seemed awkward, as though he was used to resting that strong hand on something other than his hip.

The implication was subtly unsettling, and she moved back. Then she remembered his father had been a Gordon Highlander. “Raid the attic trunks, did we, Jack?” she asked. The archness she strove for sounded more like an entreaty.

“Not at all,” Jack said. “These are my clothes.”

“Of course they are,” she agreed quickly. “As are mine. How silly of me to think anything that fit so superbly could be rummaged from a trunk. But I wouldn’t let any of these officer chaps know you had a dress uniform made up as a costume. They believe their regimental dress is nigh-on sacred.”

He was silent a moment before finally saying, “Your concern is duly noted, Addie. But I doubt that anyone would take exception to my wearing this—”

“As you will,” she cut in quickly, uncertain why she’d interrupted him. All she knew was that she didn’t want to talk about Jack’s regimental uniform. She’d thought herself nearly over her discomfort about military types. Apparently she wasn’t. Not quite yet. “But we could stand here chatting about costumes all evening and, as you know, fashion is hardly one of my chief interests.”

She recognized a lilting tune issuing from the ballroom and turned eagerly toward the sound. “The dancing has started?”

“Yes. But, Addie—”

“I haven’t danced in five years.”

A crooked smile lifted the corners of his beautifully molded lips and he bowed. “Mrs. Hoodless, would you consent to joining me in this dance?”