Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (5 page)

“My lord?” Jones was holding up the wretched cravat.

Ian sighed. “Verra well. Show me then.”

“This is a rather simple tie called the triangular,” Jones said as he laid the cloth along the back of his neck. “It has three creases. One down on either side of your ears until they reach the bow of your neck cloth and a third crossing horizontally like so.” The servant demonstrated and then adjusted at the top of it. “You can raise or lower its height accordingly to what you are comfortable with.”

“A mon would be more comfortable nae wearing it,” Ian growled, but took a fresh strip of linen that the man handed him. After three tries, he had something that he thought looked like what Jones was wearing. He tugged it down and the servant frowned. “What now?” he asked.

“It is not supposed to be wrinkled, my lord.”

“I willna tuck it up under my chin. A mon canna turn his head.”

Jones seemed to be holding a mental debate with himself as to whether to say something, but his good sense won out. “Very well, my lord.” He looked at Ian’s hair. “We’ve not had time to get you a proper cut, my lord. For tonight a simple plait will have to do.”

“Ye want to…
braid
…my hair?” Ian asked incredulously.

“Only for tonight. I’ll have the barber come around tomorrow.”

“I wilna cut it.”

“But, my lord, wearing it that long and loose is simply barbarian.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “But I am a barbarian, am I nae?”

Jones looked flustered. “I…am…not sure what you mean by that.”

Ian picked up his
sgian dubh
and flicked it into the air, catching it cleanly. Jones’ face paled. Ian flashed the knife again.

“Do ye have a wish to find out if I am a barbarian?”

“N-no, my lord,” the man said and fled the room.

Englishmen. A wee bit of knife play and the man near wet his breeches. Ian grinned and stuck the knife into the top of his Hessians.

Mayhap he’d have a wee bit of fun tonight at that.

So far, the Highlander was doing remarkably well, Jillian thought as she glanced around the crowded drawing room. She had introduced him to their hosts, the Earl of Sherrington and his lady wife, and Ian had made a proper bow, even though he’d lingered a bit too long over the lady’s hand, causing the woman to smile coquettishly and insist he call her Delia. The earl had frowned and Jillian intended to have a word with Ian about that later.

“Why, Lady Newburn, it’s nice to see you about in Society again.”

Jillian turned and barely managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Amelia Tansworth, a young woman with flaming red hair that matched a fiery temper whenever she did not get her way, was standing there, smiling at Ian.

“Hello, Miss Tansworth. Allow me to introduce Ian Macleod, the new Earl of Cantford. My lord, this is Miss Amelia Tansworth, daughter of the Viscount of Tillingsdale.”

Amelia batted brilliantly blue eyes at him even as she expertly snapped her fan open and offered him her other hand. “Delighted, my lord. I had no idea that Lady Newburn had you hidden away.”

Ian slid his dark glance over Jillian before he smiled and bent over Amelia’s hand. “Aye. She’d prefer to keep me hidden, I think.”

Jillian wanted nothing more than to kick Ian in the shins for that remark. The little gossip would have it all over London by morning that she was keeping a man for her own pleasure. She forced a smile. She’d like to kick Prinny as well for getting her to agree to this.

“Well, that’s just wicked of her,” Amelia said, as though Jillian weren’t standing right there. “I know that older widows have… Well. I can’t put this delicately, can I?” She fanned herself quickly. “She really should share you with us.”

Ian’s mouth started to quirk up, but he quickly cleared his throat when Jillian raised an eyebrow. She was about to tell Ian to go with her blessings when they were joined by another young woman.

“Amelia. Darling, I’ve been looking for you…” The girl stopped as though noticing Ian for the first time. “And who is this?”

As though Ian weren’t the reason for the sudden display of friendship that Violetta Billingsby was showing. Normally, the raven-haired beauty and Amelia barely managed to be civil to each other. Jillian wondered when she had become invisible. “Miss Billingsby. How nice to see you.”

The girl started and had the grace to blush slightly at having not noticed a peer. “Lady Newburn. I’m frightfully sorry I did not notice you.”

Jillian repressed a sigh. She had a feeling that this was only the beginning of a long line of eager young women who wanted to meet Ian. And why not? He stood a good head taller than most men and even with the English finery, he still had a somewhat wild and dangerous look about him. More like a swashbuckler than a gentleman.

“Allow me to introduce you…” she said.

Violetta tilted her head so that the violet eyes for which she was named peered up at Ian through sooty lashes. It was her trademark movement and it always reminded Jillian of a panther sighting its prey.

“What a welcome addition to a rather boring Season you’ll be, Lord Cantford.”

“Is it boring, then?” Ian asked as he glanced over at Jillian.

Violetta tapped him with her fan. “It was, my lord. I’m sure I’ll feel differently now that you’ll be joining us.”

“You’ve got the loveliest accent, my lord,” Amelia interrupted. “I’m sure a Scots burr might be quite the thing to acquire by the end of the Season.”

Jillian wanted to remind both of the young women that their rather steady beaus were standing across the room looking disgruntled. It didn’t bode well that their friends were beginning to join them. Perhaps she should warn Ian.

Before she could though, he said. “Well, lassies, if it be a wee bit of me burr that ye are wantin’ to learn, I will be verra happy to teach ye.”

“Ooooh,” they both nearly squealed and each placed a hand on one of his arms at the same time while barely managing not to glare at each other.

Ian looked slightly bewildered, and Jillian would have laughed except the young men’s faces were turning thunderous across the room. Ian didn’t need to be involved in a fisticuffs his first night out in Society.

“You’ll have to excuse us, ladies,” she said smoothly as she moved between them. “It would be rude of me not make the rounds and introduce the new earl to his peers.”

Neither of the girls looked happy, but both of them knew that daughters of viscounts and barons owed respect to a marchioness, even a widowed one. Somewhat sullenly, they took their leave.

Ian looked at her speculatively. “I thought ye wanted me to me to meet people.”

“I do. It’s just that… Do you see those young men over there?”

Ian turned to follow her direction. “Aye.”

“The tall one with brown hair is Yancy Newell. He’s escorted Miss Tansworth quite a bit this Season. The shorter one with the blond hair is Nevin Faulkner. He’s quite taken with Miss Billingsby.”

“Are they betrothed?”

“No, but—”

Ian shrugged. “’Tis not their business then who the ladies talk to, is it?”

“No, but their friends will naturally take their view of things.”

Ian’s eyes glinted. “Do ye mean they might want to fight? I could whip the lot of them, have no fear, lass.”

“Lord Cantford,” Jillian said sternly. “In polite Society, one does not fight.”

“Nae?” He looked amazed. “Then how does a mon prove his strength?”

“Through his wits, my lord, not his brawn.”

Ian remained skeptical. “There be nothing wrong with my wits, but sometimes it’s easier to get a mon to see the truth if there’s a bit of pain attached to it.”

Jillian sighed. Was she ever going to be successful in taming the wild streak in him? She was just glad she had managed to persuade him to leave that nasty-looking knife he carried at home.

“Those young men are members of the Four Horse Club—”

His eyes narrowed. “That does it then. They need to be taught a lesson, handling horses the way they did. I’ll be right back.” He started to move away, but Jillian placed a hand on his arm.

“Please, my lord. Their fathers are viscounts.”

“I dinna care if they’re the bloody prince’s by-blows. A mon who endangers his horse is no mon at all.”

“I agree with you about the horses,” she said quickly, deciding this was not the time to correct his use of vulgar language. “We raised Andalusians on the estate and I quite love them. But you have your title to consider, my lord. Members of the peerage must accept you, and it won’t bode well for you to make an example of their sons.”

He still looked undecided. Finally, he covered her hand with his. “All right, lass. I told ye nae to fash, that I would be charm itself, although I hope none of the braw lads from home ever see me thus. Perhaps ye could introduce me to some ladies who doona have love-calves mooning at them?”

As they proceeded around the room and Jillian continued to introduce him to the debutantes who mostly reacted the way Amelia and Violetta had, she told herself she should be grateful that things were going so smoothly. After all, Ian’s choosing a lady wife was Prinny’s goal. If tonight were any indication, Ian would have no problem.

Ian had been a perfect gentleman with her this evening, never once flirting or—thankfully—alluding to being dessert again. Truly, that was a good thing. It was. If she were feeling a bit put out—not that she was, she told herself, she was just tired—it was because that little tart had called her older. She didn’t need to be reminded that if Wesley Alton returned home with a wife, she would become a dowager.

That was all it was. Truly.

“He is where?” Jillian asked Givens the next morning in the dining room as she buttered a piece of toast.

“Gentleman Jack’s, my lady.”

“The pugilism instructor?”

“That would be correct, my lady.”

She bit her lip to keep from using a very unladylike word in front of the butler. Drat the Scot anyway. She had told him that no one in the peerage makes a public appearance before noon in London, but apparently
Gentleman
Jack wasn’t a gentleman at all and kept outrageous hours. It wouldn’t do if Prinny were to catch wind that she was allowing the new earl to run about like a commoner at such early hours. Not that she could personally fault Ian for his restlessness. She often spent a good two hours in her chambers reading before the maid came in to officially
awaken
her. It was one of the reasons she liked the country. There she could slip out of the house—if Rufus weren’t in attendance—and enjoy an early morning ride before breaking her fast. A rather energizing way to begin the day, even if she had to be secretive about it. Here in London, though, appearances were everything and servants gossiped. And she wanted no hint of any
faux pas
on her part to mar her sister’s chances of having a successful Season.

Mari must have her choice of a husband, unlike Jillian. For that to happen, everything must be done properly. She wondered if she could ever make the new earl understand the importance of propriety and rules.

As if on cue, the bell clanged at the front door. Thank goodness he was back. She’d have to have a word with him immediately.

“Excuse me,” the butler said and went to answer the door. He returned shortly with a strange expression on his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Lord Newburn has arrived, my lady. I’ve shown him to the parlor.”

Wesley
. Jillian sat back and took a deep breath.
So
. Her future was about to be decided by the stranger down the hall from her. She glanced at the grandfather clock slowly ticking the seconds away. Nearly noon. What would sunset bring?

She pushed aside her plate and walked the short distance to sitting room. Only three days before she had opened that door to find the Highlander standing on the other side. What would this long-lost son of Rufus be like?

Wesley was studying the paintings of his ancestors but turned as she opened the door and walked through. He was tall, although not as tall as Ian, and had a more slender, wiry build. His face was sharply angular with slanting hazel eyes and short brown hair. He looked nothing like Rufus, Jillian was relieved to note. Dressed impeccably in a snowy shirt with stiff ruffles, a blue morning coat with velvet lapels, a silk waistcoat and dark trousers, Beau Brummel and his cronies who observed such things from White’s bay window, would have called the new marquess the epitome of fashion. A black top hat rested on the table near him.

He smiled. “
Bonjour, mademoiselle. Est la veure disponible
?”

Jillian frowned slightly. Her French had never been good. “
Je ne comprends pas,
” she said falteringly.

“
Pardon
.” He switched to faultless English. “I asked if the widow were available. My stepmother?”

She wasn’t about to be mistaken for the housekeeper a second time. “I am your father’s second wife,” she said. “Jillian Alton.”

A speculative gleam appeared in his eyes. “
You
are my stepmother?”

Jillian winced. Even though the man meant no harm, it hurt to think that she would never be anyone’s mother because she was barren. “I hardly think I have the right to that title, my lord, when I have done nothing to raise you.”