over a foot. It gave them the shape of a cylinder. There was not a feminine curve in sight. The view only got worse when he look up to their faces. Most of them were white with red spots over their cheeks. Their hair stood up several inches above their heads and it was stiff, not one single, flowing bounce in sight.
What confounded him were the extremes in the court. Plenty of women in London wore smaller versions of both hair and dress styles while maintaining a bit of feminine allure. Of course, there was also the need to be able to move that accounted for those abbreviations, but Keir admitted that he liked a more practical-looking woman, as opposed to the ones he was looking at.
Keir suddenly froze, his eyes settling on a woman that he’d not noticed before. It might have been due to her lack of garish face paint or just due to the overwhelming horror he found himself facing.
But she was charming.
He’d never been a man to chase a woman because she had a pretty face. He always needed something more to snare his interest. The stark contrast in her dress drew his attention. The garment did not look like it was a cage laced around her. Instead the skirt flowed simply from her waist over a modest set of underpinnings. The men she walked past did not give her any attention. In fact, a few of them looked down their powdered noses at her modest neckline. Only the very tops of her breasts peeked over the top of her bodice. Among so many bulging mounds it was quite captivating. But what kept his eyes on her was her height. She was slender and too thin for his taste, but her head rose high enough to look several of the men in the eye.
He’d be able to kiss her without bending over.
The sides of his mouth twitched up. Och now, he was being a rakehell with that idea. He did not even know the lass’s name and here he was imagining what her lips tasted like. His smile grew broader. At least it was a far better thing to be thinking about than how much he detested the current fashion of court ladies. A fair bit better indeed. Whoever she was, she became blocked from his sight, leaving only her memory.
He did not care for waiting.
His face returned to its pensive expression. He’d never been an idle man. Running Red Stone took all of his time but it was a labor he enjoyed. Awaiting Jamie’s pleasure was something that tore at his gut.
He was staring at her.
Helena looked through her lowered eyelashes at him. He was a Scot and no mistake about it. Held in place around his waist was a great kilt. Folded into pleats that fell longer in the back, his plaid was made up in heather, tan and green. She knew little of the different clans and their tartans but she could see how proud he was. The nobles she passed among scoffed at him but she didn’t think he would even cringe if he were to hear their mutters. She didn’t think the gossip would make an impact. He looked impenetrable. Strength radiated from him. There was nothing pompous about him, only pure brawn.
Her attention was captivated by him. She had seen other Scots wearing their kilts but there was something more about him. A warm ripple moved across her skin. His doublet had sleeves that were closed, making him look formal, in truth more formal than the brocade-clad men standing near her brother. There wasn’t a single gold or silver bead sewn to that doublet, but he looked ready to meet his king. It was the slant of his chin, the way he stood.
“You appear to have an admirer, Helena.”
Edmund sounded conceited and his friends chuckled. Her brother’s words surfaced in her mind and she shifted her gaze to the men standing near her brother. They were poised in perfect poses that showed off their new clothing. One even had a lace-edged handkerchief dangling from one hand.
She suddenly noticed how much of a fiction it was. Edmund didn’t believe them to be his friends but he stood jesting with them. Each one of them would sell the other out for the right amount. It was so very sad—like a sickness you knew would claim their lives but could do nothing about.