the marriage mart. He’d always known he would marry Cait, so he had never had a reason to attend such functions. He had no reason to attend them now either, not in his current state. But he didn’t have a choice this evening. Someone had to keep Sorcha out of trouble.
The little minx’s mischievous prank that afternoon had left him fantasizing about tossing her over his knee. What was she thinking? She already had Bexley chasing her skirts.
Now Loughton and Chilcombe were more than curious to learn the identity of the lady he’d had in his arms in the orangery. And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, those bloody Lycans would be here this evening too.
After the duchess gave her butler strict orders to take her flower to the duke’s bedside, she linked her arm with Alec’s. “Thank you again, Mr. MacQuarrie.”
“Your smile is thanks enough, Your Grace.”
He led her through the corridors and down a cantilevered staircase to the main level of the castle. There they immediately encountered guests arriving for the ducal ball.
Alec left the duchess with a pair of old matrons and entered the ballroom on his own.
The musicians had not yet started playing, and guests were just beginning to find their way into the ballroom. Alec glanced around the room, noting white roses and ribbons draped across the ceiling. That must be Sorcha’s handiwork. Innocence and beauty all rolled into one. He smiled at the thought.
The scent of wild mutts assaulted Alec’s nose and his smile instantly vanished as four Lycans stepped into the ballroom. Caitrin hung on to the Marquess of Eynsford’s arm as though she couldn’t bear to separate herself from her husband. His wolfish half brothers trailed in their wake.
Lord Radbourne caught Alec’s eye and smiled wickedly.
Alec nearly shot him a crude gesture in return, but then he realized the wicked smile was not for him. It was directed over his shoulder. Alec turned his head to look behind him, and damned if he didn’t see Sorcha standing there. The same thing that must have provoked Radbourne’s wicked grin immediately entranced Alec.
Sorcha was a vision of loveliness. She walked toward him slowly, her gaze drawn down to her elbow where she tugged at the top of her white glove distractedly. Her gown matched her apple blossom scent, which reached him long before she did. She smelled so good that her scent nearly made his mouth water. The whisper of her garters, as one leg slid past the other, held his rapt attention. He wanted to find out if they were the same light green as her gown, so light it reminded him of the apple orchard on his estate in East Galloway.
Alec’s gaze drifted up, leaving his thoughts about her garters behind when he saw the plunging neckline of her gown. He took a step toward her, fully prepared to wrap her in his own jacket to cover all that delectable skin. But before he could take a single step, a voice crowed close to his ear.
“Does that one have dirt under her fingernails, I wonder?”
Lord Chilcombe bumped Alec’s shoulder with his own. The man stumbled a little when Alec’s body didn’t give with the pressure of the gesture.
Alec forced himself to look away from Sorcha, just for the moment. “What are you babbling about, Chilcombe?” he asked, not even trying to remove the bite from his voice. He bloody well hated the Englishman. He couldn’t deny it. He was a blight on society. He was about as useful as a teapot with no spout.
Chilcombe nodded toward Sorcha and said, “That’s the one, isn’t it? The chit who had you all mussed up when you left the orangery.” He motioned toward Loughton and two more of his cronies, drawing them into their circle. “I believe I’ve finally discovered the identity of the lovely lady MacQuarrie dirtied and then abandoned this afternoon.”
“Who is it, by God?” Loughton demanded. “Please do tell. I tire of examining ladies’ fingernails.”
“Indeed?” Chilcombe chuckled. “I thought it one of your favorite activities.”
“I shall engage in my favorite activity once you divulge the lady’s name.” Loughton’s eyebrow rose in amusement.
“And then she can put her fingernails anywhere she’d like.”
Let him try to touch Sorcha, and Alec would remove the man’s hands from his arms.
“And just for the record, the chit was the one who dirtied MacQuarrie,” Viscount Dewsbury chimed in. “Not the other way around.”
“My mistake,” Chilcombe agreed. “You are most certainly correct, Dewsbury.”