A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,35

he stepped closer, she almost moaned as the heat and size of him sent a hot thrill of excitement pulsing through her. His eyes glittered, as if he knew exactly what effect he had on her.

Friends, she reminded herself unsteadily. Friends who would soon be hundreds of miles apart, forever. “Good evening, Captain. How are you enjoying our assembly?”

“Very well.” He ducked his head and put out his hand. “I’ll enjoy it far more if you’ll dance with me.”

She had to say no. Ilsa knew that even though she wanted to put her hand in his and let him whirl her around as he’d done in the oyster cellar. And if he chanced to whirl her right out the door and pull her close, she would like to kiss him again . . . and again . . .

No, no, no. She had come tonight to show Jean she would not be cowed; to show her father she would not be minded like a child; to show herself how easily the captain would divert his attention to another wealthy widow or young lady, once he met them. That’s what she’d told herself when she put on her favorite gown that made her feel beautiful and confident. That’s what she’d told herself when she accepted Mr. Duncan’s invitation to dance and flirted with him.

All that time, she had been lying to herself. She had come because she wanted to see him. She wanted him to look at her with admiration and hunger in his eyes—as he was doing now. She wanted him to ask her to dance with him—as he’d just done. She wanted that thrilling, reckless kiss.

“I say, St. James, I asked first,” put in Mr. Duncan.

“And the lady will decide whom she wishes to accept,” replied the captain, his gaze never wavering from hers.

You. The word trembled on her lips despite everything.

Curse it all. She was in trouble.

Blessedly, she was saved by the approach of Mr. Grant, who had not forgotten their promised dance even if she had. With a smile, half relief and half regret, she bade the captain and Mr. Duncan farewell and let Mr. Grant lead her out.

It had been a close call. Nothing good could come of encouraging the captain; she did not want to spoil her friendships over a brief affair, and he was leaving for England in a matter of weeks. If only she weren’t so terribly, wickedly tempted . . .

Mind what you wish for, admonished a faint echo of Jean’s voice. It’s never exactly what you expect.

Chapter Eight

The suggestion of a house party visit to Stormont Palace was received with joyous excitement.

“Oh, Drew, is it really a palace?”

“How long shall we stay?”

“What shall we do while we’re there?”

He listened with a mixture of pleasure and alarm. Pleasure because they sounded so excited. Alarm because . . . He hadn’t thought of how he would entertain his family; he was not going to entertain his family. He would have work to do, touring the estate and seeing how things were run. He’d been seduced by Ilsa Ramsay’s impish smile and glowing eyes into signing his own prison sentence.

“Let’s find out more!” Bella ran to the bookshelves and came back with a ragged copy of Pennant’s A Tour in Scotland. “Stormont Palace,” she murmured, flipping pages. “Here it is! ‘The house is built around a large court, with extremely pleasing gardens and a cunning maze. The dining room is large and handsome, with an ancient but magnificent chimneypiece carved with the King’s arms.’” She lowered the book, eyes wide. “Drew, was it a royal palace?”

Winnie rolled her eyes. “Of course it wasn’t! All those fine houses were built by toadies to the King, they splashed his arms everywhere.” She seized the book from Bella and read on. “ʽIn the drawing room is some good old tapestry, with an excellent figure of Mercury. In a small bed chamber is a scripture-piece in needlework, with a border of animals, pretty well-done. The gallery is about a hundred and fifty-five feet long, with most excellent paintings . . . ʼ” She flipped the pages. “Many, many paintings, apparently.” She sounded disappointed. “Perhaps it’s haunted.”

“Haunted!” Bella’s face lit up. “Might it be, Drew?”

“By all the poor souls put to death by the English duke,” put in Agnes slyly.

“With dungeons and torture racks and thumbscrews!” Winnie looked eager now, too.

“Captured chieftains left to starve in a dungeon cell! Heiresses kidnapped and wed for their fortunes and drowned in