“That’s because men have no soul,” Anne told him in a sprightly manner.
He looked injured. “I have plenty of soul. I’m just not a maudlin sort.”
“Ha! You are a fribble, and care only for the polish of your boots. You told me so the other day.”
“I didn’t say ‘only,’ ” he protested. “I said boot
blacking was important, but not
the
most important thing in a person’s life.”
“Oh? What else is there?”
He grinned. “There’s also the starch of one’s cravat.”
“Ha! Fribble. I knew it.”
As they continued to banter, Dahlia lost herself in wonder.
I’m happy. My entire body feels as light as a feather, my soul is singing, my heart tripping—
She suddenly stood, too happy to sit still.
Anne and Dalhousie looked at her with surprise.
She didn’t know what her feelings meant, but she had to speak to Kirk. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to—”
Fly to Kirk’s side.
But a quick glance in his direction told her how impossible that was. Even more people surrounded him, and he was beginning to look irritated. This wasn’t the best time to speak to him. But she couldn’t wait until tomorrow—she simply couldn’t.
She smiled at her friends. “I was going to retire, but there are too many people crowding the door. I’ll just wait.”
It took almost thirty minutes before Kirk broke away from those around him. Looking grim, he limped toward her, his cane loosely held in his hand. “Miss Balfour?”
She’d been rehearsing her greeting in case he managed to approach her, but now that he was here, she could only stare up at him.
He held out his hand.
It was a preemptory gesture, but Dahlia didn’t care.
She placed her hand in his, a shiver traveling through her as his fingers closed over hers.
“Kirk! Just the man I wanted to see,” Dalhousie said. “I believe you made an error in your recitation.”
Anne murmured her disapproval, but Kirk merely raised a brow.
Undeterred, Dalhousie continued. “It’s not ‘gray-blue’ eyes, but deep blue. The Earl of Perth read it at his wedding two months ago, and went on and on about how his wife’s eyes were exactly like the ones in the poem—deep blue.”
“Did I say gray-blue?” Kirk’s gaze flickered to Dahlia. “I wonder how I came to make such a mistake.”
Her cheeks warmed.
Kirk continued, “Pardon us, but I’m parched and must find the refreshment table.”
“Of course.” The viscount turned to Anne. “Next time, I shall memorize a poem. It’s much better received than a sermon.”
“As if you’ve ever memorized a poem in your life.”
Kirk pulled Dahlia away from the arguing couple, murmuring in her ear, “I believe we’re no longer needed here.”
He walked down the length of the room, bowing to this person, nodding to that. Dahlia was intensely aware of the warmth of his hand over hers, and found herself reliving his kiss. And caress. And each tantalizing touch.
He paused by the double doors leading to the foyer and then glanced about. Everyone was crowding
toward the refreshment table. “No one is looking. Come.” He pulled her through the double doors and soon they were alone in the foyer.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We can’t talk in there.”
The noisy salon behind them, Kirk led her through the foyer and down a long hallway, and soon the soft thump of his cane was the only sound.
Dahlia’s mind was too full of thoughts to converse. She didn’t know where they were going, or why, but she didn’t care. His words still warmed her, his gaze still held her in its spell. It was as if she were wrapped in his performance, mesmerized still.
Halfway down the hallway, Kirk stopped by a pair of ornate doors.
Dahlia glanced around curiously. “I’ve never been here before.”
“This set of rooms is only in use when the duke is in residence.”
“Would Roxburghe mind we are here?”
“I don’t plan on informing him. Do you?”
She had to smile in spite of herself. “No.”
“Good.” Kirk flashed her a smile that made her feel both naughty and desirable, then opened the door. “After you.”
Dahlia looked at his hand where it rested on the brass knob, and instantly a hard knot of desire tightened in her stomach. With hands that trembled ever so slightly, she gathered her skirts and walked through the doorway.
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
All of the women are thoroughly agog over Lord Kirk. I never thought I’d see a man so transformed by a poem, but then again, I never heard a man read a poem with such feeling. Even I felt a bit flushed afterward.
There is something to be said for a man’s voice when it caresses a word. Nothing is as pleasurable.
* * *
Dahlia’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light of the fire, which had been reduced to embers. At one end of the room she saw a cluster of leather chairs near an overstuffed settee, and at the other end a billiards table.
Kirk crossed the room to light a lamp that stood on a side table. The warm glow turned the heavy velvet and fringed curtains to waterfalls of molten gold, adding a luxurious air to the room. He then went to the fireplace to stir the embers back to life, adding several pieces of wood from the brass holder beside the hearth.
Dahlia watched him from under her lashes, noting the strong masculine beauty of his hands as he stacked the wood over the embers. She regarded him from head to toe, marveling at the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, and the powerful ripple of his thighs as he hefted more wood onto the fire.
When she’d known him before, she’d thought him attractive, but not as deliciously so as she did now. It was as if she’d suddenly seen another side of him, another facet that made him gleam more. And as he’d recited the lovely poem directly to her tonight, saying all of the things she’d always wanted him to say, he’d become the personification of everything romantic. Her heart swelled with happiness.
There was something different about Kirk since he’d come under the duchess’s care, something beyond his clothes and improved manner. It was something more . . . physical. For one thing, he was moving more easily. Just now, on entering the room, he’d set aside the cane without any thought. Although he still limped, he didn’t seem to need it as much.
Unaware of her regard, he stirred the fire into flames, his handsome profile outlined as he returned the poker to its stand.
She’d always felt an affinity for this man, as if they were part of the same book. But that hadn’t been enough. She needed to feel as if they were on the same page, too—as if their connection was due to more than common interests, or coming from the same village.
She’d wanted to feel connected to his
soul
. And tonight, when he’d recited the poem to her, she’d felt exactly that.
“There.” He dusted his hands. “It will be warmer in a moment.”
She tugged her shawl up over her shoulders. “Thank you. It is a bit cold.” The cool air raised goose bumps, yet in spite of the chill she felt flushed, her heart thudding with anticipation.
They were alone, and the memory of their previous kiss warmed her thoughts. Now, stirred by his words, she wanted more.
I want him.
The thought sent a shiver through her, powerful and pleasurable in its own right.
He frowned. “There’s a lap blanket on the back of the settee. I’ll—”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Good.” He turned to light a lamp near the billiards table.
She bit her lip and waited, sighing a little when he seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to adjust the wick. Perhaps
she
should proceed.
The thought tantalized her and she found herself smiling.
How does one begin a seduction? Hmmm . . . I think we need to be closer.
She crossed to the billiards table, which was closer to him. “Do you play?”
Done adjusting the lamp, Kirk turned in time to see Dahlia’s slender fingers slide along the polished
wood rail. His mouth went dry. “Ah, yes. I play.” MacCreedy thought it a good way to develop flexibility, as one had to twist oneself into a variety of positions.
“Ah.” She traced the curve around one of the netted pockets.
He cleared his throat. “It’s an excellent table. Apparently Roxburghe had it sent from Italy.”
“Only the best for the duke.” She reached into one of the webbed pockets and pulled out a ball. “Ivory. They are quite lovely.”
He found himself watching breathlessly as she cupped the ball in her palm. He couldn’t help imagining what that would feel like, to have her warm fingers cupped about him. His body stiffened at the thought, and he fought back a groan.
He had to clear this throat before he could ask, “Do you play?”
“Oh yes. Father has a table, although it’s not as large as this.” She shot him a look from under her lashes. “Would you care to play a game?”
“Perhaps.” What he wanted was to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, slide his hands over her full breasts and hips, mold her soft body to his, and take her—
Stop that. You won’t be able to talk at all, and this battle is far from won.
He turned to the side table, where a decanter glistened. He poured some into a glass and then slanted her a glance. “I wish there was some sherry for you, but there’s only whiskey.”
“I like whiskey.”
His surprise must have shown, for she smiled and added, “My father has a glass after dinner each night, and sometimes I join him. I actually prefer it to sherry.” She pulled more balls from the pockets and placed them on the table.
“Then by all means, have some whiskey.” He poured a small amount into a glass for her, and then carried it to her.
She took the glass, her eyes twinkling as she compared it to his. “Kirk, please, I’m a Scot.”
She was more than a Scot. She was a bold and lovely woman with gray-blue eyes that mirrored every thought, and he wanted her so badly that his body ached.
Her gaze locked with his and slowly, she tipped the glass up and drank the mouthful of liquid. She smiled as she swallowed and handed him the empty glass. “At least a finger pour this time, please.”
He smiled and returned to the sideboard to pour her a finger’s width of whiskey, then brought it to her.
She cupped it in both hands. “Thank you.” She took an appreciative sip. “This is excellent.”
She tilted her head to one side and regarded him, a thoughtful smile on her lips. “The poem tonight was lovely. You’ve always had a talent for reading aloud.”
It was worth it, to see that smile.
He placed his glass on the edge of the table and captured her hand. It was so small, fitting inside his own perfectly, the fingers long and tapered. He turned it over and pressed a kiss to the palm.
Her fingers trembled as she closed her hand over the kiss, as if to hold it there. “Kirk, do you . . . do you enjoy being here, at the castle?”
“I suppose so. Why?”
“I don’t know. I had such high hopes for coming here. I thought I’d find romance and excitement and—” She uncurled her fingers and looked at her palm as if she thought she’d find an answer there. “Sometimes it can be a bit lonely. Even with all of these people about, I feel alone in some way. But then I see you, and things seem better.”
“I suppose I remind you of home.” He hesitated and then said, “Life was simpler there, wasn’t it?”
“We were, at least.” Her gaze dropped to the amber liquid in her glass as she swirled it slowly.
He watched her face, noting the thoughts flitting over it. “You’re not happy.”
She shot him a surprised look and then shrugged. “I should be. Life here is everything I’d imagined it would be: sumptuous, lavish, beautiful, and—”
“Dull.”
She hesitated. “Not dull, but . . .” She frowned. “Do you ever feel out of place?”
“Every moment of every day. But I’ve never been comfortable around people.”
“Even before the accident?”
“Society was never my preferred way of life.” He cocked a brow at her. “But you enjoy it.”
“I do, and I’ve met some lovely people, but . . .”
She smiled and shook her head. “I’d dreamed for so long of having a season, of attending balls and having lovely gowns. And now here I am, the guest of a duchess determined to provide us with the best of every amusement. I should be grateful—I
am
grateful—for it’s been a lovely experience. But . . . I miss home.” Her gray-blue gaze turned to him. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Perhaps you’ll get used to it. You haven’t traveled much.”
“That’s another difference. These people have all done so much more than I have—they’ve been more places, seen more things, know more—”
“Pah! They may have traveled more physically, but I doubt any of them know the value of where they’ve been. Lord Dunsteed had the temerity to complain that the ruins he visited in Greece were in such sad shape, the walls tumbling down and columns upon the ground, that it was hard to envision what they should look like, and that the government should come in and ‘redo them all.’ ”
She blinked. “But they’re
ruins
.”
“Exactly what I told him. That’s how we found them, and that’s how they should be preserved. But he maintained that we should rebuild them and even add to them, to bring them ‘up to level.’ ”
“What a fool!”
“Exactly what I thought. He even suggested that with the right seating and the leveling of the dirt, the Coliseum might make a fine cricket stadium—”
She burst out laughing.
Kirk had to grin. “I’d better not mention what he thought should be done with the Temple of Venus.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“I should hope not. So don’t sell yourself short, thinking that just because these ninnies have traveled more, that they’re any better than you.”
“They’re not all ninnies.” But she had to admit, at least to herself, that he was right. She took a sip of the whiskey, listening to the fire crackle as she savored the warm liquid. The fire illuminated the amber liquid in Kirk’s glass and cast intriguing shadows over his face. Her gaze flickered lower, and she wondered how he’d look without the pressed cravat and fancy coat. Was he as muscular as he felt when she’d kissed him?