“I’m not getting cold feet. I am merely questioning the intelligence of this idea. I cannot transform into something I’m not.”
“Something you’re not? And what is that? A gentleman? Your mother would weep to hear such an admission.”
His jaw tightened. “As much as I loved her, my mother is no longer with us.”
“Which only means that now
you
are responsible for living up to your potential. The invitation has been issued; Dahlia Balfour will leave this house attached to someone. Whether that is you or not is entirely your—and her—decision.”
The white lines beside his mouth told Margaret how furious her words had made him, but he didn’t leave. Indeed, he stood rooted to the floor as if every word had set him even more firmly in place.
Ah yes. That’s promising.
Margaret turned away, leaving him to collect himself. “We are understood, Lord Kirk. You will put yourself in my hands, and you will be a willing and enthusiastic pupil. By the time Miss Balfour arrives two months from now, you will be ready to meet her, a new—and vastly improved—man. One capable of competing with the other gentlemen who will be present, men bound to notice her and her beauty.”
There was a long silence and then he gave a sigh so deep that it seemed to come from his toes. “Damn you! I will admit I need some polish, but you are right, this is my last chance to secure Miss Dahlia’s interest.” He raked a hand through his hair, his expression bleak. “I’ll return home and make arrangements to spend two months here. But take note: I will not be turned into a fop.”
Charlotte blinked. “We could never hope for that in two months. The best you can expect is that you’ll become a gentleman of some address and possess a much better wardrobe. Becoming a fop would take another three, perhaps four months, and we haven’t that much time.”
Kirk started to argue, but one look at Charlotte’s wide, sweet gaze and he closed his mouth. He turned stiffly and then limped out the door.
The door closed behind him with a loud thump and Margaret dropped into her seat, her gown fluttering about her. “Good God, that was ridiculously difficult!”
Charlotte nodded. “He looked as if he would breathe fire upon us.”
“He’s furious, there’s no doubt, but he asked for my help and now he will take it.” Margaret stretched her feet out and plopped them on a small footstool. Feenie rose and jumped into her lap.
“Do you think Kirk can learn what he must in such a short time?”
“He has to, or the fairy tale will be quite offset.”
“I hate an offset fairy tale.”
“Don’t we all? Fortunately, we have a secret weapon.”
Charlotte’s eyes brightened. “We do?” She waited. When the silence merely grew, she sighed. “You’re not going to tell me what it is.”
“In due time, Charlotte. I can’t express what I only suspect, but do not know.”
“I suppose not. Very well. I shall be patient.” Charlotte found her book and began to search for her place. “But whatever your weapon might be, I can only hope it will tame our Beast before our Beauty arrives.”
“So do I, Charlotte. So do I.”
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
It took two entire months, but Lord Alasdair Kirk has completed what Charlotte and I privately called “beast taming” but in public called “gentleman training.” I shall not sully the pages of this diary with the title bequeathed upon this time by Lord Kirk.
Be that as it may, both Charlotte and I are pleased by his improvements, which are many and noticeable. While not perfect, his overall appearance and manner have enthused us both. My secret weapon was a most worthy valet named MacCreedy, who was once in the employ of the Duke of Wellington himself, and thus used to dealing with rough and ready men possessing an irascible manner.
MacCreedy did his work much better than even I had hoped. Our Beast, if not tamed, is at least better mannered and far better dressed.
Now to see if Beauty notices . . .
* * *
Coaches lined the ancient cobbled courtyard of Floors Castle as the guests arrived for the duchess’s house party. Amidst the mass confusion, Angus the footman waited for the Roxburghe coach to appear with Miss Balfour inside. After what seemed an interminable wait, during which the duchess leaned out the salon window no less than four times to ask if the coach had yet arrived, the blasted thing finally lumbered into the courtyard.
Angus gave a sigh of relief and grabbed the heavy wooden steps he’d been sitting upon and hurried to meet the coach. The famed Roxburghe crest, a bold unicorn flanked by a muscular arm holding a scimitar in a very audacious manner, was emblazoned upon a side panel, making the coach hard to miss even in the busy courtyard. Angus wished his family had a crest, something equally intimidating. Perhaps a golden dragon carrying arrows or a large snake eating a baby, something to give his neighbors pause when they thought about fishing from his da’s pond.
Reaching the coach, he nodded a greeting to the coachman before placing the carpeted steps upon the cobblestones. Then, just as MacDougal had taught him, he smoothed his hair and made certain his uniform was in place before he opened the door and stood at attention.
Nothing happened.
He remained still, straining his ears.
Still no guest stirred within the coach.
Angus frowned, wishing Miss Balfour would
hurry, as the chill November wind was seeping through his woolen breeches. But the interior of the coach remained shrouded in silence.
Other coaches pulled away, their occupants already walking toward the front door, their trunks being carried to the back entrance. Frowning, Angus shifted from one foot to the other, wondering what he should do. MacDougal’s instructions hadn’t covered this.
The thought of her grace’s impatience made Angus sweat despite the chilly air. What if Miss Balfour hadn’t come? Surely the coachman would have said something . . . wouldn’t he?
Finally, unable to stand the silence a moment more, he stole a quick glance inside the coach.
It was not empty. The duchess’s guest was stretched out upon one cushioned seat, her head propped upon a bunched-up cloak, an open book under one hand, a carriage blanket on the floor where it had been across her legs. Her arm was thrown across her face as the softest of snores drifted from her lips.
Angus rubbed his jaw. What was he to do now? He couldn’t just leave her sleeping in the coach. Nor could he stand here holding the door for hours on end. He would have to wake her—but what was the proper way to awaken a snoozing lady guest?
Well, something
had
to be done. Angus glanced around the courtyard and, seeing no one within earshot, he leaned forward and cleared his throat as loudly as he could.
Miss Balfour stirred, but didn’t awaken.
Angus frowned. Nothing. Not a bloomin’ thing. He peered around again, and then rapped hard upon the door before stiffening to attention, his hands back at his sides.
The young lady stirred more, and the book slipped off her lap. Instantly, as if yanked from her sleep by an invisible connection to the book, Miss Balfour lunged for it, catching it by the cover just before it hit the floor.
Angus, who had jumped at her sudden movement, stared. The young lady was bent at the waist, her sudden movement leaving her hair partially undone and falling in odd loops about her face. Angus gulped as the young lady stared at him, her gray-blue eyes wide.
Angus managed a smile. “Miss Balfour?”
She blinked, her long lashes shadowing her eyes. “Yes?”
“Pardon me fer wakin’ ye, but I’m to help ye fra’ the coach.”
“Coach?” She blinked again, sleep still heavy in her eyes, and looked about as if she’d never seen a coach before.
“Aye, miss. Ye were travelin’,” he added helpfully. “Ye’re comin’ to visit her grace, the Duchess of Roxburghe.”
“Oh. Oh yes.” Miss Balfour slowly straightened. “For the Christmas Ball.”
“Aye, miss! Ye were sleepin’. Ye were on yer way here, to Floors Castle, but ye’ve arrived and, ah . . .” He kindly pointed to the steps.
“Of course.” She surprised him with a sleepy smile
that warmed him despite the wind. “I cannot believe I fell asleep—during the best scene in this book, too. There was a fight between the hero and the villain, and it was most thrilling. But apparently not thrilling enough to keep me awake.”
She shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs and then tried to smooth her riotous brown curls. As she patted them, she glanced around the coach floor. “Oh dear. I’m missing some pins. I’m
always
missing some pins.”
Angus wisely kept quiet, though secretly he thought she looked rather nice, friendly even.
She flashed a rueful smile. “I suppose I shall just put my bonnet over the whole mess and refuse to take it off until I’ve reached the safety of my bedchamber.”
“Tha’ should work, miss.”
“I hope so, although what shall I do if someone asks for my bonnet?”
“MacDougal—he’s the butler—he will ask ye fer it, but jus’ tell him no and he’ll leave off. He dinna tease the guests as he does the footmen.”
Miss Balfour sent Angus an amused glance that made his stomach do an odd flip. Though she was every bit as encased in lace and silks and other whatnot as the other ladies who graced Floors Castle like so many butterflies, Angus couldn’t remember a one who’d spoken to him directly, except to give him an order. Certainly none had sent him that laughing look through what he was now realizing were amazingly pretty gray-blue eyes.
Miss Balfour finished tying her bonnet, making a large bow under one dainty ear before she pulled a pair of gloves from her pelisse pocket and donned them. She then retrieved a large reticule from the tangled blanket on the floor of the coach, and tucked her book inside. “There. I’m ready. I daresay you thought you’d never hear me utter those words.” She tilted her head to one side. “I know I’ve kept you waiting and—I’m sorry, but did you tell me your name?”
“No, miss. It’s Angus.”
“Very well, Angus, I’m
finally
ready.” Miss Balfour then climbed down from the coach, graciously taking Angus’s gloved hand to steady herself.
She was short, barely reaching his shoulder, and he was far from a tall man. She was generously fashioned, too, unlike so many other ladies, some of whom were precariously close to having sticklike figures. Miss Balfour was rounded and pleasingly plump, rather like a certain rosy-cheeked milkmaid he’d once been enamored of.
Miss Balfour stepped away from the carriage, tightening her pelisse about her throat. “Goodness, it’s cold here!”
“Aye, miss. We’ve ha’ odd weather this year, warm one day and chilled the next. I ne’er know whether to wear me wool coat or the lighter one!”
Dahlia decided she liked the freckled-faced footman. “I faced the same dilemma while packing—do I bring warm clothes or cooler ones? I finally just brought them all, which is why I have so much luggage.”
“I’ll see tha’ it is unloaded and taken to yer bedchamber.” Angus motioned to some groomsmen who hurried over, and together they set about taking down Dahlia’s rather battered trunks and her precious bandboxes.
Dahlia looked up at the castle she’d be staying in for the next three weeks, and her breath caught in her throat.
I’ve stepped from a coach and into a fairy tale!
She tried to absorb it all but couldn’t. Though she’d been here once before on the occasion of her oldest sister’s wedding, Dahlia couldn’t stop staring at the grand castle her godmother, the renowned Duchess of Roxburghe, deigned to call “home.”
“Home,” Dahlia whispered to herself. Floors Castle was beyond beautiful. Large mullioned windows shone silver, reflecting the late-afternoon sun, as proud banners of the Roxburghe blue and gold flapped gently from the ramparts, while puffy ivory clouds lazed overhead in a crystal blue sky.
This was it, what she’d dreamed about since the duchess’s invitation had arrived six long months ago. Both of her sisters had attended one of the duchess’s much-acclaimed house parties and balls, and both had fallen in love while under this very roof. Dahlia was ready for her chance at that precious thing she’d thus far only read about—true love.
Her heart thudded with excitement. This was what she’d been waiting for her entire life, the culmination of all of her dreams, the—
“Miss?”
She turned to find Angus nearby. “Yes?”
He offered a tentative smile. “Shall I escort ye to the door, miss?”
“Not now, thank you. I wish to look about before I go inside. I’m still half-asleep and I need to wake up before I meet the duchess.”
“As ye wish, miss. Jus’ be careful ye dinna walk in front of a coach.” He glanced about him and then leaned forward to say in a low voice, “Some of the grooms, they do like their drink.”
“Ah. I shall be cautious, then. Thank you for your assistance, Angus. You’ve been most kind.”
He beamed. “Och, ’twas naught. Good day, miss.” He gave her an obviously much-practiced bow. “Ha’ a lovely stay, miss, and if ye e’er need anythin’, jus’ say the word.”
“Thank you, Angus. I shall.”
He hurried off, pausing to pick up the carpeted steps as he went.
As a coach started up and rolled past, Dahlia moved out of the way, glancing about the bustling courtyard. She didn’t know any of the dozens of guests who were walking toward the huge oak doors held open by liveried footmen. Not that she’d expected to know any of them, for with the sole exception of her oldest sister’s wedding, which had occurred in the gardens behind this very castle, she’d rarely had reason to leave the villages around her home, Caith Manor, which was deep in the Scottish countryside near Aberdeenshire.
A peal of laughter caught Dahlia’s attention and
she saw a young lady surrounded by a bevy of handsome gentlemen, all vying for her attention. The lady was about the same age as Dahlia, and dressed in a pelisse of green velvet trimmed with brown braid. Though she was no more fashionably dressed than Dahlia, somehow she managed to look . . . better. More fashionable.
Prettier.
Dahlia bit her lip. Was it the woman’s perfectly coiffed blond hair? Dahlia liked her own hair, though it was far from fashionably cut. Instead of being neatly trimmed so it required few pins to attain the latest styles, her hair was long, thick, and curly, rather in the manner of the heroines in the novels she loved. She wasn’t as fond of the color, which was a mundane light brown, but fortunately, due to her long walks through the fields around Caith Manor, the sun had streaked the brown with honey gold.