How to Pursue a Princess (36 page)

“Odd?” Margaret’s smile was that of the cat with the cream. “I would call it fortuitous.”

“It did bring us Lily. But then tonight you told Lily that you planned on asking her youngest sister, Dahlia, to join us for the Christmas Ball. I saw that list yesterday, Margaret, and you’ve added Lord Kirk to it, too.”

“I owe him a favor.” Margaret yawned and stretched. “A very special favor.”

“Does it involve Dahlia Balfour?”

“Perhaps.” Margaret sighed happily and wiggled her toes before the fire as well. “We’ve much to do before the Christmas Ball, but it may be our biggest triumph yet.”

Charlotte wanted to ask more questions, but then thought better of it. Perhaps in time Margaret would reveal her plans. And if not, it would at least be entertaining to watch them unfold. “Very well, Margaret. Then I shall look forward to the Christmas Ball.”

“We all will, my dear. We all will.”

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next delightful novel in
New York Times
bestselling author
K
AREN
H
AWKINS’S
Duchess Diaries series

How to Entice

an Enchantress

Available October 2013 from Pocket Books

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
Ah, the burdens of fame! I am now known throughout the length and breadth of Scotland (and, indeed, most reaches of the kingdom) as the most talented of all matchmakers, a veritable Queen of Hearts. It is a burden that goes against every principle of my character, for intruding upon the private lives of others is anathema to me. And yet, because of my vastly successful entertainments and my uncanny ability to spot potential matches between the most unlikely people, I’m credited for assisting a number of unmarried men and women make brilliant matches.

And so now, whenever I so much as mention having a house party or a dance, I am positively
inundated
with hints, suggestions, and pleas for invitations.

Those who know me realize the truth, of course, which is that I never get involved in the affairs of others. Still, once in a great, great while, I am moved to reach past my natural reserve and, with the most delicate of touches, assist nature. But only with very, very few, and very, very special cases. In fact, one
such case—the most challenging I’ve ever faced—is even now awaiting me in the blue salon. . . .

The Duchess of Roxburghe sailed down the stairs, her red wig firmly pinned upon her head. Her morning gown of pale blue silk swished as her pugs bounded after her, two of them trying to catch the fluttering ribbons of the tie at her waist.

There were six pugs in all—Feenie, Meenie, Teenie, Weenie, Beenie, and Randolph. Randolph was the oldest pug by several years. Graying and usually dignified, of late he’d refused to scramble down the steps after the younger pugs, but stood at the top step, looking so forlorn that her grace had assigned a footman to carry the pudgy pug.

Her butler, MacDougal, who even now stood at the bottom of the staircase watching the footman carry the pug, thought the measure extreme. Judging by the relative ease with which Randolph could bound up and down stairs when tempted with a tidbit, MacDougal thought her grace was being played the fool. Not that he would ever suggest such a thing aloud. He’d been with the duchess far too long not to know that while it was perfectly fine to allude to her grace’s pugs being stubborn, unmannerly, and unruly, they were never to be accused of trickery or sloth.

Her grace reached the bottom step and the footman, Angus, stooped to place Randolph with the other pugs panting at her feet. “That’s a good boy,” cooed her grace.

“Thank ye.” A proud expression bloomed on Angus’s freckled face.

MacDougal locked a stern gaze on the young footman. “Her grace was talkin’ to the dog, ye blatherin’ fool.”

Angus flushed. “Och, I’m sorry, yer grace.”

“I was getting to you next,” she said graciously. “You did a fine job carrying Randolph.”

Angus couldn’t have looked more pleased. “Thank ye, yer grace!” He sent a superior look to the butler, who scowled back so fiercely that the footman’s grin disappeared.

Satisfied that he had quelled the upstart, MacDougal turned to the duchess and offered a pleasant smile. “Yer grace, yer guest is in the blue salon, as ye requested, but we dinna ken where Lady Charlotte might be.”

“Perhaps she fell asleep in a corner somewhere. She’s gotten very bad about that since she’s taken to reading novels at all times of the night.”

MacDougal nodded thoughtfully. “Verrah good, yer grace. I’ll send someone to look upon every settee in the castle.” He cast his eye toward the hapless Angus. “Off wit’ ye, and dinna miss a single settee until ye find Lady Charlotte.”

“Aye, sir!” Angus hurried off.

Her grace glanced at the doors leading to the blue salon. “I hope you made our guest comfortable.”

“Aye, yer grace, we did wha’ we could, but—” The butler sighed. “ ’Tis no’ me place to say naught o’ yer visitors, but this one is a bit—” He scrunched his nose, searching for the word. Finally, his brow cleared. “
Abrupt.
”

“You mean rude,” she said in a dry tone.

“I would ne’er say such a thing aboot one o’ yer guests, yer grace.”

“I would. ’Tis a well-known fact that Lord Kirk is rude and growls at everyone in sight. He has beastly manners.”

“Tha’ might well be understandable considerin’—”
The butler glanced about the empty hallway before he tapped his cheek.

“Because of his scars.”

“Jus’ so, yer grace. ’Tis a horrid sight. He’s a handsome man except fer tha’, which makes it all the worse. He limps, too, so he may well be missin’ a limb fer all we know. If I had all o’ those problems—scars and limps and wha’ no’—I might be a bit rude meself.”

“I’d hope not,” the duchess said impatiently. “There’s no excuse for bad manners.”

“Verrah true, yer grace. I dinna suppose he’s here fer yer help findin’ a match? Tha’ might be a tall order.”

“Of course that’s why he’s here. He’s my godson, and Lady Charlotte and I are quite aware of the challenge he presents. His mother—God rest her soul—was a dear, dear friend.” She looked at the doors and straightened her shoulders. “And now, to begin. Please send Charlotte as soon as you find her.” Much like a general marching into battle, the duchess crossed to the blue salon, the pugs waddling after her.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Margaret eyed her guest. Tall and broad shouldered, Lord Kirk stood by the wide windows that overlooked the front lawn. The bright morning sunlight bathed his skin with gold. His dark brown hair was longer than fashion dictated and curled over his collar, a streak of gray at his temple. In profile, he was starkly beautiful but bold, a statue of a Greek god of the sea.

At the rustle of her skirts, his expression tightened and, with a lingering look at the sun-splashed lawn, he turned.

Though she knew what to expect, she had to fight the urge to exclaim in dismay. One side of his face was scarred by a thick, horrid slash that separated his eyebrow
halfway across, skipped over one eye, and then slashed down his cheek, touching the corner of his mouth and ending on his chin. It had been a clean cut, but whoever had stitched it together had done so with such crudeness that it made her heart ache.

Had he been in the hands of an accomplished surgeon, Margaret had little doubt that his scar, though still long, would not be so puckered or drawn. But Kirk had been at sea when he’d obtained his injury and thus was left to whatever “doctor” was available aboard the ship.

He inclined his head now, barely bowing, the stiffness of his gesture emphasized by the thick, gold-handled cane he held in one hand.

Margaret realized with an inward grimace that she’d been staring and silently castigated herself. The pugs danced about her feet as she swept forward. “Lord Kirk, how are you?”

“I’m as well as one can be when carrying a scar that causes even society’s most stalwart hostess to gasp in horror.”

“I might have stared, but I’m certain I didn’t gasp,” she returned firmly. “I cannot see your scar without wishing I could have put my own physician to it. His stitching is superb.”

Kirk’s smile was more of a sneer. “I assure you that I am quite used to stares.”

“Yes, well, it was rude of me and few people have cause to call me such.” She gestured to the chairs before the fireplace. “Shall we?” The pugs followed as she made her way to the seats.

Elderly Randolph paused by Lord Kirk to give his shoes a friendly sniff. The man didn’t spare the dog a glance, but brushed past him, completely ignoring the poor creature.

Margaret had to fight a flare of temper. Randolph had done nothing to deserve such a snub. The man was beyond rude.
What have I gotten myself into?

Kirk limped to the chair she’d indicated by the fire. She noted how he leaned heavily upon his cane as he walked, moving as if one leg would not bend properly. He didn’t wait for her to be seated, but sank into his chair, wincing visibly.

She sighed in exasperation and took her seat. “Your leg must pain you in this cold weather.”

He cast her a sour look, making the lines upon his face even more pronounced. “A brilliant assumption. Will you next note that my eyes are brown and that I favor my left hand?”

That did it. “Alasdair, stop being a prig.”

He flushed, but after a short silence, he burst into a deep laugh that surprised her. “I haven’t heard that name or that tone since my mother died.”

He looked so much younger when he laughed that Margaret’s heart softened instantly. “Your mother would never have stood for you acting in such a manner. Now come. What brings you?”

Kirk leaned the cane to one side. “I came to you for help and I can see that, because of my blasted temper, I’ve somehow managed to raise your hackles. Ironically, that is why I need your assistance.” He gave a sour smile. “Your grace, as you’ve noticed, I’m not very good at the niceties. Since my wife died seven years ago, I’ve lived alone and I rarely mingle with society. I fear that’s ruined what few graces I once possessed.”

“So I see. I can only be glad that your mother is not alive to find out. She would have you by the ear for letting all of her hard work disappear.”

His eyes gleamed with humor. “So she would have.” His voice, a deep, rich baritone, warmed. “She wasn’t afraid to let her opinion be known.”

“Far from it. I always admired her for that.”

“She admired you, too, which is why she named you my godmother.”

“You were one of my first.” Margaret sighed regretfully. “I cannot help but think that if your mother were still with us, you wouldn’t need me to assist you in your current predicament.”

“Ah yes. My predicament.” His expression darkened. “When I came to you some months ago, we spoke of a—”

The door flew open and Lady Charlotte flew into the room, a book tucked under her arm and one hand on her mobcap, which sat askew, the lace flapping over her ear. The pugs began barking hysterically as they ran toward the door.

“Hush,” Charlotte scolded.

The pugs lowered their barking to an occasional woof, and wagged their tails instead.

She paused to pat one or two before she hurried to where Margaret sat. “Lud, Margaret, I had just reached the page where Rosaline kisses Lord Kestrel when a footman practically dragged me into the foyer and— Oh! Lord Kirk!” On catching sight of his face, she blinked, but recovered quickly and curtsied. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t see you there.”

Kirk inclined his head as if he were a king, but made no move to stand and welcome Lady Charlotte.

Margaret had to fight the urge to reach out one of her slippered feet and kick him in the shin for his lack of manners. “Lord Kirk, you remember Lady Charlotte?”

“Of course.”

“How do you do?” Charlotte came forward, her hand outstretched in greeting.

Still not rising, he shook it politely enough, but when Charlotte took a seat near Margaret, he frowned.

Margaret waved her hand. “Pray continue, Lord Kirk.”

“No, thank you,” he replied in a curt tone. “I don’t wish my personal matters to be discussed in public.”

Charlotte, tucking her book away, smiled sweetly, her soft blue-gray eyes fixed on him. “Oh, but I already know your personal matters.
All
of them.”

“Lady Charlotte is my confidante,” Margaret added. “Very little happens at Floors Castle without her assistance.”

Kirk’s mouth thinned, but after a moment of inner struggle, he gave an impatient sigh. “Fine. I don’t suppose it makes any difference at this point. Your grace, several months ago you offered to assist me in fixing my interest with Miss Dahlia Balfour in exchange for a favor that I found most distasteful.”

“That of pressing her father, Sir Balfour, to repay a loan you’d so generously made him. I remember.”

“Exactly. I had no need for that money and I would have gladly made it a gift, but for reasons you never explained, you felt it in the best interest of everyone concerned that I press for repayment, which I did.”

“Your actions sent Lily Balfour running to me, her godmother, looking for assistance. And with happy results, too.”

“
Very
happy,” Lady Charlotte said. “The happiest of all.” In case Kirk didn’t understand, she leaned forward and whispered, “Marriage.”

An impatient look crossed his face. “Are you saying
that because I pressed for repayment of that loan, Lily Balfour attempted to contract an eligible marriage?”

“She didn’t ‘attempt’ to contract an eligible marriage; she did so. A
most
eligible marriage, in fact. She’s blissful.”

Kirk’s lips thinned. “While the outcome might have been happy for Miss Lily, it was less so for me.”

Margaret arched a brow. “Oh? Sir Balfour hasn’t repaid you?”

“Yes, he has, but my issue is not with the funds, but with Miss Dahlia’s opinion. Because I pressed her father for the payment of that loan, Miss Dahlia now thinks I’m the lowest, vilest, most reprehensible man to walk the earth.”

Margaret tried to look surprised, but must have failed, for Kirk’s brows lowered to the bridge of his nose. “You knew she’d be angry with me.”