Page 1 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Prologue
London
September, 1868
Please let him be there. If he hadn’t come to the Duke of Bledsoe’s ball, she didn’t think she could bear it.
He must have been invited. She’d done enough hinting to the duke’s daughter that she’d be very, very pleased if Macrath Sinclair was invited, along with his sister Ceana.
She’d waited so long already, a whole day, since seeing him. She’d told herself that all she had to do was be patient a few more hours. That refrain had sung through her mind all during the time her maid had dressed her hair, when the gown needed a few last minute stitches to keep one of the silly bows in place, and when her gloves were handed to her. Only one more hour, she’d thought as she was inspected by her father and Mrs. Haverstock, turning in a slow circle so her appearance could be judged.
To her surprise, neither her English chaperone nor her father had said a word. Nor had her father frowned, his usual expression in her presence. He only nodded, a sign to precede him into the carriage, Mrs. Haverstock following.
The carriage wheels had been too slow. Her heartbeat had been too fast. Hours, decades, eons later they were finally at the Duke of Bledsoe’s home, only for it to take forever before the carriage got to the head of the line and they could leave the vehicle. Because of the crush of people, there was another interminable wait to climb the steep stone steps, and yet another to enter the ballroom.
Would he like her hair? Her maid had done it in an intricate style tonight. What about her new scent from Paris? She’d thought about him the moment she uncapped the flacon, wondering if he would think the rose scent too strong. Would he think her high color attractive? She couldn’t help herself; the thought of seeing him after an absence of twenty-four endless hours reddened her cheeks.
Dear God, please let him be here. Please. She’d promise a dozen things, only let him be here.
She heard Mrs. Haverstock behind her, greeting friends. Moving away, she scanned the crowd for a sight of him.
Thank you, God. There he was. There, just beyond the pillar in the ballroom. Standing there, looking out at the crowd as the music surged around him.
She made herself wait, watching him. He was so handsome in his elegant black evening dress. He stood on the edge of the ballroom, a man with the studied gaze of a person twice his age. His stature was of someone who knew himself well, who’d gone through his own personal battles and won his wars.
Several women stopped, their looks intent. Suddenly, she felt a fierce possessiveness, and wanted to clamp her hands over their eyes to stop their acquisitive looks.
He was hers.
He turned in her direction, his eyes lighting on her. There it was, the smile she’d been anticipating. Slowly at first, dawning with merely a quirk at the corners of his lips, growing as she walked toward him.
She wanted to race to him, throw herself into his arms, press her hands against his chest and feel the solidness of him. Otherwise, she might believe she’d dreamed him, conjured him up from a lonely girl’s prayer and a wishful woman’s yearning.
He was as perfect as any daydream could create him, but he was no illusion. He was Macrath and she was enthralled.
“Are you well?” she asked on reaching him. A full day, nearly twenty-four hours, had passed since she’d seen him last, and anything might have happened in the interim.
The smile she’d watched from across the room was now directed solely at her. How wonderful, that an expression could have such warmth, like the sun spearing directly into her.
“I am well, Virginia,” he said. His voice, warm and low, held a roughness that chafed her senses. “And you?”
She was just now starting to heal. The last day without seeing him had been unbearable. She was shriveling up inside for lack of one of his warm smiles. Without seeing his beautiful blue eyes and hearing his Scottish accent, she was not quite herself.
How did she tell him something like that? It seemed like he knew, because his smile faded and he reached out one hand to hold hers.
She could hear people around them, but it was like a bubble surrounded Macrath and her. No one was important. Nothing else had weight.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
She smiled, pleased he thought so. Few people did. She was too retiring to be noticed most of the time.
When she just shook her head, he said, “You’re the most beautiful woman in London.”
“You’re beautiful as well,” she said. She didn’t mean handsome, either. He was a gift from God, a creation of masculine beauty.
Even his laugh was glorious.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked, still holding her hand.
