Page 20 of The Scot Who Loved Her

“Blast it all,” he grumbled.

“My lord?” George, his valet, snapped to attention from where he stood at Malcolm’s wardrobe.

“Nothing.”

“Your cufflinks, my lord.”

Malcolm repressed a growl and held out his arm so George could encumber him in more sparkling nonsense. They’d been going at it for nearly an hour now. Far too long to get dressed. As soon as this mission was complete, he was going back to the Highlands and would instate a naked fortnight to recover from the assault of English propriety.

“Will that be all, my lord?” George swiped his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders as though wiping away literally nothing.

Malcolm nodded, then, on second thought, asked, “How long does one typically stay at a ball, George? Is it rude to leave before the ridiculous midnight supper?”

George’s eyes widened in horror. “Why, yes, my lord. You must stay. This evening’s ball is held by the illustrious Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. They will not serve the usual cold plates but a rather extraordinary service.”

Malcolm blew out a breath. “And supper will not be served until midnight.”

“That is typical, my lord.”

“Hmm. So my sister will expect to be there until the wee hours?” No doubt cavorting about like the upstart she must be, having been raised by Lady Dunlyon.

“That is also typical, my lord.”

Not “typical” for Malcolm. He worked in the small hours. Being kept at a ball with simpering females and hounding mothers was the last thing he was looking forward to. Not when he could be one of the many gentleman’s clubs digging for information or disguising himself as a pugilist in the nefarious London underground. With any luck, however, he’d gain some clues at the ball. Other than spying Miss Olivia Aston at the social gathering the day before, he’d not been able to glean much from those in attendance and hoped not to attend a performance ever again.

At the base of the stair, he waited for his sister, who made her grand entrance with only him and the servants as her audience. Though, that hardly seemed the case as she descended the stairs as elegantly as any royal watched by all the land. Her gown was a soft yellow and cut to all the latest fashion, he was well aware, but it was too...provocative.

“Ye’ve forgotten your fichu,” he pointed out, keeping his tone bored.

Caroline raised her chin, staring down her nose at him from where she stood four steps up. “I have not.”

Malcolm gritted his teeth and flashed her a “do not argue with me”smile. “I am your guardian, and I say, ye’ve forgotten a piece of your clothing. We’ll not be leaving this—”

“Dear heavens, brother,” Caroline interrupted, whipping open a fan as though she’d blow him away. “If it bothers you so very much.” She turned around and stomped back up the stairs, returning nearly a quarter of an hour later with her décolletage suitably hidden behind the gauzy fabric.

“Better.”

She gave a very unladylike snort and then whisked past him to the carriage.

The ride to the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire’s house was short, and by the time they arrived, their carriage waited in a long line of carriages until they were brought to the front of the imposing yet elegant house—easily thrice the size of his own—lit up with perhaps all the candles and lamps in England.

“Oh, Malcolm, to be here at this ball!” Caroline clapped her hands in sheer excitement.

He didn’t understand his sister’s elation, but he smiled all the same and helped her out of the carriage. They walked up the marble stairs and into the grand foyer, where they were announced by a butler and presented to the hosts. The Duke of Devonshire was short, graying about the head and mouth. His eyes were watery blue, and his teeth had seen better days. He was polite but disinterested in their introduction, affecting the bored expression Malcolm himself wore, whereas his duchess was quite the opposite.

“Oh, my dear Lord Dunlyon, I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.” The lady raised a brow and held his hand a little too long, clearly used to the admiration and envy of those who surrounded her. “We have all heard so much about you. You seem to have made an impression at the garden party hosted by Lady Cowper earlier this afternoon.”

Malcolm had no idea what she was talking about, for he’d purposefullynotmade an impression. He bent over her hand and kissed the air above it, muttering at her beauty and then turning the attention to his sister.

They were ushered into the ballroom, and Caroline was immediately set upon by a few of her flighty friends—one of whom was the daughter of their hosts. Malcolm backed away as they gathered in a tittering circle and observed the crowd.

The air was ripe with a vexing amount of avarice. Alas, what would a ball be without a bit of envy and greed, for who deigned to attend any fete simply for the dancing?

Everyone who was anyone made it a point to be at a ball held by a duke and duchess. And he hoped that meant Miss Aston and her accomplices would also be in attendance.

What he wouldn’t give to be back in Scotland, sipping a whisky before a roaring fire. Alas, duty before pleasure. So, here he stood beneath swaths of gold, crimson and black tissue that wove in and out of the ceiling beams. Hundreds of candles glittered from descended chandeliers. Ornately carved chairs leaned against rose-trellis papered walls with the floral embroidered cushions suffocated by the overlarge bottoms of countless overly doting mothers. Dangerous women, they were, eyeing him from behind their fans.

Malcolm was no stranger to danger. Descended from military heroes and displaying his daring abilities, he’d not risen through the ranks of the Scottish regiments and been recruited to fight alongside the most elite soldiers in the Black Watch by being fragile. Aye, the dangers of battles were something he could handle. So why did mothers make him leery? Well, hell, there was a reason why he’d refused to see his own since boyhood.

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