No, the female in question wasn’t the problem. It was James himself.
His flash of introspection was cut short when his young sister, Fiona, came storming out of the gardens.
At eighteen, Fiona recently blossomed from mischievous sprite into young woman. A fact all ten of her older brothers conveniently chose to ignore. In moments like this, however, when her color was heightened and her green eyes snapped with fury while she hiked her skirt high to run past them into the house, there was no denying that the wee lass the MacKintosh men raised had recently become a fair lady.
A lady with a temper.
If Larena had ever laid into James with a fierce Scottish temper like Fiona’s and simply set down her terms ready for battle, things might’ve been different for them, he thought.
He wouldn’t be left to wallow in the melancholy of having no partner of his own to dance with.
Gads, but he was an utterly moribund chump when the only company he had was his own.
However, he hadn’t more than a moment to rebuke himself further when Fiona paused at the door and whipped around, yelling into the night, “You’ll be sorry, Harry Brudenall! You’ve had your chance. I’m done with you now!”
Blinking in surprise, James turned back to the gardens as the Marquis of Aylesbury emerged from the densely planted gardens with a look of irritation and a stark white handprint marring his red face. He appeared to be as fed up with the feminine population as James was.
“Harry!” Moira exclaimed. “Did you…?”
“No,” Aylesbury growled. “Shedid!”
“Ha!” James laughed without humor and the marquis turned to meet his gaze, seeing something he could apparently relate to, just as James could.
They nodded in unison. “Women!”
“Men!” Moira retorted and ran after Fiona. Vin merely shrugged and followed behind the ladies at a more leisurely pace.
Turning back to the marquis, James shook his head in sympathy and held up his empty glass. “I could use another drink and I imagine you could as well. Care to join me?”
“Don’t you want to know what happened between your sister and myself?” Aylesbury asked warily.
James vehemently shook his head. “Good God, no. There’s not even a wee part of me that wants to know what happened. I know my sister well enough to figure it out.”
“Very well then. I will join you, but make mine a double.”
James snorted at that. “Mine will be a triple.”
CHAPTER 1
It is so easy to love.
The only hard thing is to be loved.
~ Vincent Van Gogh
The residence of Mrs. Margaret Preston
The Upper 700s of 5thAve.
Manhattan, New York
Early December 1895
“James, dear! There you are. I feared we were going to be late.”
“Mrs. Preston.” James bowed politely enough, but her pleasant expression fell into a scowl and he relented with a sigh. “Maggie.”
A satisfied smile curved her lips then as she met him at the bottom of the stairs. With a cluck of her tongue, she set about straightening his tie.
