Chapter 1
Music spilled from the great ballroom like perfume. It was sweet, heavy, and suffocating. Lady Isla Drummond stood at the threshold in a gown of palest green silk, feeling the lace collar scratch her throat as though it meant to choke her. The chandeliers blazed above, hundreds of wax flames shivering in the heat of the crowd. London’s finest shimmered beneath them, all smiles and calculation.
Her brother’s voice, clipped and low, pressed against her ear.
“You will smile when introduced, Isla. And you will not mention horses.”
“Even if the subject is brought up to me?” she asked with wide, innocent eyes that did not fool her brother.
“Especially not then. You know nothing about horses except how pretty they look.”
She turned her head slightly, just enough for him to see the edge of her smile. It was sharp as the spur she would never use on a horse.
“As you command, Your Grace. I shall speak of embroidery and moonlight, and die of boredom before the second waltz.”
The Duke of Strathmore sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He is forever sighing these days. There was a time when he would not. When he was fun to be around.
He offered his arm and a glare, then led her forward. Heads turned. Whispers rippled. The unmarried Scottish duke had arrived. He escorted his sister, about whom little was known. Isla knew that this ball was effectively her debut, at least to the English.
She felt a giant as she walked alongside Alistair. They were taller than the average guest, both of them, with the characteristic auburn hair of the Drummonds. Not to mention the broad shoulders and athletic frames.
So advantageous when it comes to riding horses across heath and moorland. Somewhat redundant in a ballroom. I do hope I will not be paired up with a veritable pygmy.
A bowing line of gentlemen awaited introduction. She endured them with the practiced politeness of one who has tamed more dangerous creatures. The first, a baronet’s son, frowned at her broad accent and every other word was pardon.
“Your accent is rather pronounced,” the gentleman ventured stiffly.
“Aye,” she said, letting the rolled r curl like smoke. “It tends tae thicken when I’m comfy with a person, eh?”
He lasted two more minutes before pleading thirst and was replaced by a brave soul who swept a bow and complimented the combination of her pale skin and bronze hair. She smiled and curtsied in response.
“I am the Viscount of Oxley,” the gentleman said.
Isla brightened. “Oxley? Your stables are famous. You are probably the only man here I am interested in talking to. Tell me, how have you found the breeding of your thoroughbreds with Arabian stock?”
Oxley was left flat-footed and open-mouthed.
“It is a matter I leave to my stable manager,” he said, faintly.
“Oh,” Isla said brightly, then looked around. “Is he here?”
Oxley disengaged with a blink and a shake of the head. Alistair glared at his sister from the depths of a conversation with agray haired gentleman with a red and white uniform who was weighed down as heavily by whiskers as medals. Isla smiled back brilliantly, moving away through the crowd.
Do these places have to be so thronged! A rowth o’folk as grandma would have said.
The thought of the fearsome Scottish matriarch who had been the de facto Laird of Strathmore for so long brought a tinge of sadness. Alistair took after their father including his seeming desperation to be accepted by the English. Mhairi Drummond had not.
I am proud to take after her.
By the time the third potential partner claimed her hand for the quadrille, her brother’s jaw had set like stone.
Well, I did not want to be here Alistair.
A brave soul offered to dance with her, eyes shining into hers as she accepted. She glanced at Alistair who was leading a young woman with curling dark hair to the floor. He gave Isla a short nod and a brief smile.
Don’t count your chickens Alistair.
