Chapter Two
Alasdair stood near the wall of an over-stuffed ballroom, watching a gaggle of blonde curls marching toward him. He could disappear, a shadow within a shadow in his black tailcoat and trousers. Even as their goal, with five sets of blue eyes on him, he could be gone between one blink and the next.
What good would it do, though? This was his life now and had been for nearly six months. Six months stretching into eternity at a laboriously slow pace. The only remaining way he was permitted to serve the Crown was to carry on the Lochgeal line. His damn fool brother had done this to him, trying to jump some damn fool horse over a wall, and Alasdair hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.
Nor had he visited the spot, to properly curse his brother’s stupidity. He wasn’t permitted the peace of his family’s country seat. Not during the season. Perhaps, when the parade of young women dried up, his mother would grant him the solitude of the one place he thought of as home.
The gaggle’s arrival was punctuated by swarming. Ringlets bounced. Laughter tittered. The tops of their heads came only to his chest, but their sickly-sweet perfume knew no such bounds. A less controlled man would have gagged.
“Girls,” Lady Cluaran snapped. “Curtsy to Lord Alasdair. He’ll think you have no manners.”
This brought them into a tight half circle, two arrayed on each side of her ladyship. At some hidden signal, they curtsied in commendable unison. Five pairs of eyes peered up through a thin dusting of lashes.
Mediterranean blue, some might say, but not Alasdair. He’d seen the fabled sea and wouldn’t insult those waters with the comparison. The Mediterranean had depth and teamed with life. Rather, the eyes of Lady Cluaran and her daughters invoked sapphires. Heartless, empty and desired for all the wrong reasons.
“Some men prefer a woman lacking in manners,” one of the blonde beauties said, batting her lashes at him.
“Yes, a streak of hoyden goes quite far toward winning a man, Mama,” another agreed.
The other two tittered.
Lady Cluaran offered an indulgent smile. She could afford lenience. With the fortune settled on each daughter, they had their pick of men. Except Alasdair.
He didn’t know the names of the two who’d offered their high-pitched words of wisdom. He’d never bothered to sort out which daughter was which. They were Mallorie, Moraine, Miranda and Malaria, or some such. Or was that last one of those new ailments they’d discovered in the colonies? He frowned.
“You see, you’ve displeased him,” Lady Cluaran said, her smile gone. She slithered forward and ran a hand down his arm. “Come now, Lord Alasdair. You’ve been on the continent. Surely, you’ve met more forward girls than my daughters.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Though none as pretty.”
“Indeed,” he said, aware words must leave his mouth eventually.
“I daresay the only question is, in which order do you wish to dance with them this evening?” her ladyship continued.
Four wrists, dance cards dangling, were thrust toward him. Not completely devoid of manners, Alasdair contained his grimace. Each ball, the same thing.
“I can make them go away, and stay away, in exchange for a small favor.”
The voice, male, low and unapologetically amused, came from just over Alasdair’s left shoulder. He very nearly gave a start. No one had sneaked up on Alasdair Lochgeal in over twenty years. Not since he was a boy of ten. Who was this man?
The man came to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. One glance showed a richly-dressed gentleman, older than Alasdair, but undiminished by his years. More telling was Lady Cluaran’s reaction, and that of her gaggle. Blonde heads dipped, features molded into respect.
“Sir Stirling, how pleasant to see you.” Lady Cluaran’s tone was respectful, but held no avarice.
A married gentleman, then, this Sir Stirling, and one whose gaze glinted with mirth. Alasdair could see that, even from the corner of his eye.
“Lady Cluaran.” Sir Stirling bowed to each as he named them. “Lady Mallorie. Lady Moraine. Lady Miranda. Lady Malinda. How lovely to see you all. Please, don’t let me interrupt. I believe Lord Alasdair was about to sign dance cards. Perhaps one of them even twice, eh my lord?”
The gaggle snapped open their fans and giggled behind them, as if that somehow concealed the reaction. Peering over lace edged fabric, their covetous gazes locked on Alasdair’s face.
Not in the mood for games, Alasdair turned to Stirling. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, sir, though you seem to know who I am.”
“All of Inverness knows who you are, my lord.” Lady Cluaran added an ingratiating smile to her words. “This gentleman is Sir Stirling James.”
Sir Stirling bowed with commendable flourish.
Alasdair nodded in reply. So, this Sir Stirling wanted something from the new duke? Coin, influence?
“Is Sir Stirling correct, my lord?” one of the girls asked, lowering her fan. “Are you going to sign my dance card twice? Sir Stirling always knows these things.”
“He’s going to sign mine twice,” another countered. She flashed Alasdair a simpering smile before aiming a glare at her sister.
