Page 11 of Reckless Desire

“I believe Mother requested my presence tonight,” Bryson replied.

His father snorted. “That is not always a guarantee of your compliance.”

At fifty-five, his father still cut a dashing figure with dark hair, only slightly peppered with gray, and broad shoulders that turned the heads of women half his age.

The earl lifted a brow. “Which wench has captured your attention?”

Bryson frowned. “What makes you think that anyone in particular has captured my interest?”

His father laughed. “One always does. I understand Mrs. Jones is on the prowl for a new paramour.”

“On the prowl for a new husband, you mean.”

“I thought she enjoyed her freedom,” his father said.

“She enjoys spending money.”

Interest lit the earl’s eyes. “You speak as a man with experience.”

“Let us just say that the lady learned I was not in the market for a wife.”

His father returned his attention to the dance floor. “I can depend upon you to show good sense.”

Bryson looked at him. “No talk of love and the joys of marriage?”

To Bryson’s surprise, he grinned. “There are some women who make far better paramours than wives. Besides, the Newhall men have yet to make a bad choice.”

That was true. The three generations of women that preceded Bryson had all been of good character. But they had also been gently bred. Miss Ramsay was well spoken, but she lacked the sophistication of ladies born into society. Bryson suspected her to be the daughter of a lower lord, perhaps even a second or third daughter. For all he knew, she could be a merchant’s daughter.

Stirling himself was a businessman. He cared not whether a man—woman—was nobility or not. It would be like him to introduce into society a woman of common birth. What would Bryson’s family think of him falling in love with a commoner?

“That young lady there.” His father nodded toward the right side of the ballroom. “The lass dancing with Hensley, she is a Flower of Scotland.”

Bryson looked sharply at his father. “A descendant of Robert the Bruce?”

His father nodded. “She is a beauty. Look at that red hair. Fire incarnate.” He chuckled. “Leave it to Stirling to find her.”

“Aye,” Bryson murmured. “Leave it to Stirling.”

The music ended. Bryson couldn’t prevent his gaze from following Miss Ramsay as Hensley led her from the dance floor. He caught sight of her fingers wrapped around Hensley’s forearm. He led her to a private alcove on the other side of the room. Of course, Sir Stirling had reserved the alcove for his party.

Bryson forced back a compulsion to follow. He couldn’t chance his father guessing his feelings this early on. He shuddered to think of the encouragement—and interference—his father would offer. Of late, even his mother had begun to hint that a man of thirty-two might want to consider settling down.

Bryson’s gut clenched when Miss Ramsay emerged from the alcove on the arm of the Marquess of Wilshire. The man was a bigger womanizer than Bryson. She looked up at him and smiled. She hadn’t smiled for Hensley. But then, Hensley was an ass. Wilshire, on the other hand, was the quintessential charming rogue.

They reached the dance floor just as the orchestra struck up the Scottish reel. He stared, transfixed, as she grasped the hands of those in her group—Wilshire to her right—and danced in a circle. She’d worn the turquoise dress, just as he’d known she would. How had he known that? The skirt flared, and she smiled broadly as they separated. She clasped Wilshire’s hand and skipped down the middle of the dancers. Her slippered toes protruded from beneath her hem, in perfect rhythm with the music. He could almost feel her breathless joy. A strange sense of pride swelled.

The orchestra picked up the tempo and she didn’t miss a beat. To Bryson’s surprise, even Wilshire seemed to catch her delight and laughed along with her, pranced and turned with an exuberance Bryson had never observed in him. His blood chilled. The man was falling in love.

Ridiculous. William Masters, the Marquess of Wilshire, did not fall in love. But that didn’t stop women from falling in love with him. Few had resisted that smile, the dimple in his chin.

Had Stirling orchestrated this introduction, as well? Damn the man.

How many men were pursuing her? Bryson shifted his gaze to the alcove and caught sight of four more men inside. Bloody hell, she had a veritable harem. How was he going to get her away from that horde? The same way he got any other woman: with the Newhall charm. Again, Bryson searched for her on the dance floor and located her turning with two other women. The song was coming to an end. If he didn’t act quickly, he wouldn’t stand a chance of claiming a single dance. One dance was all he needed.

“I would say it is time for a dance.”

Bryson started from his thoughts and looked at his father. He was grinning.