Page 3

“It’s time for our dance, Mr. Tuffington,” Miss Goodchild said.

She held out her hand, and Simon took it, then she glanced at Murdo.

“I wanted to introduce your cousin to my friend, Miss Peacock.” She turned toward the sour-faced miss.

“Louise—this is Mr. McTavish. Are you fond of dancing, Mr. McTavish?”

“I lack the talent for it,” Murdo said.

“I’m sure you’re being overly modest,” she replied. “Besides, only one partner needs to be talented on the dance floor. My friend’s an excellent dancer, aren’t you, Louise?”

Miss Peacock inclined her head.

“You couldn’t find a better partner in my friend, Mr. McTavish. She’s the perfect Society lady.”

“Well,” Murdo said, “I suppose, if that’s the case…”

“Excellent!” Miss Goodchild said, her voice increasing in pitch. “That’s settled.” Her cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink, she steered Murdo’s cousin onto the dance floor, where a number of couples formed a line, headed by the Duke and Duchess of Pittchester.

“Looks like someone’s had a little too much of our hostess’s punch,” Murdo said, as Miss Goodchild lost her balance.

“That’s my friend you’re speaking of,” a harsh, nasal voice said.

“Forgive me, Miss Peacock,” Murdo replied. “I’m known for my frankness.”

“A trait of your countrymen, I suppose.” Miss Peacock took his arm and pulled him onto the dance floor. “I hear the land in the north is somewhat savage.”

“Ye’d be surprised, Miss Peacock,” Murdo said. “We no longer live in caves, you know.”

Her eyes flared with irritation. “Do you know this dance, sir?”

“No.”

She let out a huff. “I assumed you were employing false modesty when you said you couldn’t dance.”

“Why the devil would I do that?”

“It’s a ploy men adopt to secure the attention of a sympathetic lady.”

“Then I must use it when I come across a sympathetic lady .”

She scowled, then nodded toward the line of dancers. “You’d do best to watch and learn, Mr. McTavish, lest you disgrace yourself in the ballroom.”

“I’ve disgraced myself in many rooms, Miss Peacock,” Murdo said, steering her around in a circle in time to the music.

“I daresay you have,” she replied. “No—not that way! The other way.”

“I was following the duke’s steps.”

“The duke is leading the dance and is therefore undertaking a different series of steps. You should follow Mr. Tuffington instead.”

Murdo glanced at his cousin, who steered Miss Goodchild in a figure-of-eight motion, then he matched the steps.

“That’s better,” his partner said. “With luck, Lady Cholmondeley will have no cause to regret inviting you here tonight.”

“Ye think she had cause to regret before?” Murdo asked.

She wrinkled her pretty nose into a sneer. “Lady Cholmondeley is usually discerning in her choice of guests. But we’re not in London now, so her choice is limited. However, that’s no excuse for inviting anyone of poor breeding. Do you have any family?”

“My da’s Laird of Strathburn, but…”

“Laird?” Miss Peacock fixed her gaze on him. “A titled man?”

Murdo nodded.

“Is Strathburn an earldom?”

“Strathburn’s a castle.”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse, Mr. McTavish?”

“I lack the wit to be obtuse,” Murdo replied. “And I’m not in the habit of insulting a lady—intentionally, at least.”

She inclined her head again—a gesture that seemed to convey the condescension of a monarch bestowing benevolence upon one of her subjects.

Heavens! Did every soul in the room possess the same degree of self-satisfaction? Or perhaps it was a trait of the perfect Society lady .

“Oh, Lord!” Miss Peacock huffed.

“Have I taken another wrong turn?” Murdo asked.

“It’s bad enough having to pay court to her mother, even though she’s a duchess—but to pay homage to her is not to be borne.”

“Are ye speaking of the Duchess of Pittchester?” Murdo asked.

“No, that daughter of hers—Miss Martingale. I suppose, being a newcomer, you aren’t aware of the scandal.”

“Scandal?”

“Miss Martingale isn’t the duke’s daughter,” Miss Peacock said. “She’s reported to be the daughter of the duchess’s first husband.”

“ Reported to be?”

“There are doubts over her parentage. The duchess had something of a reputation when she was Lady Betty Grey—my mama always remarked on how shocking her behavior was. Outrageous parties, infamous activities—she was known as the Merry Widow .”

Murdo grimaced as he thought of the bitter old man back home, numbing his self-pity—and drinking away his wealth—with whisky.

“In my experience,” he said, “widows—and widowers—are far from merry .”

“Then you’ve never met a woman who delighted in driving her husband into the grave. We were horrified to hear that she’d snared the Duke of Pittchester. He’s such a stickler for propriety. But then, even the most distinguished man can be fooled by a harlot.”

Murdo recoiled at the spite in her tone.

“As for that spawn of hers,” she continued, “she appeared out of nowhere, some weeks after her mother married the duke. My mama said she once saw her grubbing about in the dirt like an urchin—yet she’s paraded among her betters, as if she were a debutante.”

“I thought all young ladies entering into their first Season were debutantes,” Murdo said.

“Not her,” came the reply. “ She’s nothing but a guttersnipe who drops her aitches and never knows which fork to use.

I saw her eating with her fingers once. Poor Lady Cholmondeley must regret being forced to invite such a creature tonight.

It’s no wonder she spends most balls seated at the side.

Anyone would consider it the worst sort of punishment to stand within ten feet of her, let alone partner her in a dance. Do you not agree?”

Murdo was spared the necessity of a response as the dance separated them for a few bars. But when they rejoined, she continued, as seamlessly as a vicar delivering a sermon. Evidently, she preferred the sound of her own voice to the music—and to anything else.

Heaven spare me from women!

Yet he was duty bound to marry one.

Well, his future wife wouldn’t be the woman standing before him now—nor any woman here tonight.

“She’s no social graces to speak of,” Miss Peacock continued as the dance concluded and the partners bowed and curtseyed before dispersing. “Stupid, ungainly, uncouth, and wild. I can’t abide a person who lacks social graces, can you, Mr. McTavish?”

“I find them—unpleasing,” he said.

“They’re more than unpleasing . Social graces set us apart from the savage. Our world is founded on the traditions and laws by which the educated and accomplished must abide. Those traditions are manifested in social graces.”

Sweet devil’s ballocks —what was she prattling on about?

“I suppose she should command our pity,” Miss Peacock said, giving him an expectant stare. “But you’d be advised to avoid being tainted by association with her.”

“Social graces can be taught,” Murdo said. “Therefore, a lack of them can be remedied with a little tuition. But a young woman’s character cannot be remedied if it stems from her very soul.”

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

“It’s quite simple, Miss Peacock. Miss Martingale can remedy her lack of social graces, but other young ladies will never be able to remedy their lack of kindness.

A young woman who’s spiteful to her core will always remain so.

Therefore, it’s she who commands our pity, for she deserves little else. ”

She frowned, then the confusion in her eyes morphed into outrage.

“Well!” she said. “I have never been so—”

“It was my pleasure , Miss Peacock,” Murdo said, bowing over her hand. “But I fear I cannot meet yer exacting requirements and would beg to be excused from a second dance.”

Murdo withdrew and crossed the floor to join his cousin on the edge of the ballroom. He grimaced as a pair of young ladies he passed met his gaze and giggled.

Clearly young women hungry for a male partner hunted in pairs.

“I’m in agony,” Simon said. “Miss Goodchild trod on my toe.”

“Beasts, the lot of them, these women,” Murdo said. “I can’t think why Englishmen subject themselves to such savagery. They’d be pretty enough if they smiled—but they’re all spiteful teeth, envious eyes, and brittle bones.”

Simon laughed. “Miss Peacock wouldn’t do for you—she’d snap in two beneath you in the bedchamber. You need a woman as savage as yourself.” He drained his glass, then clapped Murdo on the back. “Back into the fray.”

“Not Miss Goodchild again?”

“I promised her two dances. What man would I be if I didn’t keep my promises?”

“A man with only one broken foot?” Murdo suggested.

Simon chuckled, then made his way across the floor to a red-faced Miss Goodchild.

Murdo plucked a glass from the tray of a passing footman, leaned against the wall, and cast his gaze across the ballroom.

Miss Peacock stood among a group of young ladies who glared in his direction.

He raised his glass to them and chuckled to himself as they tilted their noses in the air and looked away.

The Duke and Duchess of Pittchester were dancing, and Murdo caught sight of their sons—identical to the point where he couldn’t tell which was which—helping themselves to the contents of the punch bowl.

What a complete and utter waste of an evening.

Perhaps he could slip outside and spend the remainder of the evening with the night creatures—they’d be less predatory than the creatures inside.

The skin on the back of his neck tightened, as if light fingertips caressed his flesh, and he caught his breath.

Then he saw her—sitting alone in the corner.

She was unremarkable in every aspect save one—the unsettling expression in her dark eyes. And those eyes were fixed on him.

A jolt hit his body, as if he recognized her on a primal level. An uncomfortable heat threaded through his blood, and he curled his hands into fists to temper the shudder vibrating through his bones.