Chapter 18

P amela felt as if she were floating down the grand staircase. Her white satin slippers gently hugged her feet without pinching. With each step the hem of her evening gown rippled over the lustrous pearl buckles that adorned them. The gown was fashioned from sea-green crepe with a pleated skirt that seemed to waltz with each graceful sway of her hips and a rounded bodice trimmed in blonde lace that displayed the creamy swell of her bosoms to their best advantage without threatening to evict them every time she drew in a deep breath.

She was doubly grateful for that when she spotted Connor waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. She sucked in an uneven breath, her heart betraying her with a stumbling lurch.

Apparently, while her new French modiste was cobbling together a handful of dresses she could wear until the rest of her trousseau was completed, Connor's tailor had paid him a visit.

His transformation from highwayman to gentleman was now complete. He wore the elegant doeskin breeches, striped gold waistcoat and black cutaway tail coat as if he'd been born to them. Since the clinging breeches were cut to just below the knees, a pair of plain silk stockings hugged his powerful calves. He wore polished black shoes and a snowy white cravat tied in a simple bow that complemented the sun-bronzed strength of his jaw.

Oddly enough, he didn't look any less dangerous than he had the first time they'd met. Instead of polishing away his rugged edges, the trappings of civilization only sharpened them.

Pamela breathed a sigh of relief to see he hadn't succumbed to the fickle whims of fashion by cutting his hair. He was still wearing it tied back at the nape. Her fingers twitched with a wicked urge to tug away that velvet ribbon and run her fingers through it.

As she neared the bottom of the stairs, trailing her gloved fingers lightly along the mahogany baluster, he sketched her a graceful bow. "Miss Darby."

"My lord," she replied primly, bobbing him an equally graceful curtsy as she stepped off the last stair.

He straightened, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. As he leaned down to whisper in her ear, his warm breath ruffled the upswept coils of her hair, sending a delicious little shiver down her spine. "I trust you were finally able to replace all of those raggedy drawers of yours."

"Oh, my new drawers won't be ready until next week. So I decided not to wear any," she informed him, smiling sweetly.

His mouth fell open but before he could respond, a shrill creaking warned them that a footman was pushing the duke's wheeled chair across the marble floor toward them.

"I just came to see you off," the duke said. "Astrid is almost ready. She'll be along in a few minutes."

As Pamela exchanged a guarded glance with Connor, the duke rubbed his hands together, his eyes sparkling with an emotion that could have been either malice or glee. "I might be too weak to venture out myself, but you didn't think I was going to send the two of you off without a chaperone, did you? I'm not so close to the grave that I can't remember what it was like to be young and desperately in love."

Pamela plucked a speck of invisible lint off the ivory silk of her elbow-length gloves, suddenly even more eager to avoid both men's eyes.

"So is it true what they're saying about her? That her mother was an opera dancer?"

"I heard she was an actress ."

"Well, I heard her mother was a common little…" An inaudible whisper was followed by a flurry of malicious female titters. "That came straight from Lord Biffledown's wife. Apparently her husband had some dealings with the woman."

"What can one expect?" interjected a new voice that was so tart one could almost smell vinegar in the air. "After all, he's been living among those savage Scots for all these years. He probably believes a lady is any female who wears shoes and bathes once a month—whether she needs to or not."

One of the voices dropped to a sly murmur. "I've heard the Scots are cursed with insatiable carnal appetites. Perhaps he was afraid a true lady wouldn't be able to satisfy him."

"If what his tailor is bandying about town regarding his measurements is true, I wouldn't mind trying."

That droll pronouncement was greeted by a scandalized ripple of laughter and a flutter of fans.

Connor inclined his head toward Pamela and whispered, "I do believe that's our cue."

They stood in the foyer of Lord Newton's stately Wimpole Street town house, waiting for the red-faced footman to announce them. Pamela was staring straight ahead, her cheeks burning with humiliation and her spine stiff with pride. It hadn't surprised her in the least when Lady Astrid had abandoned them at the front door, drawing a hare's foot from her reticule and claiming she needed to powder the shine from her nose.

Connor offered her his arm. She tucked her gloved hand in the crook of it.

As the liveried footman stepped into the arched doorway that led into the drawing room, an expectant hush fell over the guests. "The Marquess of Eddywhistle and Miss Pamela Darby," he announced, his voice cracking like a lad's in the first throes of manhood.

Pamela felt a petty twinge of satisfaction as the circle of women who had been gathered by the doorway went scurrying off in different directions like a pack of wide-eyed rats that had just spotted a hawk circling overhead.

The spacious drawing room was occupied by a veritable crush of guests. The pungent scents of the wax wall lights mingled with the heady aroma of the freshly cut flowers decorating the tables and a variety of perfumes to form a cloying potpourri in the overheated, overcrowded room. Pamela was grateful the stays of her new gown allowed her room to breathe. Had she been wearing one of Sophie's gowns, she would have probably fainted dead away.

As they drifted further into the room, accepting flutes of smuggled French champagne from a footman's tray, the idle chatter resumed but the curious stares only intensified. The very women who had been denouncing Connor as a savage Scot only minutes before were now eyeing him with open appreciation. Had she not been on his arm, Pamela suspected he could have found any number of willing women to woo before the night was over.

She lifted her chin, returning their avid gazes with a cool stare of her own. That was when a familiar face near the hearth caught her eye.

"Oh, no," she breathed, draining her champagne in a single gulp.

"What is it?"

"It's Viscount Pemberly. The man I told you about. The one who was trying to force Sophie into becoming his mistress." Tightening her grip on Connor's arm, she sought to steer him in a different direction.

"Don't be so hasty, lass," he said, his jovial tone belied by the wicked gleam in his eye. "I've been wanting to make the fellow's acquaintance ever since you told me about him."

"You offered to kill him for me," she reminded him.

His grin only deepened. "Precisely."

Setting his own half-empty champagne glass on a footman's tray, Connor made a beeline for the hearth, leaving her with no choice but to accompany him or be dragged across the floor behind him. Given that the viscount's wife was hanging off his arm, Pemberly didn't look any happier to see her than she was to see him.

"Why, Miss Darby," he said, flashing his white teeth in a grimace of a smile. "How lovely to see you again. I just heard the news about your rather stunning reversal of fortune."

"And just how is it that you and the marquess's fiancée came to be acquainted?" his wife inquired with frosty politeness.

The viscount's handsome face flushed. "Now, dear, you know I've always been a devoted patron of the arts—especially the theater. I was a great admirer of Miss Darby's talented mother."

"And of her charming young sister, from what I've heard," Connor said, earning the nobleman an even icier look from his wife.

Pemberly suddenly seemed to be having great difficulty swallowing. He clawed at his cravat, seeking to loosen it. "And just how is dear little Sophie?"

Pamela glanced behind them, thankful Lady Astrid hadn't yet made her entrance. She couldn't very well tell the viscount she'd left her sister sulking in the window seat because Pamela got to go off to a party in her pretty new things while Sophie was expected to stay behind and turn down the bed.

Before she could respond, Connor edged closer to the viscount, the move emphasizing the disparity in their heights. "Dear little Sophie is under my protection now. If any man tries to make improper advances toward the lass, his own fortunes are going to suffer a stunning—and perhaps fatal—reversal."

The viscount winced as his wife dug her fingernails into his arm. "Come, Sherman," she said, her voice cracking like a whip. "I want you to take me home immediately. We have much to discuss."

Connor watched them go, a lazy smile flirting with his lips. "'Twill be a slow death. And far more painful than any I could have devised."

Pamela laughed and shook her head, almost pitying the poor viscount. "Remind me to never make an enemy of you."

Connor brushed her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, his gaze searching her face. "Would you consider making a lover of me?"

At first Pamela thought he was teasing her, but all traces of humor had disappeared from his eyes. All she could see reflected in their smoky depths was her misty-eyed reflection. As Connor leaned toward her, her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth went dry with longing, already anticipating the taste of his lips, the velvety caress of his tongue against hers.

"Tsk, tsk," someone said, practically in Pamela's ear. "This is exactly why Uncle sent Mummy to chaperone the two of you. He'll be quite disappointed to learn she's faked a megrim and is languishing in Lady Newton's dressing room with a cool cloth on her brow."

They jerked apart to find Crispin leaning lazily against the mantel. His eyes were sparkling with a malicious glee that reminded Pamela of the duke.

She glared at him. "Did your uncle send you to chaperone us as well, or are we here to play nursemaid to you?"

"Neither. Actually, I was hoping my dear cousin here could settle an argument for me."

"What sort of argument?" Connor asked warily.

"One that could easily lead to bloodshed if not settled quickly and definitively."

Seizing Pamela by the hand, Crispin dragged her toward a group of guests gathered around the towering bookshelves at the far end of the drawing room, leaving Connor with no choice but to follow.

"Byron versus Burns," Crispin said to the rapt group of young people clustered around him. "Who was blessed with the most eloquent tongue? The most persuasive pen? A living libertine or a dead Scot? That is the question I must put before you on this night."

"I'll vote for any poet who can romance my Emily into letting me steal a peek at her ankles," a freckled young man called out, earning hoots of laughter from his male friends and a cuff on the arm from the blushing Emily.

While the laughter was dying down, Crispin slid a thin leather-bound volume from the shelf. "I shall begin tonight's experiment by reading to you from Lord Byron's When We Two Parted ." He thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for, cleared his throat and began to read:

In secret we met

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget

Thy spirit deceive…

From her place next to Connor on the settee, Pamela had to admit that Crispin would have cut a striking figure on the stage. He seemed to grow taller and more confident when not forced to share the limelight. Several of the other guests had abandoned their conversations and were drifting toward their little group, drawn by the rich timbre of his voice.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.

An enthusiastic smattering of applause greeted the end of Crispin's reading. He took a bow, then tucked the book back on the shelf.

"As most of you already know, my long lost cousin here has spent most of his years living with that hale and hearty race known as the Scots." As Crispin's calculating gaze settled on Connor, Pamela felt a twinge of foreboding. "Since there is no greater pleasure than hearing a poem rendered in its native tongue, who better than my dear cousin to bring to life the words of Robert Burns—the most famous Scotsman of them all!"

As Crispin plucked a cloth-bound volume from the shelf and tossed it at Connor, Pamela felt her blood run cold. She had sought to spare him the embarrassment of her outmoded dresses, never dreaming he might endure a far worse humiliation at his cousin's treacherous hands. She'd had every intention of teaching him how to read before anyone discovered his lack of education, but they'd certainly had no opportunity for study since arriving at Warrick Park.

She snatched the book out of the air before Connor could catch it. Glaring daggers at Crispin, she said, "I'm sure the marquess has better things to do with his time than play at these ridiculous games."

Connor gently removed the book from her hand. "It's all right, darling. A Scotsman welcomes any chance to enlighten an Englishman when it comes to the romance of poetry."

His words were greeted with bemused glances and nervous chuckles. A hush fell as he rose to take Crispin's place at the bookshelf, his imposing presence commanding the attention of everyone in the drawing room.

"May I choose my selection?"

Crispin extended a gracious hand. "Be my guest."

Pamela held her breath as Connor flipped through the book several times before finally securing a page with his finger. Without introduction, he read:

From thee, Eliza, I must go,

And from my native shore;

The cruel fates between us throw

A boundless ocean's roar…

The words were as simple and heartfelt as when the poet had first penned them, but Connor's evocative burr transformed even the simplest syllable into music. He glanced at her, no longer making any attempt to hide the passion simmering in his eyes. Unlike Crispin, he was performing for an audience of only one. Pamela felt helpless tears start in her eyes as he continued:

But boundless oceans, roaring wide,

Between my love and me,

They never, never can divide

My heart and soul from thee.

As the echo of those last words faded, the entire drawing room erupted in thunderous applause. Judging by the number of handkerchiefs that suddenly appeared, Pamela wasn't the only one who had been moved to tears. The freckled young man was even rewarded with a tender kiss on the cheek from his Emily.

Both Crispin and Byron were forgotten as a chorus of eager voices rose to beg Connor for another Burns poem.

"That's enough for tonight, lads and ladies," he told them, "but I promise to return after my wedding to bring you a rousing rendition of ‘O Aye My Wife She Dang Me.'"

The laughing men gathered around Connor to slap him on the back and offer him their congratulations. Pamela watched a stone-faced Crispin disappear into the crowd and decided to do the same. As Emily's beau charmed the girl into sliding behind the pianoforte to coax a winsome Bach concerto from its keys, Pamela rose and slipped through the crush of guests, seeking an escape from the merry chatter and prying eyes.

She didn't get very far before she heard Connor's clipped footsteps behind her. He caught her by the hand and tugged her around to face him.

She jerked her hand from his, lowering her voice to a raw whisper as she saw several heads turn their way. "Why didn't you tell me you could read?"

He shrugged. "You never asked. My father was a gentleman. He was the one who taught me."

Pamela felt her lips go numb with shock. "Your father was a gentleman? I had assumed your parents were…"

"Peasants?" he offered helpfully when she trailed off.

She could feel a guilty flush creeping up her throat. "Farmers. Shepherds. Crofters perhaps?"

Connor's voice was no longer expressive, but flat and devoid of emotion. "My father was Scots but he was born and raised in England. It was his father who sold out our clan at Culloden."

"For thirty pieces of English silver," she said softly, remembering those damning words from the courtyard of Castle MacFarlane.

"And an earldom," he confessed.

Pamela's ears were beginning to ring. "I suppose you neglected to mention the earldom as well."

Connor's face darkened. "That title was bought with the blood of my clansmen. My father rejected everything it stood for when he returned to the Highlands to try to reunite Clan Kincaid beneath the banner of their rightful chieftain. He gave up both wealth and privilege to live in a humble cottage and marry a penniless lass who adored him with her every breath." He glanced back at the laughing crowd still lingering around the bookshelf. "Even if I couldn't read, I could have recited that piece from memory. Robbie Burns was my father's favorite poet. I can't tell you how many times I heard him recite those very words to my mother while we sat around the hearth at night."

Pamela shook her head helplessly, feeling like even more of a fool. "And how was I to know that?"

"You couldn't know, because you assumed my parents were ignorant, uneducated ruffians. That's what the English always assume about the Scots."

She lifted her chin, stung by the unfairness of his accusation. "It wasn't as if you did anything to disabuse me of that notion. When we first met, you were pointing a loaded pistol at my heart. Did your father teach you to do that as well?"

"No. The redcoats who hanged him did."

They stood there, the gulf between them swelling until it was deeper and wider than any boundless ocean Burns could have described. Pamela sensed that words, no matter how eloquent or persuasive, were no longer enough to bridge it.

She took a step toward him. "What do you want, Connor?" she asked softly. "Do you want to punish me? Do you want to make me pay for their sins?"

Before he could give her an answer, the footman stepped back into the doorway. From the corner of her eye, Pamela saw a couple join him.

The footman cleared his throat forcefully to make sure he had everyone's attention before intoning, "Sir Simon and Catriona Wescott."

The golden-haired man standing beneath the archway was leaner than Connor but nearly matched him in both height and breadth of shoulder. He'd been blessed with the sort of effortless grace and dazzling masculine beauty that commanded every female eye in the room.

Despite the fluttering fans and lashes and the chorus of wistful sighs that greeted his arrival, it was painfully evident that he only had eyes for the woman on his arm.

Unfortunately, when Pamela glanced at Connor, she discovered to her shock that he too only had eyes for Simon Wescott's wife.