Liam and Mared arrived at the mansion overlooking the Firth of Forth in a gilded carriage pulled by a team of four grays, which Liam had recently purchased for Talla Dileas. Liam cared not a whit for balls, so he left Mared to be the center of attention and headed for the gaming room where he said he intended to double his military pension, preferably by taking it from Hugh MacAlister.
Mared entered the ballroom and snapped open her hand-painted fan, as she’d seen many of the women do, and was immediately set upon by several gentlemen.
But David Anderson, son of Viscount Aitkin, the host of this affair, was the first one to draw her away. With his gloved hand on her elbow, he murmured, “A vision has descended into my father’s home.”
Mared glanced at him from the corner of her eye and smiled coyly. “Sounds rather like a buzzard.”
He laughed gently and pulled her to one side. “The vision is indeed a bird,” he murmured, “and one that I should very much like to capture and keep in a gilded cage so that I might gaze upon her at my leisure.”
“Keep her in a cage?” Mared laughed. “Rather barbaric, sir.”
“There is something to be said for a wee bit of barbarism, aye?” he suggested with a wink. “Shall we dance?” he asked and escorted a smiling Mared onto the dance floor for a minuet.
She loved dancing, and stepped and turned and flirted with Mr. Anderson while smiling at other men who endeavored to catch her eye. Her behavior had the desired effect on Mr. Anderson. “You’re bloody gorgeous,” Mr. Anderson said as he took her hand and stepped forward to meet her, then back. “There’s not a lovelier lass in this town.”
Mared smiled playfully.
And so it went, her dancing and flirting and smiling, her delight immeasurable, the lighthearted and gay feeling absolutely divine.
When Mr. Anderson reluctantly gave her up, she danced on, with one gentleman after another, smiling and flirting. She left Lord Brimley after the eighth or ninth dance and made her way to the ladies’ retiring room on the second floor. And having availed herself, she stepped out onto the second floor balcony and walked around the railing, her fingers absently trailing along the mahogany balustrade as she stared down at the dancers below her.
They were playing a reel, and she watched as the women twirled, their colorful skirts flaring out. Men in their black evening clothes, so handsome and debonair, gracefully led the women through the dance steps.
Mared reached the staircase and began her descent, absently surveying the crowded ballroom. But as her gaze swept the crowd, her heart suddenly stopped beating. She instantly looked back, to the person she thought she had seen, and her heart plummeted to her knees.
It was him. Payton. Her heart began to beat again, only quickly, so quickly that she could not seem to catch her breath. Diah, but he looked impossibly majestic, far more dashing than her mind’s eye had recalled him these last two months. He was dressed in black trousers and coat, a white silk waistcoat and neckcloth, his hair unfashionably long, yet sleek and rather becoming. His was an imposing figure and certainly the most agreeable of the many men in the room.
Judging by the many admiring looks he was getting, she was not the only female who thought so.
He stood on the edge of the dance floor, a glass of champagne in his hand, and he watched her calmly, almost expressionless…save the twinkle in his bonny gray eyes that she could see from even this distance. She recalled, with no small shiver of delight, how those eyes had shone when he thrust into her.
That delicious memory made her smile spread wider.
Payton smiled, too, and she wondered with a small laugh if he, too, was recalling that very moment. Below her, he cocked a brow at her. She smiled and gestured to her gown just as she had that night at Loch Leven, turning first one way, then the other.
And just as he had done that night, he bowed his head in acknowledgment of her gown and lifted his flute in silent toast to it. With a flick of her wrist, Mared opened her fan, and slowly fanning herself, she floated down the stairs. He began to walk in her direction, his eyes never leaving her.
He met her at the bottom of the stairs and held out his hand to her. With a laugh of pleasure, Mared put her hand atop his, allowed him to guide her down the last step, at which point, she curtsied deeply. A smile of amusement tipped the corner of his mouth, and he bowed politely over her hand, pressing his lips to her gloved knuckles. When he rose up, she looked up into his gray eyes, felt them tug at something deep and familiar within her. “Feasgar math,” she murmured.
“Feasgar math,” he replied to her greeting as he casually perused her gown.
She blushed a little at his perusal and asked, “How do ye do, then? Ye seem well…very well indeed.”