“I’m nae—”
“The curtains will be open. Ye’ve ridden in a coach before.”
A hand thudded down on his shoulder as he reached the door. “I’m nae objecting to the carriage. Ye’re the one who arranged this,” the viscount rumbled. “I’m nae certain ye arenae throwing me to the wolves now.”
Shrugging free of his brother’s grip, Niall turned around. “I did arrange this. I also arranged to sit beside Amelia-Rose for the rest of the play ye missed—which had a bonny Juliet, by the by—and I took her to coffee when it was supposed to be ye, and I escorted her to a frilly picnic luncheon in yer stead, and I brought her flowers from ye at a bloody recital yesterday to make certain she’d bother with ye again.” And he’d gone riding with her, but his brothers didn’t need to know that. “Go yer damned self, Coll.”
“Niall, y—”
Niall yanked open the door. “Aden and I’ll meet ye there,” he said over his shoulder, “but I’m nae wooing her for ye. Ye have to manage that on yer own.”
“I’ve nae met a lass I couldnae woo, bràthair. I dunnae want to woo this one.”
“Then ye’re a damned fool,” Niall muttered under his breath, and stalked down the hallway for the stairs.
“Is he going?”
He jumped about a foot in the air as Lady Aldriss appeared at the top of the stairs. “Bloody Saint Andrew, woman,” he growled. “Ye near scared me to death.”
“I’ve been standing here for a quarter of an hour. You weren’t paying attention.” His mother didn’t move. “Is he going?”
“Aye. He’s going. I’m going as well. So’s Aden, if ye care. And Eloise and her beau.”
“Yes, well, once I get Coll settled I’ll worry over you and Aden.”
Niall moved around her to descend the stairs. “If ye worried over us, ye wouldnae have left for seventeen years. Now ye only want to manage us. That’s nae the same thing.”
“Perhaps not, but I doubt any of you would ever have come to see me on your own. Your father saw to that. I know very well his opinion of women in general, and me in particular.”
For the devil’s sake. “Then go fight with him. I’m nae in the mood to carry on with other people’s battles tonight.”
He didn’t want to go to this grand Spenfield ball at all. His cravat felt too tight, and his trousers scratched at him. From what Eloise had said, the place would be bursting with lads, because every lass was expected to have a partner for every dance—with a couple of spares in case of drunkenness or injury. He didn’t mind the waltz and the quadrille, but that hopping about for the blasted country dances made the lot of them look like pigeons on a hot rock.
Who the hell could do justice to a dance while he was bound up in tight trousers? Kilts would be gauche, though, Francesca had said. That wouldn’t have convinced him, except that his mother and Amelia-Rose seemed to have similar views of propriety and proper behavior. The MacTaggerts had made a poor showing at the theater; they wouldn’t do so at the ball. Not if he had any say.
“I would love for you to come, Jane, but you know how Mrs. Spenfield is. She only allows enough single females to avoid gossip, and that only suffices because she provides no other entertainments.”
Jane made another stitch in her embroidery. “I am perfectly content to remain in tonight,” she said calmly. “You’re the one who’s been spinning in circles all evening.”
“Perhaps I’m a bit anxious that Lord Glendarril won’t appear,” Amelia-Rose returned in a whisper, “but I’m certainly not spinning.”
While she’d attempted to make it sound like she wanted the viscount to make an appearance, because everything was so much more peaceful when her mother believed everyone to be seeking the same prize, she was more anxious that he would arrive to escort them to the ball.
The alternative of course would be Niall again, and if that happened her mother would very likely decipher that they’d been lying all along, and then she would never have a moment’s peace for the rest of her life.
“You look very fine this evening, my dear,” her mother said right on cue as she and Amelia-Rose’s father arrived in the sitting room. Charles made directly for the liquor tantalus.
She didn’t blame him; this was definitely an evening designed for the ladies. Last year, when she’d been a fresh debutante, it had seemed almost perfectly like a dream she’d had as a young girl. Gentlemen everywhere, each one vying for a dance, or to bring refreshments, or to exchange a thankfully brief word or two. That had been before she realized that not everyone appreciated her direct manner or her wit or her tendency to speak without bothering first to find the most diplomatic way of expressing herself.
Of course even then she’d almost immediately realized the gentlemen had mostly been tempting to avoid boredom—Mrs. Spenfield had refused to allow a gaming room or even a smoking room, and liquor had been absolutely forbidden. The men were there to eat well of all the dainty, expensive treats, and to dance with her daughters and any other young ladies fortunate enough to be invited. If one of those young men should offer for one of the Spenfield daughters, well, choirs of angels would sing. And that was according to the ladies’ own mama.
The ball was probably not the best setting for her and Lord Glendarril to become reacquainted. As far as her mother knew, though, they’d spent part of the past five days together and this was only for public show. Saying anything to counter Victoria Baxter’s opinion wouldn’t bode well for any of them.
Still, she had a decision to make. Niall had told her the sort of woman Coll wanted. She could pretend to be that woman if she so chose. It would free her from Baxter House, at the least. It would also put her in meek, mild chains for the rest of her life, until she couldn’t stand it any longer and went fleeing into the wilderness—thereby causing yet another scandal. But she could do it. Coll MacTaggert would have to say the things she wanted to hear and leave her a little room for … hope, she supposed it was, but the more her mother dug into her, the more the idea of being anywhere else appealed to her. And tonight had to be about Coll. She didn’t have time or room in her withering heart to wish things were different. To wish it would be a different MacTaggert knocking on her door this evening.
She’d worn her finest gown, a sapphire-blue confection with black and silver beading throughout the bodice and streaking down the skirt like shooting stars. The three-quarter-length sleeves puffed at the shoulders and were edged in fine silver lace, as were the low neck and the bottom hem.
The gown had been her mother’s idea, made with the idea of standing out even in a soiree where every young lady would be the center of attention. Just on this one occasion she approved—the gown wasn’t risqué or scandalous, but it was, quite simply, gorgeous.
As her father downed a finger of vodka and poured himself another, the front door opened. Amelia-Rose resisted the urge to run her hands down the front of her skirt. She looked very fine, from her gown to her hair twined with silver and black ribbons to her silver dancing shoes. If it was Niall, he’d best have a ready tale as to why his brother would be either meeting them later or unable to attend. If it was Lord Glendarril, she could only hope that his youngest brother had informed him which events they’d attended together so she wouldn’t have to carry any conversation all on her own. It abruptly occurred to her just how much trust she’d placed in Niall MacTaggert, and how little that troubled her. As to the why of that, now was not the time.
“Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, Miss Baxter, Lord Glendarril,” Hughes intoned, as the mountainous man stepped into the sitting room.