Wild Wicked Scot. Julia London

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      “Better it’s because of your dancing than something perhaps even worse,” Lynetta cheerfully pointed out.

      “And what might that be?” Margot demanded, slightly affronted.

      “I mean only that I’d rather be faulted for my dancing than for my inability to make engaging conversation,” Lynetta said sweetly. “You have always made engaging conversation.”

      Margot was set to discuss that, but at that very moment, a wave of awareness rippled through the crowd. Both Margot and Lynetta glanced around them. Margot saw nothing obvious. “What is it?”

      “I can’t see a thing,” Lynetta said as she and Margot craned their necks in the direction of the door.

      “Someone’s come,” said a gentleman nearby. “Someone unexpected, from what I gather.”

      Margot and Lynetta gasped at precisely the same moment, their eyes widening as they gaped at one another. There was only one person of import who was not in attendance tonight—the highly desirable Montclare, who had sent his deepest regrets that he could not attend, as he had been called away to London. Lord Montclare had all the requisite attributes that made him a desirable match: he had a fortune of ten thousand pounds a year; he would one day assume the title of Viscount Waverly; he had thick-lashed doe eyes and a winsome smile; and he was utterly without conceit. Rumor had it that Montclare had set his sights on a London heiress...but that did not keep Margot and Lynetta from hoping.

      The girls, quite in tune with one another’s thinking, fled the ballroom for the balcony above the foyer to have a look at the unexpected guest, arriving so hastily that their gloves slid on the polished stone railing as they leaned over it.

      It was not Montclare. “Oh, bother,” Lynetta muttered.

      It was not even one of the many men who often came up to Norwood Park from London to conduct business with Margot’s father and brothers. Frankly, the men who had walked through the front doors and onto the marble tile of the foyer were unlike any men Margot had ever seen.

      “Goodness,” Lynetta murmured beside her.

      Goodness, indeed. There were five altogether, all of them tall and broad-shouldered and quite muscular, their natural hair tied in long queues. Except for the man in front of them all—his dark hair was a wild tangle of curls around his head, as if he hadn’t bothered at all to dress it. Their coats, splattered with mud, were long and split up the back for riding. Their breeches and waistcoats were not silk or brocade, but rough wool. They wore boots that were scuffed and worn at the heels.

      “Who are they?” Lynetta whispered. “Are they Gypsies?”

      “Highwaymen,” Margot murmured, and Lynetta giggled a bit too loudly.

      At the sound of Lynetta’s laugh, the man in front instantly lifted his head, almost like a beast sniffing the wind. His eyes locked on Margot. Her breath caught; even from this distance she could see that his gaze was ice blue and piercing. He held her gaze as he methodically removed his riding gloves. She thought she ought to look away, but she couldn’t. A shiver slipped down her spine; she had the terrible thought that those eyes could see right into her soul.

      Someone spoke, and the five men began to move forward. But just before the man in front disappeared under the balcony and from view completely, he looked up at Margot once more, his gaze frighteningly intelligent and potent.

      Another shiver ran down her spine.

      Once they were gone, Margot and Lynetta returned to the ballroom, jointly disappointed that the arrival of strangers had not brought Montclare into their midst, and quickly fixed their attentions elsewhere.

      Lynetta danced, while Margot stood about, trying not to appear anxious. Was her dancing really as horrible as that? Apparently so—no one had asked her to stand up.

      After what seemed like hours of waiting about, a bell was rung and the cake was served. A footman handed Margot a flute of champagne. She liked how it tickled her nose and sipped liberally as she and Lynetta stood together, waiting for Quint, the Norwood Park butler, to bring them a piece of the cake.

      “Oh my!” Lynetta whispered frantically, nudging Margot with her shoulder.

      “What?”

      “It’s Fitzgerald.”

      “Where?” Margot whispered just as frantically and dabbed at her upper lip to blot away any champagne.

      “He’s coming this way!”

      “Is he looking at me? Is it me he approaches?” Margot begged, but before Lynetta could answer, Mr. Fitzgerald had reached her side.

      “Miss Armstrong,” he said, and bowed over his extended leg, his arm swirling out to the side. She’d noted lately that several young men just up from London bowed in that fashion. “Miss Beauly, may I offer felicitations on the occasion of your birthday?”

      “Thank you,” Lynetta said. “Umm... I do beg your pardon, but I mean to, ah... I think I shall have some cake.” She awkwardly stepped away, leaving Margot and Fitzgerald standing together.

      “Ah...” Good God, Margot’s heart was fluttering. “How do you find the ball?”

      “Magnificent,” he said. “You are to be commended.”

      “Not at all.” She could feel an absurd grin forming at the compliment. “Lynetta has helped me, of course.”

      “Of course.” Mr. Fitzgerald shifted to stand beside her, and through the tight sleeve of her gown, Margot could feel her skin sizzling where his arm brushed hers. “Miss Armstrong, would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next dance?”

      Margot ignored the swell of panic that she might very well break one of his toes. “I would be delighted—”

      “Miss Armstrong.”

      “Pardon? What?” she asked dreamily as someone touched her elbow.

      Mr. Fitzgerald smiled. “Your butler,” he said, nodding at someone over her shoulder.

      Margot forced her gaze away from Mr. Fitzgerald and around to Quint. “Yes?” she asked impatiently.

      “Your father asks that you join him in the family dining room.”

      Margot blinked. Of all the rotten timing! “Now?” she asked, endeavoring to sound angelic but hissing a bit.

      “Shall I hold your champagne until you return?” Mr. Fitzgerald asked.

      Margot hoped she didn’t look as ridiculously pleased as she felt. But still, she didn’t trust any number of the young women who were presently circulating about them like sharks. “Umm...” She looked pleadingly at Quint. “Perhaps Pappa might wait?”

      But as usual, Quint returned her look impassively. “He asks that you attend him at once.”

      “Do go on,” said Mr. Fitzgerald with a warm smile. “We shall have that dance when you return.” He took the flute from her hand and politely bowed his head.

      “You СКАЧАТЬ