Page 15 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Lord Hargrave cut ahead of Miss MacTavish’s path in an artful dash to the beverage table, approaching the duke. With a few flourishes of his arms as he pointed toward the refreshments, the women who had been talking with the duke exited. Seizing the opportunity, Catriona began her walk again to the beverage table.
For a moment, she was distracted by the whispers that followed her like specters.
“That accent,” they whispered. “It’s so… barbaric.” “And those wild Scottish ways…you know what they say about Scottish women, they’ll part their legs to ride any stallion…”
Normally, every part of her body would be livid at their words, but in this moment, all her attention was drawn to the Duke of Wilthorne ahead of her. It was almost… alive, electric, striking her like a bolt of lightning.
As fate would have it, Lady Marchant came to her side in a hurried hobble just before she reached the gentleman.
“Excuse me, my lords,” Lady Marchant said with a huff. She threw herself in between the three of them with all of the grace of an injured elephant. “I must take the lovely Miss MacTavish away for just a moment. Her poor mother is ailing,” she offered with a shrug. “Perhaps it is your fault, Lord Hargrave, for having such delightful offerings?”
She took Catriona by the arm, guiding her through the ballroom to a small antechamber. This would be a small distraction fromthe evening’s mission, and the thought of another exchange with the duke made her skin prickle in anticipation.
Aye, a true connection with any man feels as distant as the Highlands. And yet, I wish for one, may the goddesses of auld help me.
After attending to her mother, she moved back into the ballroom confidently, making her way through the throng of attendees with a practiced grin. It was a smile she had honed over the past week as Lady Marchant made her review conversational points appropriate for a ball, refine her dance steps, and learn the subtle art of attracting a gentleman’s attention, without appearing too forward. Her success with Mr. Featherstone was a good sign that these techniques were working.
Lady Marchant had said that was the real challenge for a Scottish lass like her, a “helpful” suggestion that Catriona tried her best not to feel offended by. She was charged with maintaining a delicate balance of charm with proper reserve. She practiced growing up in Scotland, she didn’t have the luxury of finishing school like those in London.
“Remember, Catriona,” Lady Marchant had instructed. “Men are just like horses. Approach them with a carrot in your palm. And never let them think they have the upper hand! You must maintain an air of mystery. If you do, you will be in control and that will be your secret power over any man of your choosing, my dear girl.”
With any luck, if I make me match this eve’, I will be back in Scotland within the year.
Richard’s gaze followed the Scottish woman, focused on the delightful sway of her curves as she walked away to assist her ailing mother. Try as he might to compose himself, he could not avert his eyes. In some ways, he was grateful for the intrusion. He had to remember that he was there for business, not fleeting pleasure with a woman, let alone a fiery Highland lass. He needed Arlington.
He grabbed Michael’s arm. “Introduce me around to anyone you think may be useful,” he demanded, making sure to keep his voice low as they walked around, which was not difficult given the evening’s festivities. “But Arlington. Where is he?”
Michael, ever the social butterfly, ignored Richard’s words. He was distracted by a lady with fluttering eyelashes and a suggestive smile that she shared in between the waves of a decorative fan.
“In a moment, Richard,” he said through a smile, his attention clearly elsewhere. “This is a party, you know, right? Relax a little. I’d say have a drink, but you always find the beverage table.”
Before Richard could protest, Sampson Stirling, the Earl of Mortridge, approached, his eyesgleaming with opportunistic surprise.
“Why, Wilthorne! Splendid to see you,” Lord Mortridge said as he shook his hand. “I’ve invested in a most promising venture this past year and was hoping we’d have this opportunity to discuss,” he cooed. “I hardly expected to see you here, such serendipity! I’ve been looking to expand shipping lanes, and a little bird told me you were talking to old Everett,” he explained with the same business acumen Richard possessed.
But Richard knew better.
Richard raised a skeptical eyebrow as he took a sip from his glass. He would need more liquor in his blood if he were to talk with this man.
“Indeed? How did you manage that, Mortridge? I recall your last promising venture went rather spectacularly down in flames.”
Sampson’s smile faltered as Richard’s quip took the wind out of his sails. “Ah, well, one makes adjustments in our line of work. I’m a quick learner and adept at finding new solutions, changing courses,” he continued as he tried to grasp Richard’s attention, which continued to waver about the room.
He was searching desperately for Arlington when his eyes again met the raven-haired Scot’s.
And then, she was heading his way from across the ballroom.
Her body swayed as she walked, another function of her beautiful curves. Her sapphire gown swirled around her like a whirlpool in the crystal seas of the Caribbean.
She was breathtakingly beautiful.
Damn her.
He ignored Sampson entirely as he began to make his way toward her, leaving Sampson talking to the air.
The distance between them was nearly closed when another man approached her with a curt nod.
A foreign, possessive heat flared within Richard, again catching him off guard. All at once the music ended, the dancers curtsying and bowing.
