Page 9 of A Rogue in Twilight
“Oh,” was all Elspeth could think to say.
Miss Sinclair turned a coy smile on the viscount. “Struan was not there either. He can hardly attend every ball for every new girl, no eligible bachelor could. He only recently inherited a title and is known here for his work at the university. And now he is in demand at parties and outings. But I believe he turns down more invitations than he accepts, is it so, sir?” She smiled up at him. “Perhaps not as eligible as people hope.”
Struan cleared his throat. “I am not one for social functions,” he said, and seemed to lean away from Charlotte Sinclair. “Had I known Miss MacArthur and Miss Graham then, I would have made the effort.” He smiled at Elspeth, though fleeting, and looked away—and she saw Miss Sinclair frown. “Ah, we are advancing toward the doors again.”
He extended an arm to Lady Rankin and offered his elbow to Elspeth, who tucked her hand in the crook of his arm again, aware of the taut muscle beneath. Behind them, his brother and Sir Philip escorted Lucie, Fiona, and Charlotte. Feeling a gaze like daggers along her back, Elspeth felt sure Miss Sinclair watched her.
They approached the doorway where the Royal Archers stood, bows crossed. Seeing their invitations, the guards opened the doors and waved them through. Looking ahead at the crowd preceding them into the vast room, Elspeth glimpsed the king. He was taller than most men there, resplendent in black and white with a red plaid Stuart sash. Elspeth smiled to herself, aware that the plaid the king had been given that week was of Kilcrennan make, woven by her grandfather with a little fairy craft.
Glancing at Lord Struan, she wondered what he might make of that. He seemed a somber gentleman who would think fairiesutter nonsense, yet she felt a wayward urge to confide in him. Instead she pressed her lips together in silence and glided into the receiving room on his arm as if she were a princess, and he indeed a prince.
James noticed thatthe girl tightened her hold on his arm as they moved forward. He glanced down at Miss MacArthur. “Nervous?”
“A bit. I hope my manners are adequate for this.”
“Of course they are.” He watched her, entranced by her beautiful eyes—gray-green, almost silver. Her oval face was framed by dark, nearly black curls fine and glossy as silk. He wanted to touch it. She was a lovely creature with a natural allure, and he could not help glancing down at her as if he could take sustenance from her pure, innocent beauty. She had a fragile quality with a little touch of fire that made him feel protective and intrigued all at once. “Your manners are better than many, I promise you.”
“I am a native Gaelic, you see, and so my English is not refined. Nor am I accustomed to such gatherings. We live a simple life in the Highlands.”
“Your accent is very pleasant,” he murmured. “It is soft and graceful, and rather refreshing here. You would shine in any gathering. Do not worry. Here we go, then.”
She blinked up at him, and he would have smiled, but in that moment they were announced by a footman. Their party was led forward, heels tapping and skirts swishing on the parquet floor.
King George was tall and portly in black with a white waistcoat and military touches on his costume in badges, epaulettes, and a touch of Scottishness in a red plaid sash, newly designated the Stuart plaid belonging to royalty. James was not certain, truly, there was much authenticity to it, but such things pleased many these days. King George, after all, was king ofScots, odd as it seemed. James had repeatedly heard that George did not show much interest in Scotland other than a marked preference for Highland whisky.
Coming closer, he noted clear traces of excess in the king’s jowly face and doughy complexion. The royal voice was robust, deep, and surprisingly pleasant.
James quietly introduced the ladies in his party, and as each was presented, King George gave each lady a quick kiss on the cheek, barely touching skin but quite audible.
“Pleased,” the king said to Lady Rankin, repeating it to the next, and the next, lady. “Enchanted. Charmed.” The women, as the occasion required, curtsied and then backed away, facing the king while trying to manage their voluminous trains.
“Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan,” James then said. She let go of his arm and stepped forward to make a pretty curtsy, bowing her head, dark curls teasing her slender neck, the nine requisite feathers bobbing. On some ladies here, they looked ridiculous. On this girl, simply swan-like. When she rose, King George leaned to kiss her cheek. James heard the moist smack of it from where he stood.
“Pleased,” the king said, his gaze traveling down, then up to her face. “Lovely.”
“Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing her head. When she backed away, blue satin train swirling around her, she glided elegantly.
James turned to introduce the others. Then he managed to gather them together and led Miss MacArthur and Lady Rankin toward a man waiting in the receiving line farther along, several persons away from the king. Sir Walter Scott, a tall man with graying blond hair who leaned on a cane, greeted James with a nimble smile and sparkling blue eyes.
“Struan, excellent to see you here!”
“And you, sir,” James said. “Sir Walter Scott, you know Lady Rankin and my sister Miss Fiona MacCarran. And Miss Sinclair. May I also present Miss Graham, and Miss MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”
“Sir, I am so pleased to meet you!” Elspeth MacArthur seemed genuinely delighted. “I so admire your poetry and your collection of ballads too. I especially loveThe Lady of the Lake.I live not far from Loch Katrine and you make it seem so very romantical.” She blushed as she spoke.
“I am honored to have the good opinion of a true Highland lady.” Scott took her gloved hand in his. Then James saw Miss MacArthur turn pale and gasp.
“Oh, and the Waverley novels,” she blurted. “They are all yours, Sir Walter. So wonderful!”
“Miss MacArthur, I do not claim to be the author of those books. I write poetry and, ah, some scholarly studies.”
“The novels are yours too, and soon the world will know and be glad of it. Your next story about…Nigel…and aye, Quentin,” she said, “I think that is the name. Those will be some of your best work—oh I, beg your pardon!” She tried to pull her gloved hand away, but Sir Walter held her fingers tightly and leaned toward her. “I have spoken out of turn. I sometimes do that,” she added in a soft voice.
“Miss, how did you know about the books and the new manuscripts?” Scott murmured, bending toward her. “I do not claim them as my own.”
“Sir, truly, I did not mean to offend.” She looked distressed.
Concerned and bewildered, James pressed the girl’s elbow, uncertain what was happening, but sensing she might need a sign of support. Her arm fairly trembled under his hand. Beside him, Lady Rankin gasped in horror, while Charlotte flapped her fan and looked mortified.
