Page 61 of Some Like It Wild
Chapter 24
The Duke of Warrick’s ball quickly became the most coveted invitation of the year.
Many were desperate for a glimpse of the reclusive nobleman who had once cut such a swaggering path through society. Rumors had swirled around him for years. Some swore a crippling illness had left him a mewling hunchback while others claimed he had only faked his infirmity in order to lure his wife back to his side.
There were those who believed the young duchess had never really run away at all, but that the duke had strangled her in a fit of rage and buried her somewhere on his vast estate. There were even some who whispered that he’d kept her and her babe imprisoned in the attic for all these years to keep them from leaving him.
Although his son’s return had laid some of those rumors to rest, others had quickly risen to take their place. Those not fortunate enough to have secured invitations to Lord Newton’s soiree had eagerly absorbed the gossip from that affair. The duke’s heir was pronounced tremendously pleasing in both face and form, with the sort of towering physique that made women swoon and men grit their teeth in envy. His musical Scots burr was declared something to be emulated, and since that night Burns had become the most requested poet at every reading.
There were still some who refused to believe he had pledged his heart to the gold-digging daughter of an actress. When it was reported that the two of them had quarreled quite passionately right in the middle of Lady Newton’s drawing room, it sent several unmarried young women and their ambitious mothers into a tizzy of delight. Perhaps there was still hope he would come to his senses, cast her off and choose a more suitable bride from his own class.
By the time the night of the ball arrived, all of London society was in a frenzy of anticipation.
Especially Pamela.
The rest of her trousseau had been delivered only that morning, freeing her to choose her attire for the evening from a dizzying array of selections. With Sophie’s help, she had finally settled on a high-waisted ball dress of airy French gauze draped over a petticoat of ripe mulberry hemmed with not one or two, butthreeflounces that swayed like a bell with each step she took. Her puffed sleeves were gathered just off the shoulders, accentuating the arched wings of her collarbone and the graceful curve of her throat. Her square-cut bodice revealed only a tantalizing hint of her generous cleavage.
Sophie had outdone herself dressing Pamela’s hair, coaxing the heavy coils into a profusion of loose curls and securing them atop her head with mother-of-pearl combs in a coif that Sophie assured her was the very height of French fashion.
She looked every inch a lady, which didn’t explain how she ended up frozen in the arched doorway of the ballroom, her icy fists clenched inside her silk gloves and her satin slippers rooted to the parquet floor. She’d never seen her mother suffer a single moment of stage fright, but she’d heard sobering tales of other unfortunate actors who had been paralyzed by it.
As her panicked gaze swept the crush of guests crowding the vast ballroom, all of whom would soon be gawking at her, whispering about her and finding her lacking, tiny black dots began to swim before her eyes. She didn’t belong on stage. She belonged in the wings, where she could applaud the efforts of others and safely hide from the glare of the footlights.
But then the guests parted to reveal a lone man who towered head and shoulders over most of them. Pamela drew in a deep breath and the dots vanished, leaving her vision crystal clear.
Had he been in attendance, Connor’s tailor would have been crushed. Connor had forsaken the elegant evening attire so painstakingly measured and cut for him in favor of the rich woolen folds of his kilt and plaid. Several of the female guests were already stealing peeks at his bare knees from behind their fans and doubtlessly speculating on what he wore beneath the pleated skirt of the kilt. He did the traditional Scots garb such honor that by morning half the gentlemen in London would be frantically summoning their tailors so they could order their own kilts and tartan stockings.
Connor seemed utterly unaware of the stir he was causing. He only had eyes for her.
As their gazes locked, a devilish smile curved the corner of his mouth, reminding her that it had only been a few short hours since he had slipped into her bedchamber and into her. Her fists slowly unclenched. Her feet began to carry her forward as if they had a will of their own.
A harried footman stepped into her path. “Wait, miss! It’s not proper for you to proceed. You must allow me to announce you to the guests.”
Recognizing him as the same servant who had tried to refuse her entry on the day they had arrived at Warrick Park, she gave his arm a fond pat. “That’s quite all right, Peter. I already know who I am.”
As she swerved around him and began to wend her way through the guests, her chin held high and a smile flirting with her lips, she knew exactly who she was.
She was a lady. Connor’s lady.
By the time she reached his side, his smile had faded and he was scowling down at her cleavage. Bewildered by his expression, she glanced down at herself but saw nothing amiss. She’d never seen him gaze at her chest with anything but the warmest of admiration.
“You’ve no jewelry,” he finally said, his scowl deepening.
She touched her bare throat self-consciously. “I know it must look a little odd, but I didn’t want to spoil my lovely ensemble with a string of paste pearls.”
“Don’t apologize, lass. ’Tis my fault. I should have thought to summon a jeweler along with all of those infernal dressmakers.” He cast a furtive glance around the room, an avaricious glint lighting his eye when he spotted a sparkling diamond necklace adorning the overripe bosom of a silver-haired matron. “Would you like me to steal something for you to wear?”
Pamela’s husky ripple of laughter attracted several curious glances. “Given the way the woman is eyeing you, I’m sure the two of you could work out a trade of some kind.”
Connor shuddered. “No, thank you. I have a better idea anyway.”
Pamela’s laughter died in her throat as he reached back to his own nape, unfastened the delicate gold chain he wore, and drew his mother’s locket out of his shirt. She stood utterly still—hardly daring to breathe—as he circled behind her and draped the necklace over her head. The locket, still warm from his skin, nestled against her breastbone as if it had been handcrafted just for her.
She touched her trembling fingertips to the smooth gold, knowing the locket hadn’t left his heart since the night his mother had given it to him so that he would never be able to forget who he was.
His hands closed gently over her upper arms. “Once we’re wed,” he whispered in her ear, “I’ll drape you in a king’s ransom of diamonds and rubies and pearls. You can wear them for me when you’re wearing nothing else.”
She turned to face him, her hand still pressed to the locket. “You can buy me those trinkets if it pleases you,” she said softly, “but this will always mean more to me than any king’s ransom.”
