burr, though their father threatened to disown herself and her sisters if they used it. ‘They look like gods,’ she said. ‘Have you travelled to Egypt, my lord?’
‘Alas, no.’
She shouldn’t have even asked. She, if anyone, knew the life of an impoverished Scottish nobleman all too well. It involved hours spent trying to eke a living from tenants battered by cold and hunger, not pleasure trips up the Nile River.
He slipped a hand under her arm. ‘May I ask you to dance, or should I request the pleasure from your chaperone?’
She smiled up at him, one of her rarer smiles that didn’t bother to seduce, but just expressed companionship. ‘Neither is necessary,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m sure you can find someone more appropriate to dance with.’
He blinked at her, looking more like a burly labourer than an earl. She’d come to know quite a lot about earls – aye, and dukes and other lords too. Their chaperone, Lady Griselda, considered it her duty to point out every man within eyesight who carried a title. Mayne, Griselda’s brother, was a typical English lord: sleek and faintly dangerous, with slender fingers and exquisite manners. His hair fell in ordered waves that shone in the light, and he smelled as good as she herself did.
But this Scottish earl was another story. The earl’s red-brown hair fell in thick rumpled curls down his neck. His eyes were a clear green, lined with long lashes, and the out-of-doors sense he had about him translated into a kind of raw sensuality. While Mayne wore velvet and silk, Ardmore was plainly dressed in a costume of black. Black with a touch of white at the throat. No wonder Imogen thought he would complement her mourning attire.
‘Why do you refuse me?’ he asked, sounding surprised.
‘Because I grew up with lads like yourself,’ she said, letting a trace of a Scottish accent slip into her voice. Lad wasn’t the right word, not for this huge northerner who was so clearly a man, but that was the sense she meant. He could be a friend, but never a suitor. Although she could hardly explain to him that she meant to marry someone rich.
‘So you’ve taken a vow not to dance with anyone from your own homeland?’ he asked.
‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘But I could introduce you to a proper young lady, if you wish.’ She knew quite a few debutantes endowed with more-than-respectable dowries.
‘Does that mean that you would decline to marry me as well?’ he asked, a curious little smile playing around his mouth. ‘I would be happy to ask for your hand, if that would mean we could dance together.’
She grinned at his foolishness. ‘You’ll never find a bride if you go about behaving in such a way,’ she told him. ‘You must take your pursuit more seriously.’
‘I do take it seriously.’ He leaned against the wall and looked down at her so intently that her skin prickled. ‘Would you marry me, even if you won’t dance with me?’
You couldn’t help but like him. His eyes were as green as the ocean. ‘I certainly will not marry you,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ he said, sounding not terribly disappointed.
‘You cannot ask women to marry you whom you barely know,’ she added.
He didn’t seem to realise that it wasn’t entirely polite to lean against the wall in a lady’s presence, nor to watch her with lazy appreciation. Annabel felt a flash of sympathy. He would never be able to catch a rich bride at this rate! She should help him, if only because he was her countryman.
‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘Compatibility is not something one discovers after five encounters rather than one. One must make an educated guess.’
‘That’s just it: you know nothing of me!’
‘Not so,’ he said promptly. ‘Number one, you’re Scottish. Number two, you’re Scottish. And number three –’
‘I can guess,’ she said.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he finished, a fleeting smile crossing his face.
He had his arms crossed over his chest now and was smiling down at her like a great giant.
‘While I thank you for the compliment, I have to wonder why on earth you came to London to find a bride, given your first two requirements,’ Annabel said.
‘I came because I was told to do so,’ he replied.
Annabel didn’t need any further information. Everyone knew that rich brides were to be found in London, and poor ones in Scotland. The man was hoping that her finery meant she had a dowry to match.
‘You’re judging on appearances,’ she told him. ‘My only dowry is a horse, although, as I said, I’d be happy to introduce you to some appropriate young ladies.’
He opened his mouth, but at that moment Imogen appeared at her shoulder. ‘Darling,’ she said to Annabel, ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’ Without pausing, she turned to the earl. ‘Lord Ardmore,’ she purred, ‘I am Lady Maitland. What a pleasure to meet you.’
Annabel watched as the earl bent over her sister’s hand. Imogen was looking as beautiful as any avenging goddess. She gave Ardmore a look that no man, especially a man in search of a dowry faced with a wealthy young widow, would consider resisting. In fact, it looked very much like one of Annabel’s own come-hither glances.
‘I have an unendurable longing to dance,’ Imogen said. ‘Will you please me, Lord Ardmore?’
Unendurable? But Ardmore wasn’t laughing; he was kissing Imogen’s hand again. Annabel gave up. The man would have to find his own way out of Imogen’s net. Imogen had always been thus: once she made up her mind, there was no stopping her. ‘I shall return to my chaperone,’ Annabel said, curtsying. ‘Lord Ardmore, it has been a pleasure.’
Lady Griselda was holding court in a corner of the room, their guardian sprawled beside her with a drink in his hand. Not that there was anything unusual in that; the Duke of Holbrook always had a drink. He came to meet Annabel when he saw her winding her way through the crowd.
Now that she had come to know a number of English nobility, she was more and more surprised by how unducal Rafe was. For one thing, he refused to go by his title. For another, he was as far from scented and curled and sartorially splendid as could be imagined. At least his valet managed to get him into a decent coat of blue superfine for the evening, but when he was at home he tended toward comfortable pantaloons and a threadworn white shirt.
‘Griselda’s driving me mad,’ he said without formality. ‘And if she doesn’t succeed, Imogen will finish me off. What the devil is she doing, dancing attendance on that Scottish fellow? I don’t even know the man.’
‘She’s decided that she wants a cicisbeo,’ Annabel told him.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Rafe muttered, running a hand through hair that was already wildly disarranged. ‘I can escort her wherever she needs to go.’
‘She’s being plagued by fortune hunters.’
‘For God’s sake, why’d she choose a penniless Scot to dance about with, then?’ Rafe bellowed, only belatedly glancing about him.
‘Perhaps she won’t care for him on further acquaintance,’ Annabel said, trying to see whether she could glimpse Lord Rosseter anywhere. At the moment Rosseter was her first choice for a spouse.
‘She’s making an ass of herself,’ Rafe said.
For some reason, Imogen’s antics always drove Rafe to distraction, especially since she’d returned to London and begun to order gowns that fit her like a second skin. But no matter how much he bellowed and raged, she merely smirked at him and said that widows could dress precisely as they wished.
‘Surely it’s not as bad as that,’ Annabel said absently, still searching the crowd for Rosseter.
She