My True Love Gave to Me

… eleven pipers piping …

 Chapter Eleven

Anna Kittrell

Lady Dinah flicked open her fan. Why was it so dreadfully hot in here? She feared perspiration would dampen her green silk dress.

“Glass of water, milady?” Her governess, Marie, creased her freckled brow. “You are pouring like a sieve.”

Dinah fanned faster. “Thank you, Marie, a glass of water would be lovely.” She swallowed, her throat burning.

She had hoped her wooziness would go unnoticed, but hope never granted her favors. Naturally, Marie had noticed her condition. She’d helped care for Dinah since infancy, then quietly stepped into the role of fulltime caregiver nearly a year ago, when Dinah’s mother died of influenza.

 Dinah swept a bleary glance around the enormous ballroom. Marie was the only reason she had accepted the prestigious invitation to the Pemberton Christmas Ball. To afford her governess the opportunity to dress up, socialize, dance. She loved the aging woman like a mother and felt sorry for her. No fair for Marie, confined to the house, catering to a near eighteen-year-old girl perfectly content to read books all day. Marie would never admit it, but she must feel as if life were passing her by.

In truth, Dinah was not content at all. Neither did she read books all day. She used the books as shields, staring at the same blurred page for hours on end while her intoxicated dazes slowly abated behind the covers.

At nightfall, she crept from the back door—the hinges were meticulously oiled, of course. Through trash-strewn alleyways, she wound her way to the secret dens of oblivion scattered throughout the city, her only witness a scurrying rat or a starving, snarling dog.  

Far worse than the journey was the destination. People, corpse-like, in opium-induced stupors stared at the ceiling through sightless eyes. The dens revolted her, yet she returned night after night to share the sinful pipe.

She had taken her last draw from the pipe near twenty-four hours ago. The longest she’d been without opium since the day her father, Dr. Henry Cooper, provided that first, small, nerve-calming dose, following the death of her mother. Shortly after, he’d revoked the drug, fearful she’d become dependent. Pity it was too late.

“Your water, Lady Dinah.” Marie placed a hand gently on Dinah’s forearm.

“Thank you, Marie.” Dinah stiffened her fingers as she took the glass, attempting to hide the trembling. The rippling liquid gave her away.

“For heaven’s sake, milady, are you all right? You are quivering like that ridiculous artificial bird on the dowager Lady Sempill’s bonnet.”

“Yes, fine. I am quite certain.” Dinah managed to bring the quaking glass to her lips without sloshing water down the front of her gown. Hiding her face with her fan, she gulped hungrily, the cold liquid soothing her dry throat and quenching her miserable thirst. She stopped only when her gaze hit the ornate ceiling, then handed the empty glass to Marie.

“Lord have mercy, child,” Marie exclaimed, eyes bulging. Her expression was so comical, Dinah would have laughed had she not been overtaken by an excruciating cramp in the pit of her stomach. She pitched forward at the waist, belly roiling.

“You are ailing, milady, let us take our leave—”

Dinah forced aside the pain and stood abruptly. “Nonsense.” She cut her gaze around the ballroom, over the glistening Christmas decorations, between the vast, garland-wrapped pillars, through the pretentious gossiping geese who thought themselves better than she. Where had he gone? Panic edged up her spine. She’d seen him but moments ago. Or had she imagined it? Breath shot through her nostrils in shallow puffs. Her head spun, colors swirled, the room turned into an enormous spinning top.

Finally, her gaze swam over his detestable face, just across the room. Mister Hugh Egerton, one of the eleven pipers piping at the den that night on Ashire Lane, conspiring to steal her innocence. The opium made the men lethargic and clumsy, and by the grace of God, she’d escaped, body unharmed. She wished she could say the same for her spirit.

All the more reason to dull the pain.

She licked her parched lips, all but tasting the hot, thick smoke on her tongue. A mad craving snaked through her. From where he stood, Mister Egerton met her gaze, nodded knowingly. Her skin crawled, revulsion and anticipation sharing the cause. She pulled her lips into a smile, masking the sensation. Soon everything would be all right.

“Marie, would you please locate a footman? I require another glass of water.”

“Right away, milady.” Marie scurried off, holding up the water glass.

Dinah took a step toward the blemished excuse for a man leering at her from the far wall.

*

“I must have her, Humphrey,” Owen said, glancing at his brother. “For God’s sake, would you look at her? She is perfect.”

“In appearance she fills your requirements. But what if she has never taken the stage?”

“It matters not. She is the one. I feel it in my bones.”

“In that case, I suggest you hurry, before the lady is spoken for.” Humphrey tipped his head toward the sad-eyed girl crossing the room, the beaded train of her green silk dress whispering over the floor behind her.

Surely, the melancholy beauty Owen had been admiring wasn’t advancing toward the suspicious-looking man leaning on the wall. Owen’s jaw tensed, reacting to the uneasiness settling into his middle. The man had a bad complexion, a greasy smile, and a jagged scar that testified he’d almost lost an ear. Not the type of gent that stepped aside while another man made off with his woman.

Humphrey cleared his throat and tapped his top lip. “You will be needing your handkerchief, brother.”

Owen frowned, tugged the handkerchief from inside his sleeve, dabbed the corner of his mouth. “Wine,” he concluded, examining the red smudge. “Better?”

“Indeed.” Humphrey nodded.

“Good.” Owen flashed a smile at his brother. “Wish me luck,” he said, turning away.

He tucked the handkerchief into his right cuff, then, changing his mind, switched to his left. With quick, calculated steps, he veered into the young woman’s path, intercepting her journey to the far wall.

          Owen’s breath caught as he gazed at the girl’s face. The pale, dewy skin, the sad, violet eyes, the soft pink lips. She was Rose, the lead in his latest play, The Rain Garden, the tragic tale of a dying girl.

          “How do you do?” he asked, extending his hand. His eyes widened when his silver pen—a gift from a theatrically pleased dignitary—flew, as if winged, from the sleeve of his tailcoat to the floor, just as the lady took a step. Time slowed while her slipper rolled over the pen and she stumbled. He lunged, catching her at the last possible instant, saving her from a fall.

          Good Lord, but she was hot. She burned in his arms, as if with fever. A heady aroma of tropical flowers, perhaps hibiscus, radiated from her, the scent strengthened by the elevated temperature of her skin. She gasped weakly, struggling to right her feet.

          “I beg your pardon, milady,” Owen said, an excessive amount of heat rising to his own cheeks. “Seems my pen escaped its holster—the loop of string sewn into my cuff. It appears it dislodged when I tucked in my handkerchief…”

          She wasn’t listening. Her lucid, purplish-blue eyes stared past him. He turned slightly, following her gaze to the seedy character against the wall, his rat-like eyes crawling over Owen’s Rose.

          “Milady?” Owen said, still holding her by the arms.

          She blinked a few times, then snapped her gaze to Owen, sliding her elbows from his grip.

          Owen fell to one knee to retrieve his pen. But where was it? He glanced over the polished floor, then turned his gaze to the hem of Rose’s gown. The silver pen peeked from under the flowing skirt.

          “Excuse me, sir, I must take my leave.”

          He gazed up at her. Dark tendrils escaped her hairpins, sticking to her damp skin. She was perfect. Already on his knees, he considered begging her to be his afflicted Rose.

          “My pardon, but I believe you are standing on my pen.”

          Her cheeks reddened more deeply as she took a step back.

          “Thank you.” He stood, tucking the pen into his cuff, slipping it into its holster beside the tiny vial of ink. One never knew when inspiration would strike. A good playwright must be prepared.

*

          Will he ever stop rambling? Dinah wondered. Her brow tensed further with each syllable. She took a step forward, then halted, locked in place. Her gaze shot to the floor to find the man’s boot planted firmly upon the hem of her dress. Already, he’d toppled her with his blasted pen, must he ruin her gown as well?

          “Perhaps I should introduce myself? I am Owen Fletcher,” he continued on, not allowing her time to answer. “I realize we have not been properly presented, but feel we are acquainted already. For you are my Rose Trellis, I have dreamt of you, and written of your life many times.”

          A nerve pinched between her eyes. She fastened her gaze to his lips, so overly filled with words.

          “Sir, you are mistaken. I am the Lady Dinah Cooper. My father is Dr. Henry Cooper. Now, if you will excuse me—”

          He didn’t budge.

          “Mister Fletcher. If you will kindly remove your large boot from my hand-beaded train, I should like to part company now.”

          “Terribly sorry.” He stepped off the delicate fabric. “Of course. Goodnight, Lady Dinah.” He offered a short bow.

          “Goodnight, Mister Fletcher.”

Dinah returned her gaze to Mister Egerton. His rodent-like eyes were filled with glee. Obviously, he enjoyed the notion of her searching him out, begging for his remedy. She strode a mere three paces toward him, finding her steps once again interrupted by the impudent Mister Fletcher.

“One more thing, Lady Dinah,” he said, his unyielding tongue giving his lips a quick lick. “You have yet to answer, about my play. You see, I wish you to have the lead part— starring role of Rose Trellis—the beautiful, dying flower.”

“You wish me to play the part of a dead girl?” She stepped around him.

“Ahem, let me explain. She lives! The girl battles a life-threatening bout of pneumonia and prevails. The Rain Garden is a tribute to Rose Trellis’s courage. The story of how she fights back against the illness that is killing her, and wins.”

 “Hello, poppet,” Hugh Egerton cooed, his eyes roving over Dinah’s body, his fingers twitching, as if urged to do the same. “A bit low on the medicine?”

Dinah dropped her gaze to the floor and nodded. She felt naked.

“So, what do you say to becoming my precious Rose?”

She snapped her gaze up, disbelieving. Had Owen Fletcher no bounds? She frowned at him. The nerve of this…this…prattling playwright.

“Lady Dinah is engaged in conversation at the moment. You will be running along now.” Hugh waved his hand through the air at Owen, as if shooing a fly.

“Ah—but I await an answer from the lady. Soon as my petition is met, I shall be traveling on. But not before.”

My but he was stubborn.

*

Owen’s tongue tired from constant chatter. But how else was he to distract the lady from the unsavory rascal holding up the wall? Besides, all he said was truth—he positively had to have her in his play as the wilting, yet victorious Rose.

He stood facing the scoundrel, pustule-riddled skin and oily smirk even more wretched up close. The way he looked at Lady Dinah got Owen’s hackles up. The man was downright insolent.

“Forgive me, sir, but the lady didn’t appear to be engaged in conversation. Plainly, her gaze was directed at the floor,” Owen said.

The whites of the man’s eyes reddened. He narrowed them at Owen, color climbing his neck.

“You will watch your words around Hugh Egerton, or else find yourself choking on them.”

“That would be quite unfortunate. But I am afraid I do not believe you.” Owen grinned. An arrogant grin he reserved for moments such as this. He found it either silenced the hecklers, or infuriated them. By the clenching of Hugh Egerton’s fists, it was the latter.

“Care to step outside and prove me wrong?” Hugh asked, his voice rough, as if his throat were packed with gravel.

“Why settle outside what can be settled right here?”

“No! Stop, this instant,” Lady Dinah demanded, her words shaking. The older woman he’d seen her with earlier rushed to her side.

“Step back, milady.” Owen placed a protective hand on Dinah’s arm, gently setting her back.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hugh snorted. “I arrived here in company of the Lord Morris Barlow, and refuse to embarrass him by brawling inside Pemberton Hall.”

“Lord Barlow, you say?” Though well-known and wealthy, Morris Barlow had a sordid reputation. Owen easily assumed he had met Hugh Egerton over an opium lamp at the ill-reputed Ashire den.

The opium-eater and the noble…what a glorious premise for a play.

Owen yanked his gleaming silver pen from his sleeve.

“A daggar!” Hugh Egerton yelped, retreating into the wall as if he could sink through it.

“Not a dagger. Far worse.” Owen tugged out and unstopped the vial of ink, dipped his pen. He returned the bottle to his sleeve and retrieved a slip of parchment. “Your pathetic, smoke-filled life, Mister Egerton, will be the inspiration for my new play,” he said, scratching the pen along the paper. “I assure you, my productions are quite renowned. I am certain the Lord Morris Barlow will be thrilled to be written in as one of your fellows.”

Hugh swallowed, Adam’s apple rising above, then falling below his collar. “What do you require of me?”

Owen turned to Lady Dinah, reading the pain on her graceful features.  His heart ached as he comprehended the depth of her obsession. “Only that you leave this precious rose alone.”

“But she sought after me—”

“Only because of her dependence on your poison. You shall give a sufficient amount to me, that I can wean her from it in a healthy manner.”

Hugh nodded. “Meet me at the Ashire den in an hour.”

Owen tore up the slip of paper, the pieces floating down like the Christmas snow beyond the window.

*

“Milady?” Marie touched Dinah’s elbow.

Tears cascaded down Dinah’s face. She hid behind her fan, confused by the foreign emotions stirring her heart.

“My brother is in control of the situation. As you were,” an older gentleman called to the onlookers, his double-chin bobbling. Then, turning to Marie, “Would you care to dance?”

Dinah squeezed Marie’s hand, then nodded as the gentleman led her radiant governess to the dance floor.  

“Thank you for rescuing me, Mister Fletcher,” Dinah said, turning to Owen.

“My pleasure, Lady Dinah.”

Dinah looked into his eyes, for the first time, really. A beautiful blue-green, like the blown glass ornaments on the magnificent Pemberton Hall Christmas tree.

“How did you know about my…condition?”

He cleared his throat, swallowed. “I too have suffered affliction. I am quite acquainted with the dens.”

Her eyes flew open wide.

“Had it not been for my brother, Humphrey, I would have surely died in one. He saved my life.”

“As you plan to save mine?” Dinah asked, studying his lips, so tempting now that they were void of prattle.

“Precisely.” He brought her hand to his mouth, placing on it a tender kiss.

Her breath pulled in sharply, and she imagined herself being resuscitated, as if with her father’s bellows.

“By the way, my answer is yes,” Dinah offered, hiding a smile behind her fan.

Owen’s eyebrows arched high. “Truly? You will be my darling Rose?”

“Yes. I shall be your courageous, victorious Rose. I have decided she and I have much in common.”

My True Love Gave to Me

… ten lords a’leaping…

 

Chapter Ten

Mary Jo Springer

 

Sinclair Fitzholden, Lord of Hawksford, Sin to the people who mattered, was bored, with his life, this ball, and the gruesome task of finding a wife. Sprawled across the burnished leather couch in Pemberton Hall’s library, he reclined with one leg on and one leg off the settee. Thrown across the two upholstered chairs flanking the couch, his blue coat, gloves, and neckcloth laid in a crumpled mess.  His white waistcoat hung open, a snifter of brandy balanced on his stomach. The orange glow of dying embers in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the chamber. Shifting on the settee, he stuffed a pillow behind his head easing his body into a more comfortable position.  Miles and miles of leather bound books filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcases surrounding him.

Tonight, he’d danced the obligatory number of dances, played cards with Hastings, Dixon and Lewis, smoked cigars and drank way too much brandy. Now, he preferred his own company.

Bong . . . bong . . . the steady rhythm of the mantle clock chimed the hour signaling midnight. Rubbing a hand over his face he gave into the irresistible lure of the room’s warmth intermingled with the clean lemon scent of polished wood and pine. Soon the sweet lure of sleep claimed him.

The whisper of the library door’s lock sliding into place caught him off guard. Bloody hell! The soft rustle of silk alerted him the intruder was female. The edges of his lips lifted into a smile as the intriguing possibility of a midnight tryst solidified within his mind. This year he was definitely getting what he wanted for Christmas.

Swinging his leg off the couch, he pushed into a sitting position carefully balancing his warmed snifter of brandy. He blinked several times, unable to clear the delectable mirage before him. Slacked-jawed, he openly gawked at the woman leaning against the closed door, her hands pressed against the solid wood. Of all the women . . .

Of course he knew her . . . well . . . knew of her. What man on the face of the earth hadn’t fantasized about having Lady Victoria Gremswell? Many a night she kept him awake, torturing him, the image of her body searing his thoughts. The epitome of English womanhood, she was pampered, graceful, and saddled with a dowry so obscene even he’d been tempted to throw his hat in the ring. Golden hair pulled up into a stylish coiffure with those damn distracting ringlets dangled beside her ear. Without a care, he’d shove those enticing curls out of his way as he kissed his way up her swan-like neck before he tumbled her to the floor. Good God, man, get a grip!

Amethyst eyes bore into him, glittering like the stones they mimicked. Her melt-your-heart eyes could seduce a man at twenty paces.  He’d tried his damnedest to obtain a dance with her, not just tonight but at every ball this season. Frustrated he’d retired to this room to plan his next strategy. How did one go about convincing a goddess to look upon him as husband material? Ha! He didn’t look upon himself as husband material, why should she? After this morning . . . she’d never grant him a chance.

The moment she stepped into the ballroom a sea of men swallowed her. Surveying her with great intensity, he’d stalked the perimeter of the room like a hawk shadowing his quarry. At any time she had at least ten Lords a leaping to fulfill her slightest whim. He didn’t leap, never had . . . never would. So why was she here, in the dark - with him?  

Rising to his feet, he bowed in her direction, awaiting her pleasure. The monastic silence stretched into several moments.

“Your Grace, I want to thank you for what you did today.”

Ah, so that’s what this is about.

Warmth palpitated along his limbs rivaling the sting of the brandy. Soft, seductive, even her voice projected pedigree. Within him a fire raged hotter than the surface of the sun. After a week of damnable celibacy, Lady Victoria couldn’t possibly understand the sexual danger closing in on her.

He barked out a laugh that bordered on a growl, rubbing his hand behind his neck working the tension out of his muscles. It didn’t help.

“Lady Victoria, my intentions . . . my reputation regarding women.  Being here with me . . . in my obvious state of undress, do you think this is prudent?” 

Breaking all the rules, she closed the distance between them. No, no, no. His brow shot up. Her brass actions would only give rise to gossip.

With a will all their own, his eyes slid over her attire. At first he thought her dress was white, but as she moved closer the silver threads caught the low light of the hearth giving the delectable gown an ethereal appearance. His breath stuck in his suddenly dry throat. She was a vision. Pure temptation. More dangerous than her brother’s loaded pistol he’d faced this morning. Positively lethal.

His eyes locked on hers, her pupils dilating to encompass almost the entire iris. “I wanted to express my gratitude to you for not killing my brother.”  Her voice shook as she clasped her hands together.

Needing to put as much distance between them as the room allowed, he fought the fierce urge to crush her in his arms. Prowling over to the hearth he swung around. “Your brother is an arrogant ass who needs to learn some manners.”

Her lips arched into a dazzling smile showing off white even teeth. He swallowed hard, fighting to keep his scattered wits about him. Her answer surprised the hell out of him.

“I know. That’s why I’m here. To tell you how grateful I am you spared him.”

How grateful?

“Lord Hartley explained what an honorable thing you did when it was within your rights to kill Matthew. I cannot believe he cheated by firing his pistol at eight paces.” She turned away as tears welled in those gorgeous eyes. Oh hell, he could take anything but tears, her brother didn’t deserve them. It took every ounce of restraint to remain where he stood. Her brother may have pointed a loaded pistol at his back but she . . . she was far more dangerous.

Gaining her composure, she swiped a gloved hand across her cheek. “Lord Hartley also stated you turned, leveled your gun at Matthew’s heart before raising it and firing into the air.”

No sound resonated against the thick Persian rug as she moved closer. He raised a hand to halt her. If she came within his reach?

“I cannot thank you enough for sparing him. I don’t know what I would do without him?”

“Half of the people attending the ball tonight think I’m a coward for my actions.”

The intoxicating scent of white jasmine permeated his nostrils. Delicious. Perilous. Inspiring.

“Nonsense,” she broke into his befuddled mind. “From my observations you’re a hero.” Her lips, coral, haunting . . . enticing, captured his intense interest. Every muscle in his body clenched, every muscle, the fall on the front of his pants becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

“You must know why I did it?”

She cocked her head to one side, the simple movement bringing the tantalizing flesh of her breasts bubbling up against the square neckline of her grown.

She didn’t have a clue how he felt about her? Not a clue!

“My intentions weren’t as honorable as you profess.”

 Her brows knitted together. “I don’t understand. What did you hope to gain with your actions?”

His gaze wandered over her, from the tips of her dainty shoes upward, lingering for an extended moment on the lushness of her breasts before capturing her face. “You.”

Surprise shocked her eyes wide. “Me?”

His frustration escaped his lips in a growl before he had a chance to tap it down. Pulling at her gloves, she removed them and set them on the chair. She was staying.

“Lady Victoria, I must insist you leave, your reputation is at great risk. You should not be here.”

“I’m not concerned with such trifles.”

What? Clearly, she wasn’t thinking straight.

“Trifles, this is far more damaging than mere trifles. If you are discovered here with me?” His voice dropped into a husky octave as his mind conjured images of her tangled within his sheets.

Again, that smile, what was behind that captivating smile?

He could watch the exquisite way her mouth formed words all night long. Everything about her enchanted him.

She took a step backward. He followed, expertly maneuvering her under the bough of mistletoe.

He glanced up. Her eyes tracked his. She let out an astonished gasp a millisecond before his lips claimed hers.

                                        ****

Oh my, oh my, my my . . .

Lips that were firm, bold, moved over hers, devouring her with his heat. Is this how a rogue kissed? Like an invasion. He didn’t just kiss, he conquered. Her reserve splintered. He smelled masculine, he tasted masculine, his long-fingered masculine hands framed her face tilting her lips up to his. Her knees went weak. Blood hummed through her veins as desire pooled between her thighs. Was that sexy mewl coming from her? Her eyes slid shut as she lost herself in his masculine expertise. God the way he kissed. She was in trouble now, drowning within the sensations he invoked. God help her . . . she liked this . . . liked it a lot. Her hands plastered against the wall of his chest, flattening out over solid flesh —hot steel beneath her fingers, the rumble of his growl vibrating against the pads of her fingers.   

He stepped back, crossing his arms over his muscular chest. Immediately she missed the fervor of his body. His gaze leveled on her. Breathing hard, he fought to get the next words out. “Lady Victoria, forgive my forwardness. I . . . I lost control. Let me escort you to the door.”

What? No!

“Your Grace . . .”

With a wave of his hand he interrupted her.

“Sin,” he corrected.

“I beg your pardon.” Her hand flew to her chest.

“Sin, my friends call me, Sin. I think we’ve crossed into the ranks of friendship, wouldn’t you agree?” He winked, sending her heart into a free-fall, suspending her ability to breathe.

“Sin . . .” she tested, the sound rolling off her lips like a novena. She stepped back, staring at him. Tall, well over six feet, his mile-wide shoulders all but blocked out the rest of the room. Light-headed, she nearly swooned from his nearness, when he touched her . . .

Raven hair, intense green eyes with explosive depths provided a stirring excursion into his soul.

“You’re staring at me like I’m some white knight riding to the aid of a damsel in distress.” He shoved a hand through his hair, disheveling the layers; they gleamed like black satin in the candlelight. “I’m not.”

“I have a confession to make.”

A smile dented his lips. “A secret told at midnight? I’ll take it to my grave.”

The spell he evoked rivaled the pull of the earth on the moon. Toying with the ruffles on his shirt, she bunched the slick material into her fist. “I coaxed Matthew’s friends into filling my dance card so I didn’t have to dance with you.”

For a moment confusion marred his exquisite features. Then, he threw his head back and laughed, the brawny sound sparking a ripple of sensual pleasure.

“Whatever for?” He persuaded.

She squirmed under his ardent appraisal. “I was afraid.” Heat seared her cheeks. Rumors of his prowess were legendary. She’d wanted to avoid the temptation so many other women succumbed to. And yet, here she stood – mesmerized. The spell he conjured magnified by the throaty sound of his voice. She wanted him. Not for his title, his lands, or his bluer-than-blue blood. No, it was the flesh and blood man she yearned for.

“Of me?” He jerked back, his hand covering his heart, toppling the gold Saint Joseph medal hanging about his neck out of his shirt.  

Self-repugnance washed over her. She’d hurt his feelings. “Your reputation.”

Along the sharp edge of his jaw a muscle ticked. “Pure ladies gossip.” 

“Oh, I think not, Your Grace.”

His fingers gave a sharp tug on one of her ringlets, the curl unfurling then bouncing back into place. “And how have you attained this knowledge?”

“Your kiss, my lord.”

Strains of the orchestra playing a waltz drifted up from the main ballroom below.

Offering his hand, he inquired, “Lady Victoria, may I have the honor of this dance?”

Every nerve vibrated with the possibility of being in his arms, moving across the expanse of the library.

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

Placing her hand in his, she moved in unison with him across the floor, her gown swishing with the practiced movements. He pulled her closer. “Things that begin with a dance often lead to the altar. Are you open to my suit?”

“I would like nothing better, Your Grace,” was all she managed before his lips claimed hers under the mistletoe.

Look for the eleventh installment of Eleven Pipers Piping.

Merry Christmas to all.

My True Love Gave to Me… …four calling birds

Chapter Four
... four calling birds ...

Christy Gronlund and Heidi Vanlandingham

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Lady Catherine Swann sighed. The elegant young lady staring back at her would make her family proud. There was one problem, however. She was the youngest of Lord and Lady Cockswoods’ seven daughters—and most definitely not elegant nor a lady. Only eighteen, she had no wish to find a suitable husband. She wanted to see the world, not raise babies. She picked up her small, satin reticule, and wrapped it around her wrist then turned to face her sister. "I guess it will have to do."

Pippa frowned. "What are you talking about? You look quite proper. While I..."

Cat ignored her sister, knowing she only wanted to hear how pretty she was. “My dress is the problem.”

Pippa frowned. “I see nothing amiss. You are just being silly. Well? How do I look?"

"You know very well you look beautiful. Stop fishing for compliments, Pippa dear, it is unbecoming." She laughed at Pippa's quick scowl and walked over to her older sibling to give her cheek a quick buss.

“Catherine Swann—now look what you've done! One cheek has more color so I will be forever pinching so they look the same," Pippa wailed.

A sharp knock at the door stopped Cat's low, throaty chuckle. Turning, she found the dour-faced maid assigned for their stay filling the doorway. "Yes, Mrs. White?"

The woman thrust her thick arm toward Cat and handed her several folded pieces of thick vellum. “Your mother wants you to have these before you arrive downstairs, and she insists you transfer them to your dance card this time.” Message delivered, Mrs. White turned on her heel and clomped back down the hallway.

Cat stared at the cards, her mouth drawn into a small moue.

Pippa glanced at her. "What is it? You look as if you bit into sour fruit."

Cat held out the cards. "Here, you can have these."

Pippa rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "No, I have my own right here." She patted the small purse tied at her wrist then pointedly gazed at the items in Cat’s white-knuckled grip. “Those are for your dance card."

"That's what I was afraid of." Cat sighed. "Who must I suffer through tonight?" She flipped the cards open and stared. "This is horrible! How could Mother do this to me?" She stomped her slippered foot on the thick rug-covered mahogany floor. "I will not dance with these men. I want to have some fun, not fight my way through the evening," she wailed.

"For shame, Cat," Pippa reprimanded. “A lady doesn’t fight her way through anything. We simply make the best of a bad situation.”

Cat looked back down at the now trembling card. “The first four names are the Marquess of Finch, Lord Starling, the Earl of Kingfisher, and Lord Swift.” She moaned. “The evening is ruined.”

Her sister bit her bottom lip. “Oh dear. Well, that is bad.” She wrapped an arm around Cat and walked her out of their room. “As Father would say at a time like this, ‘Where’s that spirit I’m so fond of, little kitten?’ Never understood it myself, but for some reason, you always laugh then conquer whatever problem arises.”

Cat halted at the bottom of the stairs and shoved back her shoulders. “I have decided my pale lavender gown isn’t so awful anymore. Under the candlelight of the ballroom, it will actually look like a ghastly grey, which suits my mood perfectly.” With her nose flared and lips pressed into a thin line, she marched into the crowded ballroom. “Time to deal with those four calling birds.”

*  *  *

Lord Richard Sefton, Earl of Saxonhurst regarded the men sitting at the faro table. He couldn’t help but think of his older brother, dead this past year because of London’s notorious gaming tables. What a shambles he’d left their father’s estate in—almost bankrupt. The Lord Chancellor had given him one year to return their lands to solvency. The task had not been easy but he had worked hard, finally paying off the final creditor two weeks ago today.

Raucous laughter accompanied the placing of new wagers. He turned away in disgust.

“Saxonhurst!”

Richard groaned. He had forgotten Thomas Worthington would be in attendance. Taking a small sip of port, he watched his old military acquaintance shuffle across the room.

“About time you showed your face at one of these things!” With a wide grin, Thomas accepted a glass of port from a beetle-browed butler then clapped Richard on the shoulder, almost spilling the remaining liquid in his own small cup.  “Missed you at the Abbey. Been a dreadful bore this past year. Hell-Fire Club hasn’t been the same without you. ” Thomas took a large swig of port and wiped the remaining liquid from his thin lips with the back of one hand. The man’s manners were positively dreadful.

Hoping to escape, Richard ambled from the card room toward the ballroom. With luck, he’d lose Thomas amidst the crush of people. To his dismay, the man remained unshakable. He listened with half an ear to the other’s incessant chatter. Richard glanced about the dimly lit room, taking in the decorations—dark green garland-wound banister and columns. The room was draped to resemble a bloody forest. Heavy sprigs of mistletoe tied with elegant gold ribbons hung above the room’s two arched doorways and he made note to avoid those spots.

“So who has stolen your attention from our little club?” Thomas’s voice boomed at his ear.

“Not who but what. I’ve had to settle my brother’s estate, which took longer than I expected.” After a quick sip of port, he continued. “Believe me when I say I have sorely missed the light-hearted fun our little Hell-Fire Club offers. I was actually at the club a fortnight ago. Happened to be on hand to stop a young trespasser.” He rubbed the sore area on his thigh at the memory.

“Were you injured, Saxonhurst?” Thomas asked.

Richard forced his hand away from the aching bruise. “Not really. The lad put up quite a fight. Ended up giving my leg a good kick with his boot. It’s nothing really.”

Candlelit shadows danced among the patrons milling around the ballroom. He watched as a rather long procession of women made their way through the crowd toward the ball’s hosts. He spared only a quick glance as each girl passed—until his gaze fell on the last. A slip of a girl, thin and willowy in her light silvery gown. Tiny diamonds woven into her dark brown braid sparkled brilliantly in the room’s flickering light. Her dark eyes were large and wide-set, giving her an elvish air. He nudged Thomas, who was still babbling about some military skirmish. “Do you know her?”

“Know who?”

Richard gestured toward the beautiful girl. “That one—in the silver gown. Do you know her?”

Thomas followed the direction of his finger then shrugged. “That’s one of Lord Cockswood’s brood. The youngest. Catherine, I think her name is. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason. Is this her first season?”

Thomas chuckled. “No. If I remember correctly, she came of age last season. Are you sure there’s no interest?”

He shook his head, ignoring the quickened beat of his heart. “No, just curiosity. Which of the lot belongs to Cockswood?”

Thomas snickered. “All of them. The poor man has seven daughters.”

Richard choked. “Damn! Poor sap. One woman in the family is bad enough but seven?”

He swigged the last of his port and set the empty glass on a passing butler’s tray. Turning, he found himself staring into the decadent brown gaze of Lady Catherine Swann. He pressed the palm of one hand across his waist and gave her a slight bow then forced himself to walk away.

*  *  *

Cat watched the gentleman walk way, noticing his slight limp as he made his way toward a group of ladies. His brilliant blue eyes, although hidden under a bored scowl, had taken her breath away. His thick, blond hair defied fashion, curling underneath the bottom of his upright collar. She could just make out the gold and cream-striped waistcoat layered underneath his black woolen tailcoat. The firm muscles of his thighs tightened and relaxed as he moved, giving him a fine figure—a very fine figure indeed—and distinctly reminiscent of a swashbuckler. She perused his full magnificence and then a queasy sensation rumbled in her stomach. She had met him before tonight. A slight frown touched his face and she was now certain of where she had met him.

“He is the scoundrel who tossed me out of the Abbey.”

“What Abbey?” Lady Cecile Barrington peered around her then laughed as she glimpsed Cat’s expression. “You look as if you were just caught doing something you shouldn’t.”

Cat grabbed her friend and pulled her over to stand beside one of the room’s four massive pillars. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course!” Ceely fluttered her fan to hide her mouth as she spoke.

“I did something quite daring.”

Wide-eyed, Ceely leaned in closer. “What? Oh Cat, what did you do?”

“I went to Medmenham Abbey disguised as a boy.”

“You. Did. Not!” She snapped her fan closed. “Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours, Catherine Swann. Why would you do something so scandalous?”

“I couldn’t help myself. During a ball at Almack’s, I overheard my sister Georgie talking with a group of her friends about the Abbey. It’s supposedly the meeting place of the notorious Hell-Fire Club.”

Ceely let out a small squeal then clamped her hand over her mouth, her words jumbling together until Cat removed her hand. “…They are rapscallions and blackguards. Terrible things go on during their meetings. I overheard my brother one time saying they carried on with doxies and light skirts all the time.” She slapped at Cat’s hand. “How could you? Without even telling me you were going.”

“My endeavor wasn’t as fruitful as I hoped. Before I even got inside the Abbey, a man caught me and threw me out.”

“Who threw you out?” Ceely’s delicate brows drew together.

“He did.” Cat pointed toward the blond miscreant. “Ceely, you know everyone. Tell me who he is.”

“Why, that is Lord Richard Sefton, Earl of Saxonhurst." Ceely sighed. “Is he not one of the finest men here? He has the most striking blue eyes.”

Cat watched as Lord Saxonhurst led a pretty brunette into the fray of dancers. Not wanting to watch anymore, she turned and ran into a very thick, mushy chest.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, but I do believe my name has been written down for the first dance.” He attempted a wobbly bow then just stood staring at her somewhat slack jawed. Cat rolled her eyes at Ceely then let The Marquess of Finch lead her onto the dance floor.  She pasted a smile on her face but her cheeks soon began to twitch. He took her hand and turned her around under his arm. Cat scrambled for something witty to say but her brain seemed frozen. The Marquess’s hand felt absolutely disgusting wrapped around hers, slick with sweat and he smelled like a horse. It was the smell that did her in.  Her stomach rebelled and she swallowed, desperately trying not to embarrass herself by losing her supper on his shoes.

"I say, are you well, Lady Catherine?" She heard the concern in his voice but could only shake her head slowly from side to side as her vision wavered. Nausea rose as his fetid breath washed over her face, filling her nose with the stench of garlic and the bitter smell of wine. Did the man never wash his mouth? Just as she was about to pass out, a strong hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her a few steps from the marquess. She gulped in her rescuer’s wonderful woodsy scent.  

“I believe I have the next dance,” a deep baritone interrupted and before she could catch a glimpse of his face, he had whirled her away from the repulsive man.

“Are you… You are not Lord Starling, sir.”

“I believe a thank you is in order for my rescuing you.” The man smiled and some of her indignation melted away. What a lovely smile, she thought then mentally slapped herself.

“If you will excuse me, Lord Saxonhurst. I am in need of the retiring room.” She whirled around and made her way through the crush toward the stairwell leading to the upstairs retiring room. No sooner had she placed one foot on the first step than an unfamiliar male voice addressed her from behind.

“Lady Catherine Swann? My name is Lord Starling. I believe we are scheduled for the next dance?”

Sighing, she turned and felt like laughing. Lord Starling was toothpick thin and almost a head shorter than she was. “I am sorry, Lord Starling, but I am a bit overcome from my last dance.”

His head bobbed up and down like a speckled hen in the farmyard. He took hold of her hand, patting it with his bony one until she wanted to scream. “I understand. I understand. Quite taxing really, dancing.” He led her to a doorway she had not noticed before. “I believe a bit of a rest in the drawing room would be just the thing.”

She tightly pressed her lips together and followed him inside the room, dimly lit with only one wall lamp. Lord Starling placed her on the dark-colored mahogany sofa then practically sat down in her lap. With her arms and hands protecting her face and upper body from his lecherous hands, she let out a squeal and tried to push him off her, quickly realizing he had her at a disadvantage.

“I believe you have overstayed your welcome, my good man.” a familiar voice growled above her, lifting the offensive man off her. She heard a solid thud and then she was hustled back through the door almost as fast as she had entered.

“What is the matter with people tonight!” Cat exclaimed.

“Do you always bring out the best in people like this?”

Cat glanced up at his face and caught the minute hardening of his features as if some errant thought had angered him. “How is it you keep appearing to rescue me? Are you following me?” She stood her ground, her foot tapping restlessly.

“I believe it’s a matter of being in the right place at the right time. Will I receive your thanks this time?” He had the audacity to grin at her, the rogue.

Cat squinted, not quite sure if she should trust him. After the last two male encounters, she wasn’t sure she could trust any man. Shaking her head, she backed away. Returning to the ballroom to find Ceely or one of her sisters, she instead found her third dance partner.

“You received my calling card, I presume? I am Albert Aldin, the Earl of Kingfisher.” He made a wide flourish with his arm and bowed, kissing the back of her hand. So far, so good. Well mannered is positive.

“Yes, thank…” she began.

He took his arm and urged her toward the stairs. “I find dancing intolerable. My private rooms are much preferable."

Cat’s jaw dropped. Had this dreadful man truly asked her to his room? Horrified, she fled across the room and was caught by her fourth caller, to whom her mother had already introduced her—the Baron of Swift. With a hand pressed against her rapidly beating heart, she retreated into the warm solarium, taking no heed of the many perfumed plants and trees filling the room. A hand grabbed hold of her arm, pulling her to a quick stop. Adrenalin took over and she fought back, kicking and hitting. Sensing his withdrawal, she gave him one last kick in the groin, which dropped him to the ground in a dead faint.

Thinking only of escape, she raced through the maze of fauna in her frantic bid for freedom. Somehow, she had once again found herself in a completely unacceptable situation. 

“Cat! Slow down. You’ll hurt yourself.”

 She glanced over her shoulder and stopped, staring in amazement at the cool demeanor of the man strolling toward her. Her handsome rescuer. She frowned at his smiling face. “What are you doing here? Again, I might add!”

He chuckled and her insides danced. “Again no thank you for rescuing you?” He raised his hand and moved a wayward strand of hair off her nose, tucking it behind one ear. “This is becoming quite a habit.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

He quirked an eyebrow. She didn’t like the smirk slowly curling one side of his mouth. “Yes, I can see that, judging by Kingfisher’s moans. However, I think it would be much better, and definitely safer, if I took care of you. Unless you prefer your four calling birds?”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Good heavens, no!” She tilted her head as if studying him. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why would you want take care of me?”

He leaned closer, cupping her cheek with his hand. “Because I do, sweet Catherine.”

“But…” He covered her lips with his finger.

“I have been drawn to your side all evening and couldn’t figure out why. I came to this ball tonight at the request of my mother who couldn’t make the trip. I stayed for you. The moment I saw your well-placed kick I counted myself a lucky man as you were the one who kicked me at the Abbey.” He chuckled again. The slow, caressing motion of his thumb across her lips caused her tummy to tumble. “You need a strong man to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

Cat arched one brow. “I will never walk the straight and narrow.” Her breath whispered across his thumb.

 He grinned wickedly, “I know.”

######

Please join us tomorrow for the next chapter of My True Love Gave to Me ~ Five Golden Rings.