One Christmas house party leads to two Regency love affairs!

A Governess for Christmas by Marguerite Kaye

At the glittering Brockmore house party, former army major Drummond MacIntosh meets governess in disgrace Joanna Forsythe, who’s desperate to clear her name. Both are eager to put their pasts behind them, but their scandalous affair will make for a very different future…

Dancing with the Duke’s Heir by Bronwyn Scott

As heir to a dukedom, Vale Penrith does not want a wife, and certainly not one like Lady Viola Hawthorne. So why does London’s Shocking Beauty tempt him beyond reason? Dare he try and tame her, or is a Christmas seduction the best way to bring her to surrender?

‘A Brockmore house party can be the making of a man... For where the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore lead, all of society follows.’

SCANDAL AT THE CHRISTMAS BALL

a sizzling duet from

Marguerite Kaye and Bronwyn Scott

The Duke and Duchess of Brockmore are hosting the festive event of the year—a whirlwind of luxury and fun with the possibility of second chances in the air. But what happens when two unexpected and decidedly unsuitable couples find themselves struck with Cupid’s arrow?

Read Drummond and Joanna’s story in

A Governess for Christmas

by Marguerite Kaye

and

Vale and Viola’s story in

Dancing with the Duke’s Heir

by Bronwyn Scott

MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking and cycling—but only on the level—gardening—but only what she can eat—and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis, though not at the same time... Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com.

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Scandal at the Christmas Ball

Marguerite Kaye and Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

A Governess For Christmas by Marguerite Kaye

Dancing with The Duke’s Heir by Bronwyn Scott

Excerpt from Besieged and Betrothed by Jenni Fletcher

A Governess for Christmas

Marguerite Kaye

For all my friends on Facebook who made naming my Brockmore cast such fun.

I hope the characters I’ve written live up to the fabulous names you gave them.

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter One

Thursday, 24th December 1818, Christmas Eve

The first flurry of snow had begun to land on his carriage roof as it swept up the long drive in mid-afternoon, as if announcing his arrival, though he’d thought at the time that sunrise might have been more apt. This invitation was, after all, intended to herald a new dawn for him. Now, gazing distractedly out of the tall drawing-room windows in the shadow of the long blue curtains, Drummond MacIntosh saw that the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore’s extensive grounds were covered in a glittering and, for the moment at least, pristine seasonal white blanket. This particular window faced due west, but he could see no sign of the sun through the thick, leaden sky. Behind him, the other guests took tea and made polite conversation. He ought to be doing both of those things himself, but now he was here, Drummond was more ambivalent than ever about the reasons for his presence at this party.

It ought to be clear cut. This was the opportunity he had been seeking to forge a new life for himself, to finally escape the purposeless existence he had been forced to endure. Three and a half years since that fateful day which had brought his life crashing down about his ears, it was time to accept that he needed help.

Drummond sighed, reminding himself that he was damned lucky to be here. The unexpected summons and subsequent discussion which had precipitated his invitation to Brockmore was a most surprising Christmas gift, and yet, now he was here at this most prestigious house party, instead of embracing the event, he was prevaricating. Why couldn’t he just do as he was told? Of course, if he always had done so, he wouldn’t need to be here in the first place.

They would be greening the house later, though seaweed rather than holly would be more appropriate decoration for this particular room. The painted silk wall hangings of the drawing room were cobalt blue. Grotesque sea creatures were carved into the gilded arms and legs of the blue-damask sofas which lined the walls, and the art which adorned the walls also had a maritime theme, the overall impression intended to be, he supposed, that of an underwater cavern. Which by rights should be inhabited by mermaids and denizens of the deep, instead of this collection of well-heeled, well-dressed members of the haute-ton.

It was three years past June since he had attended his last great social occasion, before the tragic events which had precipitated his catastrophic fall from grace. The Duchess of Richmond’s now famous, indeed infamous, ball had been held on the eve of the battle of Waterloo. The crime Drummond had subsequently committed had been heinous, and though he still firmly believed that the crime he had refused to commit was even more so, his mutiny had been ultimately pointless. One life had been destroyed, his own changed for ever by the summary justice meted out. It had been justified, there was no arguing that fact. Just as there was no doubt, as far as Drummond was concerned, that he had been right to act as he did, even though his superiors deemed it utterly wrong.

Right or wrong, it was done now, and ancient history, according to the Duke of Wellington, his ex-Commander-in-Chief. It was apparently time for Drummond to re-join society. Drummond himself believed it long past time. After a year moping in the country trying to come to terms with events, he’d taken a deep breath, cast aside his deep regret along with his lingering resentment and his shame, and forced himself back out into the world. But the people who inhabited his milieu had summarily rejected him. Never mind that his military record until that fateful date had been impeccable. Never mind his commendations, his years of dedicated service to his men and to his superiors and his country. Only that last treasonous act mattered. Doors had been slammed. Familiar faces had been averted. He could not deny that he deserved this treatment, for ultimately, he was guilty. Yet he could not quell a lingering sense of injustice.

Clearly, none of the guests politely sipping from the dainty Royal Doulton teacups emblazoned with the Brockmore coat of arms either knew or cared about his ignominious past, for all had greeted him politely, not one had snubbed him. Actually, it struck him for the first time as odd that despite his own many connections, he wasn’t acquainted with a single person here. Not even his hosts, who had been cajoled by Wellington to extend this most exclusive invitation.

‘A Brockmore house party,’ Wellington had informed Drummond, ‘can be the making of a man. Everyone knows that Marcus and Alicia invite only those and such as those. Men of influence, women of breeding. They can smooth your path to rehabilitation, for where the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore lead, all of society follow. Even myself,’ he’d added with one of his ironic smiles. ‘You would be a fool to refuse this opportunity, and despite evidence to the contrary, I know that you are not a fool. I have plans for you, MacIntosh, and I am a man who gets what he wants,’ the Duke of Wellington had informed him, in that magnanimous tone he had, of conferring great favour which would be accepted unquestioningly with great gratitude. ‘You’ve a practical mind, a cool head, if we are to discount that one aberration, and you’ve a natural authority that make men inclined to follow you. Between ourselves, though it will not be announced for another two days yet, I am very soon to be in a position where I need a man like you, for Lord Liverpool has appointed me Master-General of the Ordnance. With the Brockmore name firmly behind you, doors will open again, allowing you to make a success of the posting.’

Wellington had proceeded to outline the terms of his rehabilitation, much in the manner he used when issuing his battle plans. ‘You have paid the price for your rash actions, MacIntosh. I m willing to make an exception and give you a second chance, but you do not need me to tell you it will be your last?’

Drummond did not need telling and so here he was, with twelve days to impress his hosts sufficiently to earn their patronage and repair the major wound he had inflicted on his reputation. In one sense, he was fortunate indeed, for the other tragic victim of that day’s events could have no such second chance. Thinking about that even after all this time made him feel sick to his stomach. So he’d better stop thinking about it and get on with the job in hand.

A guest list had most helpfully been left on the dressing table in his bedchamber along with the agenda for the festivities. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, had proved to be a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of white-grey hair that was more leonine than fox-like. Alicia, his wife, her gown of dark blue watered silk the exact same shade as both her husband’s waistcoat and the curtains, was the kind of elegant, classically beautiful woman whose looks were timeless.

‘They make a striking couple, do they not?’ Drummond’s solitude was interrupted by a slim, ungainly-looking young man with rather thin brown hair which curled lankly over the high starched collar of his shirt. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he continued, extending his hand, ‘I am Edward Throckton. You, I think, must be Captain Milborne.’

In contrast to the gentleman’s rather limp appearance, his handshake was surprisingly firm. ‘Drummond MacIntosh, actually. Plain mister.’

Edward Throckton’s eyebrows rose. ‘How odd, I was sure you must be our military guest. There is something—I think it is the way you survey the room, as if you are expecting us all to fall in to serried ranks. Forgive me, that is a deuced personal remark to have made.’

A vibrant flush of colour stained his cheeks. He was young, perhaps only twenty-two or -three, and judging by the way he was tugging at his cravat, rather bashful. ‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance,’ Drummond said, ‘I don’t know a single soul here.’

‘Really? I thought I was the only one—that is, I assumed—but I must say, Mr MacIntosh, I’m relieved to hear you say so. There is nothing worse than being—well, not so much an outsider as a—’ Edward Throckton broke off, tugging once more at his cravat. ‘Not that I can imagine for a moment that you would experience...’

‘I assure you, Mr Throckton, I’m feeling every bit the outsider,’ Drummond said. ‘I’ve noticed you circulating amongst our fellow guests while I’ve been lurking here. I’d be very grateful if you’d share what you have gleaned.’

‘Are you really interested in my modest intelligence-gathering?’

How many similar eager-to-please lads had he taken under his wing over the years? Drummond wondered. And a good few, once they’d gained a bit of confidence, had been moulded into excellent officers. ‘I am very interested,’ he said, smiling encouragingly. ‘Please, fire away.’

‘Well then, let us start with the group at the fireplace. The good-looking young man with the golden hair who is admiring himself in the mirror is Aubrey Kenelm, heir to the Marquess of Durham, and the flame-haired woman beside him is Miss Philippa Canningvale. Miss Canningvale’s charms, in that emerald-green gown, are indisputable, but one can’t help but feeling there is a touch of bravado in that display—though that is, of course, merely speculation on my part.’

Drummond, who had been expecting nothing more than a bland recitation of names and titles, gave a snort of surprised laughter.

‘Beg pardon,’ his surprising acquaintance said, blushing predictably, ‘I have been presumptuous. I did not mean...’

‘Oh, but you did mean, Mr Throckton,’ Drummond said, grinning. ‘You have a very sharp eye. It’s a gift that could get you into a lot of hot water, but not with me. Please, pray continue.’

‘It is true, I do rather pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, which is why I was so certain you were a military man. It seems I am not infallible,’ Edward Throckton said, with a rueful smile. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes, the woman in cherry-red is Lady Beatrice Landry. A true beauty, if you are inclined towards marble statues, which I confess I am, rather. Not that Lady Beatrice would deign to notice someone as lowly and as wet behind the ears as I am.’

‘A widow, do you think?’ Drummond enquired, both amused and slightly bemused.

‘I don’t know. I do know there is no Lord Landry on the guest list.’

‘Which signifies precisely nothing. Who is the equally intimidating young woman by her side?’

‘Lady Anne Lowell, daughter of the Earl of Blackton, and one of the most eligible debutantes of last Season. Her name featured daily in the society columns. I am surprised she has not gone off yet.’

‘You read the society pages, Mr Throckton?’

‘One must keep up with the great and the good, if one has ambitions to enter politics, as I do. I am somewhat hindered though.’

‘In what way? You strike me as an astute and intelligent young man, and I too pride myself on my perception.’

‘Talent is not the issue,’ Mr Throckton replied. ‘I may as well tell you, since it is common enough knowledge. I am the natural son of an aristocratic acquaintance of the Duke of Brockmore’s. He cannot formally acknowledge me, but he does wish to assist me. This gathering is my opportunity to establish myself with our host.’

‘So you have your heart set on a career in politics yourself, Mr Throckton?’

‘I would be honoured if you would call me Edward. Yes, I do, but not for personal advancement. I wish most fervently to serve my country, though you’ll probably think me an insufferable prig for putting it so. And I am aware,’ he said, touching his flaming cheek, ‘that aside from the misfortune of my birth, I must conquer this affliction.’

‘I think your aspirations noble, and not at all priggish,’ Drummond said, eyeing the young man with respect, ‘though I recommend you have a care to whom you speak so frankly.’

‘Perhaps,’ Edward replied, with something approaching a grin, ‘but though I may have mistaken your occupation, I did not mistake your character, Mr MacIntosh. You will not betray my trust.’

Drummond acknowledged this insight with a bark of laughter. ‘You may continue to confide in me then. Share your thoughts on the group at the centre of the room.’

‘The older gentleman is Lord Truesdale, a close friend of our hosts and another politician, so most certainly a guest I intend to cultivate. The pretty girl is Miss Burnham. I believe the man trying to charm her is Matthew Eaton, and the older man with the dark hair and rather stern countenance who looks as if he would rather be anywhere than here is Percival Martindale. According to Miss Canningvale, Mr Martindale has had a very tragic time of it lately, for his sister and her husband were killed in a coach crash, leaving him with the charge of his orphaned nephew and niece. I wonder where they are spending the Christmas period, for they are certainly not here. I believe there may be a grandmother.’

‘I feel sure you will unearth both the location of the children and the precise nature of any gifts they receive before our stay is over. You really are a mine of information Mr—Edward. Please carry on.’

‘The rather vivacious lady talking to our host is Lady Viola Hawthorne.’ Edward pursed his lips as the object of his scrutiny burst into a peal of laughter. ‘An extremely well-born young woman, her parents are the Duke and Duchess of Calton, but she has the reputation of being rather high-spirited, as they say.’ The young man grimaced. ‘It always strikes me as ironic that the more high born one is, the more society tolerates inappropriate behaviour.’

Edward was clearly referring to his natural father, but Drummond couldn’t help thinking of society’s reaction to his own transgression. Though Edward Throckton was entirely unaware of it, they were both outcasts in their own way, both attending this party as a first step towards joining or re-joining the fold.

‘Forgive me,’ Edward interrupted this melancholy train of thought. ‘Again. I did not mean to sound bitter. I am in fact extremely grateful that the man who begat—that he facilitated my invitation here.’

‘From what little I know of Brockmore, you wouldn’t be here if he didn’t think you could be of use to him,’ Drummond said. ‘Don’t take that the wrong way, I meant it as a compliment. Now, why don’t you finish what you’ve started, and then I think we must both mingle or we’ll draw our hosts’ ire.’

‘Then it is as well that there are only the two wallflowers gathered in the far corner to be identified. On the left of the group is Miss Pletcher, who is a cousin, and companion to Lady Anne. Beside her is Miss Sophia Creighton, whose father, a man of the cloth, rather shockingly died in a debtors’ prison, from which one must deduce that Miss Creighton has been left in penurious circumstances. Our hostess is one of the patronesses of the prison, so I surmise this particular invitation is her doing. I hope Miss Creighton can be coaxed out of her shell enough to enjoy it. She has the look of a young lady who has not had great cause to laugh much of late.’

‘Perhaps you are the very man to coax her,’ Drummond said drily.

Edward blushed, but he did not dismiss the notion. ‘And there we have it. Though the hour is advanced, we are lacking three of the guests from the list. I expect the worsening weather has detained them,’ he said, glancing out at the now heavily falling snow. ‘This is not one of the famous Brockmore Midsummer Matchmaking parties, but I wonder if our hosts have some other grand design? How many other guests have been invited, like me, for a purpose, do you think?’

The speculative look which accompanied this remark left Drummond in no doubt that the young man was fishing. He smiled blandly. ‘We may find out as the party unfolds. Why don’t you go over and join Miss Creighton, for I see Miss Pletcher is abandoning her to re-join Lady Anne. There, as you can see our hosts have also spotted that Miss Creighton is in need of company. This is your chance to make your mark.’

‘You will join me, Mr MacIntosh? I would appreciate your support.’

‘Directly, but I’d better circulate a bit first.’

Edward made his bow, and a beeline for Miss Creighton. Smiling to himself, Drummond contemplated joining the group at the fireplace, but a burst of laughter from the brassy Miss Canningvale stopped him. A moment’s respite was what he needed.

Slipping as unobtrusively as he could out of the drawing room, he reached the expanse of the black and white tiled hallway, then hesitated. What he really wanted was to get outside and get some invigorating fresh air, but he had the absurd conviction that if he escaped the confines of the house, he’d find it difficult to make himself return.

One of the Duke’s army of footmen, standing sentinel by the front door, looked at him enquiringly. Striding purposefully towards the room furthest from the drawing room, Drummond stepped inside, leaning back against the door. It was freezing in here, and the air smelled oddly fragrant, like a forest. The small room faced east, the fading light only visible through a single tall window. The source of the scent was obvious enough, for the table that took up most of the space was piled high with swathes of green spruce, stacks of pine cones, bundles of holly and mistletoe, obviously to be used as seasonal decorations. He picked up a wreath formed of pine. The distinctive resin-scented perfume of the needles caught him unawares, catapulting him back to the forests of his father’s Highland estate, the earth soft as a mattress beneath his feet, carpeted with fallen needles, the canopy formed by the branches sheltering him from the elements. He had not been back there for so long, hadn’t even allowed himself to miss it until now.

A rustle and a sigh made him drop the wreath. He had thought himself quite alone but there, in the darkest corner of the room, was a silhouetted figure. ‘Who is that?’ Drummond demanded, thinking himself spied upon. ‘What are you doing, lurking there? Get up, man, and show yourself.’

‘I am not lurking, I am not a man and I do not take kindly to having orders barked at me. I have as much right to be here as you do. Captain Milborne, I presume.’

‘No, you may not presume,’ Drummond snapped. ‘Who the devil are you?’

The figure rose from the chair where she had been concealed in the gloom. ‘I am Joanna Forsythe. I am at Brockmore as a guest of the Duke and Duchess, and I am in this room because I needed a moment of quiet contemplation before the ordeal of facing the assembled company.’

She was not tall. Her hair was brown, as was her gown. Her countenance was pretty enough. Sweet, some would call it. Unremarkable is how those less charitable would describe her. Yet her cool voice was very much at odds with such an assessment, and her clear, assessing scrutiny of his own countenance even more so. She continued to study him through eyes which were also brown. Big eyes, thickly lashed, and not plain brown at all, but more golden, and somehow, he couldn’t explain how, giving the impression of acute intelligence.

‘At first I thought it was simply your stance,’ she said. ‘Those shoulders, the straight back, the set of your head, that’s what made me think you a military man, but it is not only that. It is in your eyes, now that I see you up close. You are a man accustomed to being obeyed. I confess, I am very much surprised that you are not Captain Milborne.’

It should not be surprising that his career had marked him indelibly, but it had never occurred to him that it should be so. ‘Drummond MacIntosh,’ he said, making a stiff bow. ‘You are half-right, Miss Forsythe. I was an army major, but am no longer a soldier.’

‘Ah.’ Joanna Forsythe gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Since Waterloo delivered peace to Europe, there are many men in a similar position. That is, I presume...’

‘Aye,’ he interrupted curtly, ‘I left military service shortly after the battle.’ It was not a lie, but the manner of his leaving was none of her business.

‘We owe you and your comrades a huge debt of gratitude, Mr MacIntosh, but I can see the subject makes you uncomfortable. Tell me, what is a man who is brave enough to fight in battle doing lurking in here, to use your own phrase?’

‘Like you, I came in search of solitude. Though unlike you, I’ve already had a surfeit of the company, while you have yet to sample it.’

She smiled crookedly. ‘I am not weak-willed, not usually, but when I peered into the drawing room and saw everyone taking tea and looking so relaxed and at home...’ Miss Forsythe straightened her shoulders, adjusted her paisley scarf, and forced another smile. ‘But there, I know I must step into the breach at some point. A military term you will be familiar with, Mr MacIntosh. I will leave you to your solitude, while I head into battle.’

Which was exactly what she looked like she was about to do, Drummond thought, adding brave to her list of attributes. He extended his arm. ‘Allow me to escort you. We will face the enemy together. A pincer move, if you will. Shall we?’

* * *

Could her fellow guests really be regarded as the enemy? Joanna Forsythe wondered as she sipped on her tea and made polite conversation. How would they react if they discovered they were mingling with a social pariah? She didn’t recognise a single one of them, which was a considerable relief, since it made it highly unlikely that any were privy to her shameful reputation. Save her host and hostess.

Glancing over at the Duchess, Joanna felt that mix of excitement and nerves which made her feel sick and giddy at the same time.

The Duchess had written a letter in her elegant script, accompanying the invitation to Brockmore Manor.

Now that she is aware of the painful truth, Lady Christina wishes to make amends and has desired me, as one of her oldest and—forgive my lack of modesty—most influential friends, to act as her intermediary.

There will be opportunity to discuss this further during the course of the party, but it is my sincere hope that you will be able to partake in and enjoy the festivities without allowing this most regrettable matter to prey on your mind.

All very well for Her Grace to say, but despite the opulence of her surroundings, the fine food, the luxury of silk sheets and a roaring fire in her bedchamber, and the promise of a fun-filled holiday, Joanna’s thoughts turned again and again to the question of how, precisely, her former employer proposed to make reparation for the damage she had inflicted. Clearly, the all-important discussion with the Duchess was not to be tonight. Then tomorrow was Christmas Day. Boxing Day? There were activities planned from dawn to dusk. How was she to contain herself in waiting?

A burst of laughter from the other side of the room drew her attention. Looking over, she settled her gaze on Drummond MacIntosh who, having handed her into the care of their hosts, had been conversing for the last half-hour with the group of men by the fire, but now he excused himself to make his way over to join her.

He unsettled her, but there was no doubting that he was by far the most attractive man in the room. Not the most handsome, that accolade must go to Aubrey Kenelm, but Mr Kenelm’s golden-haired perfection held no appeal for Joanna. Drummond MacIntosh’s features were more forceful: a strong nose, a most determined jaw, and an even more decided mouth. His skin was deeply tanned, despite the season, the colouring of a man who spent much of his life outdoors, and there were lines fanning out from his eyes. Etched by the elements, or by carousing, or by pain? He was a soldier, so most likely all three. His hair was the kind of glossy black that she would have attributed to artifice, were it not for the streaks of auburn in his curls.

‘Now that you have entered the battlefield, Miss Forsythe, are you feeling more at ease?’

‘The company seems most convivial,’ Joanna replied. ‘I am sure I will feel much more relaxed when we are better acquainted.’

‘You must know our hosts in some capacity, surely, to have been invited?’

‘I’ve never met them. In fact, I know you better than any other person in this room.’

He smiled at that. ‘Then we are in the exact same situation, for I know not a soul here either.’

‘Which begs the question, why are you here? Oh, heavens, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so inquisitive. You will have your reasons, as I have. I’m a teacher,’ she clarified, ‘at a school for girls. A provincial institution, you will not have heard of it. The school is closed for the holidays, but unlike my pupils, I have no family to celebrate with. So you see...’

‘...the Brockmores’ generous offer was most timely. A very good reason, Miss Forsythe, but now I’m intrigued as to why they would do such a thing for a complete stranger.’

She would not lie, but the truth—no, she could not be telling someone she barely knew the whole truth, no matter how oddly tempting it was. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be very disappointed,’ Joanna said lightly, ‘the reason is very mundane. My former employer is a great friend of Her Grace. It was she who facilitated this invitation, having learned of my currently straitened circumstances.’

Mr MacIntosh frowned at this but said nothing. He had a way with silence, Joanna was discovering, of making her want to fill it. She used it herself, to good effect, on her pupils. Usually they squirmed, then they confessed. Joanna bit her lip. Finally, he surrendered with a gruff little laugh. ‘It would be unfair of me to press you further, especially since my case is remarkably similar.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My invitation also came via a—a well-wisher who regrets my current circumstances, and wishes to change them for the better. For me, this party is something of an initiation test.’

‘Then our cases are not so similar after all! I assure you, Mr MacIntosh, that I do not require to pass any sort of test. Whatever it is that the Duchess proposes—’ She snapped her mouth closed, staring at him in dismay. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr MacIntosh, I would not wish to monopolise your time.’

But he shook his head, detaining her by the lightest of touches on her arm. ‘I would be delighted if you’d call me Drummond.’

‘Drummond,’ she repeated, ‘a very Scottish name, though your accent is almost imperceptible.’

‘I have been a long time away from the Highlands, Miss Forsythe,’ he replied, his accent softening at the same time as his smile hardened.

‘Joanna.’

‘From the Greek?’

‘Why, yes.’

‘You look surprised, but not all Highlanders are heathens, Miss—Joanna. I was packed off to school in Edinburgh, and had Greek and Latin beaten into me along with any number of other useless subjects.’

‘Education is never useless, Mr—Drummond—though it should never be beaten into anyone.’

‘I did not mean to imply—I am sure that you do not subscribe to the view that to spare the rod is to spoil the child, and are an excellent teacher.’

‘I love my profession. Even in my current situation, I cannot imagine another way of earning my living.’

‘Then for your sake, I sincerely hope that this party is the route to securing a better living—if that is what you hope the Duchess will propose.’

Joanna laughed shortly. ‘I’m not a charity case. I didn’t come here in search of patronage, but justice. Now you have somehow managed to extract a great deal more from me than I intended.’

‘Justice,’ Drummond said, his mouth twisted. ‘It is a noble aim. My motivations are a wee bit more prosaic. All I’m looking for is a fresh start and I’m afraid, unlike you, that the patronage of our hosts is a prerequisite for that. There, now you have also managed to extract a deal more from me than I intended.’

She shook her head, quite at a loss, for his tone had been so bitter. ‘I did not mean to imply that there was anything wrong with patronage, Drummond.’

‘Were it for anyone but myself I’d agree with you, but I’m like you, you see, I prefer my independence. However...’ He forced a smile. ‘There now, as I said, I’ve told you more than enough.’

And it had cost him, Joanna thought. Whatever he wanted or needed from the Duke of Brockmore, it hurt his pride to have to ask. She, who had been forced to beg and to plead, could understand that, though she suspected her sympathy would be very unwelcome. ‘I don’t know about you, but I truly am in dire need of some solitude,’ she said, touching his arm lightly. ‘I think I will retire to my chamber to rest before we green the house.’

Drummond nodded, but as she turned to go, he caught her hand. ‘You will return though, won’t you? You won’t spend the whole evening hiding in your room?’

‘Or even lurking in a dark corner,’ she said, smiling weakly. ‘Do not fear, whatever the outcome of my—my other business, I intend to forget all about the harsh realities of life, and enjoy these festivities to the full, while I can.’

His grim expression softened. ‘A most commendable strategy,’ Drummond said, with a lop-sided smile. ‘With your permission, it’s an approach I’d like to share with you.’

Chapter Two

Friday, 25th December 1818, Christmas Day

Christmas morning began, as tradition dictated, with a church service, then an elaborate champagne breakfast followed by a stroll to the village green, now carpeted with a thick blanket of snow. The local children had gathered, and were crowding excitedly around the huge horse-drawn sleigh which accompanied the Brockmore party. On Boxing Day, food baskets would be delivered to tenants and those in need, but today was all about distributing treats to the children of the estate. The Duke and Duchess, aided by some of their guests, handed out wooden dolls and horses, lead soldiers, tin drums, skittles, balls, skipping ropes, hoops, spinning tops and penny whistles, and soon the air was filled with whoops of glee. The frenzied beating of tin drums was soon interspersed with the shrill sound of penny whistles being blown, as if some miniature marching band were tuning up.

Percival Martindale was making a terrible hash of the gift-giving, Drummond noticed as he watched from the sidelines. The poor man got it wrong every time, handing dolls to small boys, skipping ropes to toddlers, and a tin drum to the perplexed mother of a swaddled baby. Heaven knew how he would cope with his new wards. Perhaps he would find a wife to help him bring them up. Or hand them over to a governess. Martindale was smiling gratefully now at Joanna, who had tactfully intervened, swapping Martindale’s choices for something more appropriate, earning herself a grateful smile and a pat on the arm.

For some reason, Drummond did not appreciate this over-familiarity. On impulse, he headed across the snow, waiting patiently until the last gift had been dispensed, then stepping quickly between Martindale and Joanna, offering his arm, and sweeping her away before the other man could protest.

‘I was not in need of rescue, you know,’ she said, as Drummond steered the pair of them away from the revelry. ‘Mr Martindale seems a pleasant but rather melancholy gentleman.’

‘I take it, then, that you are not aware that he has recently been obliged to take in his sister’s two children? Both their parents were killed in a carriage accident, apparently.’

Joanna’s smile faded. ‘I had no idea. How very tragic. But what then, is Mr Martindale doing here at Brockmore? Surely his place is with his new charges, especially at this time of year?’

‘According to Edward Throckton, who is a positive mine of information, the Brockmores were close friends of the deceased couple. They felt the chap desperately needed a break after all he has been through. Apparently, the children have been packed off to mutual friends who have a large brood of their own. They will be well cared for, I am sure, and most likely better able to cope with the loss than poor Martindale, for children, as you must know, are actually very resilient.’

Joanna’s mouth tightened. ‘I never knew my mama, she died giving birth to me, but I have known several children lose a parent, Drummond, and whether they are five years old or fifteen, what they need more than anything is security.’

‘Martindale strikes me as someone who knows his duty. I am certain he will do his best by them—better, perhaps, when he’s had this break to distance himself from his grief.’

‘I hope so, for the poor mites deserve nothing less.’

‘I’ve some experience in this field, you know. I’ve had lads—and I mean lads, Joanna, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—lose a parent. Sometimes, when we were on campaign, word came months after the death, and often it would fall to me to break the news. I happen to agree with you, security is what they need the most. In such cases, it is the army routine which provides that.’

‘And so as an officer, you also acted in loco parentis, just as a teacher does at times—though I do not mean for a moment to compare the two. For you, so far away from home, it must have been so much worse.’ Joanna pressed his arm. ‘Though not so bad as to have to inform a parent on the loss of a child.’ She covered her mouth, aghast almost before the words were out. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, what a tactless thing to have said. I cannot imagine...’

But it was too late. ‘No,’ he said, his voice sounding hollow, as if it did not belong to him. ‘No, you cannot.’ So many such carefully crafted letters, full of kind words and platitudes, glossing over the terrible reality of death in battle. And that one, last letter he had not been permitted to write, despite it being the most important of all. Drummond squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to dispel the memory.

Joanna’s face was pale, her expression horrified, but he felt as if he was looking at her from afar. It was the deafening silence he remembered most. The sudden, shocked silence like that which followed a cannon’s roar. The disbelief writ large on the faces of his men, that must have been reflected in his. Followed by a blood-curdling roar of anguish. His own voice, emanating from the darkest, deepest recesses of his soul.

‘Drummond?’ Joanna gave him a little shake. ‘Drummond?’

He dug his knuckles into his eyes, pushed his hair back from his brow. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

‘It is I who should apologise. I did not intend to evoke whatever terrible event it was you recalled. I am so very, very sorry.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, relieved to hear that his words had a deal more conviction.

‘Do you want to tell me...?’

‘No!’ he barked, making Joanna flinch. ‘No,’ he repeated, more mildly. ‘Some things which happen during conflict are not for the ears of civilians—they would not understand.’

‘I am truly sorry.’

‘Forget it. We have talked enough about my occupation, tell me about yours. What is it you love so much about teaching?’

To his relief, though she hesitated, she accepted the crude change of subject. ‘Not beating Latin and Greek into my pupils, for one.’

‘Men teaching boys, that is a very different thing.’

‘Did they succeed?’ she asked, eyeing him quizzically. ‘Or might a gentler approach have been more effective?’

Drummond shrugged. ‘It is simply how things were, and no doubt are still. Masters on one side, boys on the other, the one pushing, the other resisting.’

‘You don’t think that a little encouragement, some interest in the subject matter would have helped bridge the gap? How can one expect to imbue a child with enthusiasm for a subject when it is patently obvious to the child that their teacher does not share it?’

‘A good point. Perhaps if my teachers had been more like you I wouldn’t have been so eager to finish school.’

‘I was lucky, I had an excellent example to follow. My father was a botanist as well as a tutor, and taught me to think of pupils as flowers, some blooming easily and showily, some needing to be gently coaxed. I have a weakness for those who need coaxed, I must confess,’ Joanna said with a tender smile. ‘There is nothing quite so rewarding as helping a child to find their own particular talent—and every child is gifted in some way, you know.’

‘That has been my experience too,’ Drummond said, ‘though I’m not too sure any of my raw recruits would have taken to being likened to a flower. I take it, from the way you talk of him, that your father is no longer with us?’

‘He died very peacefully, a few weeks after my twenty-first birthday, almost seven years ago.’ Her eyes were misty with tears, but when Drummond made to apologise, she shook her head. ‘No, you’ve not upset me, I have nothing but lovely memories of our time together.’

‘May I take it that it was the loss of your father which required you to take up teaching for a living?’

‘In a way, that is how I have always earned my crust, as they say, for latterly, I took over the youngest of Papa’s pupils but, yes, his passing changed things. For a start, the house was only a life rent, and though I could have negotiated to take it on...’ Joanna grimaced. ‘A man can command a great deal more fees than a mere woman, no matter how well educated she is. I simply couldn’t afford it.’

‘That seems damned unfair.’

‘So many women would agree with you, and so surprisingly few men,’ Joanna said wryly. ‘Right or wrong, it is how it is, there is no point in getting angry about it.’

‘I’m not angry. Well, yes, I am. To be forced from your home and into—where did you go?’

‘I found a good position as a private governess to two girls. My education and Papa’s reputation made it astonishingly easy—not that my education was much called for. A smattering of French, literature, history, enough to make an adequate conversationalist, was all that was required along with the usual singing and sewing.’ Joanna wrinkled her nose. ‘Young girls who are destined to marry well care little for learning.’ Her brow cleared, and she smiled. ‘You know, I hadn’t thought of my current position in a positive light until now, but there is a great deal to be said for being a school teacher, even when one is not being paid, and is treated as a drudge.’

‘Then what on earth are you doing at such a school, when it is clear...’

‘On the contrary, the situation is far from clear. It is a decidedly complicated matter, and one that I am not in a position to discuss until I have spoken to the Duchess.’

The cold air had brought a rosy flush to her cheeks. Her plain poke bonnet framed her face. Her countenance was heart-shaped, with a most decided chin. Her mouth was set, and her eyes met his unflinchingly. It was not only curiosity which made him want to press her further. He liked her. He had an absurd wish to help her, though what he could do—and besides, it seemed help was already on hand in the form of the Duchess. What’s more, he could hardly press her to talk when he’d so steadfastly refused to confide in her himself.

Drummond sighed, holding up his hands in a gesture of mute acceptance. ‘It is Christmas Day, and we agreed only last night, didn’t we, to forget all about reality and to enjoy ourselves.’

‘We did. We aren’t doing very well are we?’

‘Well, we must remedy that forthwith.’

She smiled with her eyes. A silly phrase, but in this case it was true, her eyes were smiling. The snow was falling thickly now, swirling around them. A snowflake fell on to her cheek. Drummond gently brushed it away. Joanna stood stock-still. Their eyes locked. There was a stillness in the air, a muffled silence enveloping them as the snow fell softly on to the existing carpet of white. He trailed his fingers down her cheek, to rest on the soft wool of her scarf. Her breath formed a wispy white cloud. Another snowflake landed on her cheek, and this time he used his lips to melt it. Her skin was cold, and so very soft. He wanted to kiss her. Her lips were parted so temptingly, and it had been so very long since he had wanted to kiss anyone.

But a gentleman did not go around kissing ladies he was barely acquainted with, no matter how much he wanted to. Making a show of brushing the snow from Joanna’s shoulder, Drummond looked up at the sky, blinking as a flake of icy snow landed on his eyelash. ‘They’ll be sending out a search party for us, if we do not make haste.’

‘Yes,’ Joanna said, making no move.

Her breath was rapid, her cheeks bright. ‘When you look at me like that,’ Drummond said, ‘I find it very hard to think of anything but kissing you.’

‘Only think? I thought you were a man of action.’ She smiled at him, and that smile heated his blood beneath the icy cold of his exposed skin. ‘There is nothing to think about, Drummond, for this is not real, and no one will ever know. Our paths have crossed for a few days, but when we leave Brockmore, we are very unlikely to meet again. Are you afraid I will slap your face?’

A laugh shook him. ‘It would be what I deserved.’

‘Are you prepared to take the risk?’

He wrapped his arms around her, sliding his hand under her scarf to the warm skin at the nape of her neck. ‘I most certainly am,’ he whispered, putting his lips to hers.

* * *

Joanna owned only one serviceable evening gown. Purchased ten years ago, in the days when she had a little spare cash, it had started life as a simple tea gown of pale blue satin. As a governess, she was occasionally required to accompany her charges to soirées, and with no funds to purchase a new gown had been obliged to adapt this one, shortening the sleeves and lowering the neckline. When the invitation to spend Christmas at Brockmore Manor had arrived, she had upgraded her evening dress for the third time, layering panels of sprigged muslin over the skirt, using the same material to put a new trim on the neckline and sleeves.

Standing in front of the long mirror in her bedchamber on Christmas night, she was pleased with the result, though she couldn’t help wishing that she, like the other female guests, had brought a different gown for every night. Which was as silly a wish as ever could be made, for it was highly unlikely that she would ever have an opportunity to wear any of them ever again. Unless she was able, once again, to take up a governess position in another household similar to Lady Christina’s, once her name had been cleared. Perhaps this was the form the amends the Duchess had referred to would take. Eighteen months ago, she would have given anything to be able to do so but now—the conversation with Drummond this afternoon made her question whether that was still what she wanted.

The Duchess had made no attempt to speak to her yet. Until she did, there was no point in her speculating, though she assumed that removing the terrible stain on Joanna’s reputation would be a pre-requisite. Mind you, if the Duchess had seen her this afternoon, kissing Drummond with shocking abandon, she’d have another, very different blot on her copybook. One which, moreover, she’d been very, very careful to avoid, for whether governess or teacher, she could not afford to be branded a brazen hussy. Yet she’d behaved like a hussy this afternoon, and what’s more she’d thoroughly enjoyed it.

The gilded shepherdess on the ornate ormolu clock on the mantel marked the half-hour by raising her crook to strike a goat bell. It was time to assemble for dinner but Joanna, who normally had a horror of being late, sat down on the footstool by the fire. She was not paired with Drummond for dinner tonight, the seating plan had placed him further down the table, between Lady Beatrice and Miss Burnham. Later, games were due to be played in the ballroom, and she would have the opportunity to speak to him then, if she wished to do so. That he might not welcome her company was a possibility she must consider, given her shockingly forward behaviour. She had practically demanded that he kiss her! Mind you, he had needed little encouragement, and he had seemed to enjoy kissing her every bit as much as she had enjoyed kissing him.

No, there was no denying it had been an extraordinarily nice kiss. Not a bit like Evan’s kisses, and Evan’s kisses were the only ones Joanna had for comparison. She hadn’t seen Evan for seven years, but she most certainly didn’t remember his kisses making her feel like she might melt. She had liked them, they had been pleasant, but she’d been content when they were over, and she didn’t recall ever replaying any of them over in her mind, and ending up all hot and bothered and—and wanting. Yes that was the correct word, the teacher in her thought, wanting.

When Drummond had rubbed the snowflake from her cheek, kissing him was all she’d wanted, and when their lips had met, her only thought was that she didn’t want it to end. Wrapping her arms around herself, she closed her eyes and indulged herself by remembering once more. The soft leather of his gloved hand on the nape of her neck, beneath her scarf. The slumberous look in his eyes. Close up, the hazel of his iris was tinged with green. Close up, she could see the faint slash of a scar slicing neatly through his right brow. Close up, he smelled of soap and wet wool and cold, crisp winter air. He had not crushed her in his embrace, there were so many layers of warm clothing between them she could not feel the heat of his skin, but she could test the breadth of his shoulders with her hands. His lips had been warm, gentle, careful. It was an amuse-bouche of a kiss, Joanna thought, smiling at her own fancifulness. A tasting kiss, a foretaste, enough to tease, to tempt, to entice. It was a perfect kiss as the prelude to another kiss. The question was, whether there should be another.

The shepherdess chimed quarter to the hour with her crook. Startled, Joanna leapt to her feet. There was no time to be posing such questions, and no point either, for the answer was a very emphatic yes! Quickly threading the silk ribbon which matched her gown through her hair, she stabbed a few more pins randomly into her coiffure. Her turquoise necklace and matching earrings, her last gift from Papa, were the finishing touch to her toilette. Placing the guard in front of the fire and draping a shawl around her shoulders, Joanna gave her reflection a final check and, satisfied with what she saw, headed down to dinner.

* * *

After an elaborate meal of countless courses, the guests were invited to assemble in the ballroom, which was a grand affair, running the full length of the house from front to back, opening out on to the terrace and the south lawn, which could be glimpsed, glittering with frost, through long French windows. The ceiling, twice the height of the other reception rooms, was painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness. The pilasters running down one side would give the room the look of a Roman forum, were it not for the garlands which had been twisted around them. The greenery and mistletoe which they had so enthusiastically hung yesterday had been festooned with silver and gold paper formed into stars, lanterns and snowflakes, which caught the light from the three huge chandeliers which blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor.

The striking of a gong announced the emergence of their hosts on to a small balcony set above the assembled guests dressed, as Joanna was beginning to realise was their custom, in co-ordinating evening wear of silver and dove-grey.

The skin on the nape of Joanna’s neck prickled with awareness.

‘They are fond of a little theatricality, are they not?’ Drummond spoke softly, for her ears only. ‘I’ve been waiting all day for the opportunity to speak to you.’

She bit back a smile of relief. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer. Our hosts are about to address us.’

Which was no lie. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Duke of Brockmore began, ‘as you can see, we have laid on some festive games. We hope that there will be something to suit everyone.’

Joanna listened distractedly as, between them, the Duke and Duchess explained the various activities laid out in the ballroom, all the time acutely aware of the man by her side. Drummond, like the rest of the gentlemen, was wearing country evening dress. A pale blue waistcoat almost the exact, original shade of her own gown. Dark blue pantaloons which clung to his legs. He had very long legs, and they were very nicely shaped too. Not many men looked so well in tightly knitted pantaloons, but Drummond’s legs showed them to perfection. Not flabby, but certainly not too thin either. Muscled, she was willing to bet. Though who would take on such a wager, and how she could be so certain, when she had never seen a pair of well-muscled legs in the flesh before, she could not imagine. She dragged her eyes away from the perfect legs and her thoughts away from their shocking trend, only to discover that the owner of said legs was gazing at her quizzically. ‘Your coat,’ she said distractedly. ‘I was just thinking how exactly it matched the panels of my gown.’

‘We have inadvertently copied Their Graces,’ he agreed, ‘in co-ordinating our attire.’

Joanna laughed. ‘‘Do you think they will be flattered by our imitating their style, or consider us presumptuous?’ The Duke and Duchess, having concluded their little speech, were now descending from their Olympian heights to join their guests.

‘I am inclined to think the former, in which case we should continue to co-ordinate each night, for their good opinion, as you know, is essential to my future happiness.’

His tone was light, but there was an underlying edge to his words that made her turn to face him. ‘You do not sound overly enthusiastic about achieving that.’

‘I am as enthusiastic about it as I am to bob for apples. Though perhaps you wish to have a go?’

It was the lightest of brush-offs, but it still stung. ‘I have no intention of bobbing for apples,’ Joanna said tartly. ‘This is my only evening gown, and I cannot risk ruining it with water stains. Which means, I’m afraid, that unless you plan to wear that same coat and waistcoat every evening, you’ll have to come up with some other method to impress our hosts. If you will excuse me.’

‘Joanna, I did not mean...’

But she turned her back on him, making for the French windows at the furthest point in the ballroom from the laughing guests gathered around the huge copper bath of water where apples bobbed on the surface, beguiling the innocent into thinking them easy to capture between their teeth.

She was not, however, the only guest to seek this secluded spot. Lady Beatrice, dressed in a deceptively simple gown of puce figured silk with piped satin trimming, was standing in the shadow of the long curtains. ‘A wise decision, Miss Forsythe,’ she said coolly. ‘If one is set upon eating an apple, there are plenty in the fruit bowl to be taken without destroying one’s coiffure.’

‘Or making one’s gown virtually transparent.’

‘Neither dilemma seems to have occurred to Miss Canningvale,’ Lady Beatrice said, eyeing the flame-haired beauty disdainfully. ‘Though if her objective is to draw the attention of every male in the company, she is succeeding. Just look at Aubrey Kenelm, he is positively mesmerised.’

‘Perhaps he has made a wager on her success,’ Joanna said drily.

‘More likely he has made a wager on the probability of her bosom falling out of that dress, and if she leans over into the bath one inch further—oh, please, do not pretend to be shocked, Miss Forsythe.’

Joanna laughed. ‘I am surprised, not shocked, and Mr Kenelm is about to lose his bet. Look, Captain Milborne has come to the rescue with a towel and an apple.’

‘A practical man, and a thoughtful one,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘Much underestimated qualities, don’t you think? I can’t imagine Captain Milborne lisping poetry and sending flowers, and treating one as if she were a feather-witted piece of Sèvres that might fracture in a summer zephyr. Why is it, do you think, that so many men believe beauty and brains are incompatible?’

Joanna laughed nervously. ‘Clearly not in your case.’

Lady Beatrice shrugged. ‘It would be much better for me if it were so. I am nearly thirty, Miss Forsythe, yet I cannot bring myself to play the vacuous ninny the men who court me desire in a wife.’

Joanna, who hadn’t thought of Evan in years, now found herself thinking of him for the second time in a day. He had not thought her a vacuous ninny, but he had not been much interested in any of her thoughts. ‘Perhaps you have not met the right man,’ she said.

‘Your words lack conviction, Miss Forsythe,’ Lady Beatrice replied sardonically. ‘I think you are as cynical as I. I wish I was a man,’ she confessed with a heartfelt sigh. ‘If I were a man, I could enter politics, and that is what I wish above all. The power to influence events, Miss Forsythe, not what passes for love, that is what would make me truly happy. Have I shocked you?’

‘You have reminded me it is wrong to make assumptions based on first impressions.’

‘Talking of which, I think the rather intimidating Mr MacIntosh assumed he would be spending what is left of this evening in your company. He has scarce taken his eyes off you. He is looking over at you again now. What did he say to you, may I ask, to make you seek refuge here by the window?’

‘I asked him an impertinent question and he lightly slapped me down. I suspect I overreacted.’

In the centre of the room, a narrow wooden beam had been suspended from the roof by two lengths of rope. Aubrey Kenelm was removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, amidst much cheering from the other guests. Shoeing the wild mare, the game was called, the amateur farrier expected to mount the wooden horse and to hammer the underside on a marked spot, four times in eight blows. It did not look particularly difficult, but Mr Kenelm was struggling to get on to the beam, which swayed alarmingly, and was just far enough off the ground for his legs to be unable to gain purchase on the ballroom floor when he was positioned in the ‘saddle’. Drummond had joined them now, standing next to young Mr Throckton.

‘I kissed him,’ Joanna confessed abruptly. ‘Drummond—Mr MacIntosh—I kissed him, and now I think that he might think—I don’t know what he thinks,’ she admitted, her cheeks flaming.

‘What do you think, Miss Forsythe? Did you enjoying kissing him?’

‘This is becoming a very personal conversation. Yes, if you must know, I did enjoy it. Very much.’

Lady Beatrice raised her brows. ‘I’ve always found kissing a rather insipid pastime.’

Joanna laughed, part scandalised, part in admiration. ‘That has been my limited experience, until today.’

‘Then you need a rapprochement with Mr MacIntosh, if you wish to experience more of it. If you do desire such a thing?’

Aubrey Kenelm, having finally succeeded in mounting the wild mare, was ignominiously thrown tumbling to the ground as he leaned over with his hammer.

‘Your silence speaks volumes,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘I rather think this game will provide much entertainment,’ she added, with what in a lesser-bred person would surely be called glee. ‘Let us go and enjoy the spectacle.’

* * *

One male guest after another had dismally failed to ‘shoe the wild mare’. Watching with trepidation, knowing he could not refuse his turn, Drummond was extremely relieved when Captain Milborne, exhorted by Miss Canningvale, finally achieved the feat.

‘You do not feel the need to try to equal the Captain?’

Drummond turned to find Joanna at his shoulder. ‘I have no wish to steal his thunder. Look, I shouldn’t have brushed you off as I did.’

‘There is no need to apologise. We have known each other for little more than a day. It was presumptuous of me to question you, and silly of me to take offence when you chose not to confide in me.’

‘I would like to explain, all the same,’ Drummond said sheepishly. ‘Our acquaintance may be short, but I don’t feel—I find that I would like you to understand. If you would like to...’

‘I would.’

He saw his own relief reflected in her eyes. And something else too. Not only liking. She too thought them alike, he’d not misunderstood. Drummond looked around anxiously for a way to escape.

A game of Blind Man’s Buff was getting underway. The majority of the guests were shouting out and running around while poor Miss Creighton as ‘it’, a silk cravat tied around her eyes, stumbled about in pursuit. At the other end of the ballroom, the Duke and Duchess were supervising the setting up of a huge shallow punch bowl filled with raisins. The Duke was pouring brandy from a decanter over the dried fruit. The Duchess was tugging at his sleeve, obviously concerned that he was utilising too much spirit. Later, the brandy-soaked raisins would be lit, the ballroom dimmed, and in the dark the foolhardy would try to snatch the ‘snap dragons’ from the hot punch. It had been a popular game in the Mess at Christmas. Drummond was very good at it, but he wasn’t in the least bit interested, at this precise moment, in demonstrating his prowess.

A round of applause signalled Miss Creighton’s success in handing over the mantle of ‘it’ to another. Drummond grabbed Joanna’s arm and rushed the pair of them through the nearest door. It led to a small retiring room lit by a single lamp on a round table, two low-backed chairs set opposite each other by the grate. ‘The Duke and Duchess’s retreat, I suspect,’ he said. ‘I wonder if there’s a spyhole into the ballroom? It wouldn’t surprise me. His Grace has a reputation for being all-seeing and all-knowing.’

He waited for Joanna to seat herself, then took the other chair. ‘When you asked me if I was in two minds about being here...’ He smoothed his finger over his brow, feeling the tiny indent of the scar. ‘Ach, the truth is that I am.’

‘You sound very Scottish when you say that. Akk.’

‘Ach,’ he said, accentuating the accent for her benefit, enjoying the way she smiled at him, the soft curve of her breasts above the neckline of her gown, the flush in her cheeks, the glint of red that the firelight reflected in her hair. He leant over to touch her hand. ‘Though I am glad I came, for if I had not I would not have met you, the reason I’m here in the first place is because the Duke of Wellington more or less commanded me to come.’

‘Wellington! You do have friends in high places.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call us friends,’ Drummond said, thinking of the deafening silence between them since Waterloo. ‘He wants me to serve him as an aide, but unless I can persuade the Duke of Brockmore that I’m worthy of his support I’ll be of no use to Wellington.’

It was a convoluted enough explanation. Judging by the frown on Joanna’s face, it was no explanation at all. Her words proved him wrong. ‘A word in the right ears from the Duke of Brockmore will establish you with the right people, you mean?’

Re-establish more accurately, but to admit that was to encourage questions he could never, ever answer. ‘That’s the gist of it.’

‘But if you have the support of the Duke of Wellington, isn’t that enough?’

Drummond’s fingers strayed once more to the scar on his eyebrow. He jerked them away, knowing the habit betrayed his discomfort. ‘Two dukes are better than one,’ he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘When Wellington acts, he likes to be sure he will succeed.’

‘He has cause to believe he will. He is a national hero. What a privilege to serve directly under him—what an opportunity for you though...’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Is the position not to your liking? Are you—I don’t even know how you’ve been occupied in the period since you left the army. What have you been doing in the—what is it, three and a half years, since Waterloo? Or did you remain in the army for some time afterwards?’

Wednesday, the fifth of July, 1815, a mere two weeks since the battle had been fought, had seen his final day of military service dawn, preceded by what had seemed an endless night. A day that was over in a matter of minutes. Drummond hauled his thoughts back from that overcast parade ground, for Joanna was waiting patiently for an answer to her questions.

‘I’ve been in the country,’ he said, staring into the fire. ‘I have a small estate in Shropshire. When I took out the lease, it was sadly run down, the tenanted farms in great need of modernisation, the house itself in a state of disrepair. But it is astonishing what one can achieve in a relatively short period, when one has no other occupation to distract one. And how little effort it takes, when things are in fine fettle, to keep them ticking over.’

‘You mean you are bored?’

He gave a gruff little laugh. ‘To distraction.’

‘And so this offer of a post with the Duke of Wellington...’

‘Is a godsend. So I ought to think.’ Drummond winced. ‘That sounds damned ungrateful, and I’m not. You can have no idea, Joanna, what this would mean to me.’ He hunched forward on the chair, his fingers curled into his knees. ‘I have served my country for most of my life. My father bought my first commission when I was fifteen. It was all I’d ever wanted.’

‘Then it isn’t surprising that you’re finding life as a country squire frustrating,’ Joanna said, leaning towards him, close enough to cover his hand with hers. ‘Even if I did not have to earn my bread, I think I would still want to teach. It gives my life a purpose.’

Drummond nodded. ‘A purpose. Aye, that is exactly what I need.’

‘Yet you have mixed feelings about the one which is on offer?’

‘It is not so much the position itself, it is...’ He thumped his thigh with his other hand. ‘One of the reasons I can’t bring myself to talk of it is because I know I’m being so contrary. I should be grateful that Wellington is willing to take a chance on me, that the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore are willing to open the right doors for me. It is more than I deserve, I know that.’ He stared down at his clenched fist, slowly, deliberately unfurling it, his mouth set, his eyes narrowed. ‘All the same, it sticks in my craw that I’m reduced to depending on others to do what I can’t do myself. But I have no other options, I’ve proved that beyond doubt.’ Drummond heaved a huge sigh, managed a very twisted smile. ‘It just feels so bloody unfair, but there it is. If I wish to end my seclusion, I must do so on their terms. And so here I am.’

‘Reluctantly willing,’ Joanna said, with a twisted smile of her own.

He laughed softly, getting to his feet and pulling her with him. ‘You’ve a way with words.’

‘I should hope so.’ She was still frowning. The wheels were turning furiously in that clever mind of hers. There were gaps, he supposed, in his explanation, and she’d find them quickly enough. He tried to smooth the furrow between his brows with his thumb.

She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. ‘Don’t worry, I can see you’ve had a surfeit of weighty talk for tonight. I only wish I could help.’

‘Oh, there’s nothing to be done, it is all being done for me, providing I behave like a good wee laddie. You must be thinking I’m a right misery guts.’

‘I’m thinking no such thing.’

‘What is it then, that’s going on behind those big brown eyes of yours? Though they’re not actually brown.’ He trailed his fingers down her cheek to tangle in her hair, caught up loosely at the nape of her neck. ‘They’ve a sort of golden light to them, did you know that?’

‘No.’

She was staring, as one mesmerised, into his eyes. Was he imagining the passion smouldering there? ‘And your hair,’ Drummond said, gently easing her closer, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘I thought that was brown too, when I saw you first, hiding yourself away in the gloom, but brown is far too dull a colour to describe it. Chestnut maybe, or chocolate.’

Her laugh sounded breathy. ‘One cannot describe hair as chocolate.’

‘Yet it is permissible to describe lips as cherries?’

She shivered as he caressed the back of her neck with his thumb, and her shiver set his pulses racing. ‘Ridiculous,’ Joanna said, twining her arm around his neck, closing the gap between them, her skirts brushing his legs.

‘You’re right,’ Drummond said softly. ‘Not cherries, but rose petals.’ His lips touched hers. ‘Soft pink, warmed by the sun, with a promise...’ He groaned, pulling her tight up against him. ‘With a promise I cannot resist.’

This kiss was just as delightful as the first one, only more so, for their mouths moulded to each other without hesitation. Not a tasting kiss, but something more raw, more sensual. He closed his eyes, a frisson of desire shooting through him as the tip of his tongue touched hers, and angled his head to deepen the kiss. With a soft moan, she leaned into him, her breasts brushing against his chest, sending the blood rushing to his shaft.

When they broke apart they stared at each other, eyes clouded, cheeks flushed, lips parted, astonished by the passion which had swept them up. From the ballroom, he could hear the Duke ordering the servants to dim the lights. ‘Would you like to play with fire?’

‘I thought we just had.’

He laughed. ‘That is not what I meant. Come with me.’

Drummond opened the door, edging them both through the darkness to the crowd gathered by the flaming bowl of hot punch and raisins. He eased them to the front. ‘Do you trust me?’

Joanna eyed the flaming bowl. ‘Implicitly.’

‘Good.’ In the crush, no one noticed that he slid one hand around her waist, that she pressed herself back into his embrace, that he pressed his lips fleetingly to the delicate skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Now take off your glove, and do exactly as I say, and I’ll show you that it’s possible to play with fire, without getting your fingers burnt.’

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