Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

The musicians struck up the notes of a country gavotte, the lively tempo of violins matched by the steps of the couples capering across the dance floor as the weekly Assembly festivities turned even more exuberant.

Caro watched the festivities from the archway of one of the side salons, the flicking of her fan stirring a welcome breeze. The humid air, still redolent with the recent rain, hung heavy with mingled scents—the floral sweetness of the lush tuber roses, the cloying richness of the French perfumes, the earthy exertion of the heated bodies—and she was uncomfortably aware of a trickle of moisture tickling down between her breasts.

“Hot as Hades, isn’t it?”

Andover’s voice made her jump.

“Sorry, did I startle you?”

“I—I was just thinking,” she replied.

“Of what?”

Of chiseled cheekbones, sharp as Scottish flint. Of blue-gray eyes, changeable as a stormblown loch.

“Oh, just woolgathering,” murmured Caro.

“Would you care to leave off chasing sheep long enough to dance with me?” he inquired.

“That would be lovely.” Perhaps twirling across the polished parquet would help dispel her brooding mood.

They joined the set forming on the floor, and moving through the figures of the country jig did indeed make it hard to stay blue-deviled. The merriment was infectious, and Andover’s pithy comments when the steps brought them together had her laughing aloud.

Her cheeks were flushed with a pleasant heat by the time the tune came to an end. “La, dancing works up a thirst,” she said, as Andover led her to a spot by the cluster of potted palms, where the nearby open window was letting in a gentle breeze.

“Wait here and I shall fetch us some punch.” Ever the gentleman, Andover immediately hurried off, sparing her the discomfort of squeezing through the crowd around the refreshment table.

“Caro!”

She turned to catch the last little flutter of a pale, peach-colored glove before it was swallowed in the sea of swirling silks. A moment later, Isobel appeared near the entrance to the card room and slowly began making her way along the perimeter of the room.

Her friend waved again as she approached, a smile illuminating her whole face. “This is marvelous! Our local assemblies in Scotland are not nearly so dashing.”

Her escort did not appear nearly as enthusiastic.

“Wait until your toes are crushed beneath some oaf’s foot for the fourth or fifth time,” groused Alec. “Or an elbow pokes you in the ribs.” He shot a glowering glance at the crowd. “You really ought not be here, Bella. I fear the crush and the heat will be too taxing on your strength.”

“Oh, pish. Doctor Bailey said a little exercise would do me good,” she chided.

Her brother scowled but refrained from replying.

Taking his silence as a sign of surrender, Isobel turned back to Caro. “What a beautiful gown!” she exclaimed. “The design is so elegant, and the color is absolutely divine. I’ve never seen such a rich hue of green. Why, it looks like melted emeralds.”

Caro was aware of a new warmth spreading over her flesh. The gown was new and a bit daring, with a low-cut bodice and artful arrangement of folds that made her feel very sleek and sophisticated. She had received gushing compliments from the gentlemen in London…

A surreptitious glance at Alec showed him to be studying the fronds of the nearest palm tree.

“I am very fortunate,” she replied, trying not to feel a twinge of disappointment. “My eldest sister has arranged for me to have access to one of the leading modistes in London. Madame Mathilde is a true artist with silk and thread.”

A wistful sigh slipped from Isobel’s lips. “How I would love to visit London.”

That got Alec’s attention. He expelled a dismissive grunt. “It’s a dirty, noisy city.”

“There are some saving graces,” pointed out Caro. “The shops, the museums, the lectures at the Royal Institute, the sights like Westminster Cathedral, the Tower, and Astley’s Amphitheater.”

“Are we singing London’s praises?” asked Andover, returning with two drinks in hand. “Lord Elgin’s marbles are not to be missed, the concerts are sublime, and the current exhibition of watercolors at the Royal Academy is quite good.”

“No,” growled Alec.