"Perfect. Whatever." Collin squinted at the tumbling folds of cloth. "Why is there something sparkling at me?"
"It's a pin, Collin. Ye think a creation that beautiful can hold itself together?"
"It's a diamond, and I think I've made myself clear—"
"Good night. I'm off to my own enjoyment."
"Fergus!" Collin shouted after him, but the door was already slamming shut. He was now adorned in jewels. If he removed the pin, the tie would be ruined and he'd be even later to the ball. Jesus, even if Alexandra was there, she could have left to attend another party by now. If she was still in Edinburgh at all.
"Damn," he muttered, glaring at the winking flash of the diamond. He pinched a small bit of fabric between his fingers and tried to tug it down to cover the pin, but it popped back up when he let go. A bloody masterpiece of a cravat.
Resigned, he slid into his coat and stalked out the door, scowling at the thought of the carriage waiting below. He couldn't even ride his own horse for fear his black trousers would get dusty. Ridiculous.
The ride to the ball was slow and maddening. He itched to jump down and find his way on foot, but he couldn't very well arrive with muck and mud on his shoes. No, he was stuck in the coach with muscles that ached with tension and a brain that wouldn't stop twitching and turning. Because of her.
"She won't be there," he growled, meaning to flatten the hope that rose in his chest. She hadn't been at any of the dances or dinners or parties he'd hunted through last night. Granted, the MacDrummond ball was the premiere event of the fair, but invitations were hard to come by. Add to that the possibility that she was still hiding from society, and there was almost no chance she would be there. Yet she had to be.
He'd lived like a starving man for weeks. He had so nobly sent her on her way in England, with hardly more than a kiss on the cheek and a friendly wave, and had cursed himself every night afterward. She crept into his bed each evening, bodice gaping, fine blue skirt pushed up to her hips. She lay on his twisted sheets and asked him to take her, to mount her. His dreams were so vivid, he awoke with the scent of her arousal like a taste in his mouth. Jesus, he hadn't even had the chance to taste her.
He had thought half a dozen times of riding down to Somerhart and claiming her, had picked up a quill more times than that to write a real letter. He'd had an excuse, could've asked about St. Claire, but then she might have taken insult. She'd given her word, after all, to pass on new information.
The lust would fade, he'd told himself. He'd had the strength to walk away from her ready body, he could wait for this too to pass. And it had begun to fade, just barely, over the past few weeks. And then he'd heard her voice yesterday, above the din of the fair crowd. He'd swept the lines of people and saw her face, lit up by the sun and her own glow. He would have thought her an illusion if he hadn't heard her name, a laughing censure from the woman beside her.
And now he couldn't find a damned trace of her. And he needed to find her. He was done with being responsible. He'd measure her by the same standard he'd measured his other lovers. If his seed caught, could he stand to marry her? Aye, he could.
Bastard born, he would not leave a child of his to be raised without a father, so he never slept with a woman whose companionship would be unbearable. But Alexandra would be far from unbearable. Ach, if he'd seen the girl walking to market in Scotland, he'd have had her in the church within a fortnight. But she was a far cry from a simple Scottish lass, and he was little more than a stable boy. . . had, in fact, been a stable boy at one time. No, he did not fancy himself good enough to marry her, but good enough to go to her bed?
Collin smiled humorlessly at the thought. She had assured him he was good enough for that; he'd only needed time to convince himself.
Thousands of candles glittered above, magnified by the sparkling crystal of the chandeliers and drawing a smile to Alex's face. The light threw off heat, and there existed the startling danger of burning drops of wax, but she much preferred candles to gas, especially at a ball. Balls were meant to be magic and she desperately needed a little magic tonight. The candles were a good omen.
Anxiety bubbled through her veins like champagne. Champagne bubbled in her veins also, but it didn't seem to be helping to calm her. No, now she just felt a little sick. She would certainly get Collin's attention if she vomited at first sight of him.
But she truly wanted to relax and enjoy herself. This was her first evening out since the scandal and her first foray into Scottish society. The murmur of voices riding the air had a slightly different rhythm, the barest twist of cadence that spoke of the Scots burr.
Not that all the guests were Scottish, by any means, but she hadn't yet seen anyone she knew. Nor was she likely to. The Season was in full swing in London. The ton did not travel to Scotland for balls, not during the Season.
"Lady Alexandra."
Alexandra jumped, grateful her glass was empty when she spun awkwardly toward the woman's voice. "Oh, Lady MacDrummond. Thank you again for the invitation."
"My pleasure, dear. And may I say what a beautiful dress that is? Far more in the French fashion than most young Englishwomen have the sense for."
"My mother was French, you know. Perhaps it is something I learned at her knee."
The woman nodded, the blood rubies in her ears sparking with the movement. "Well, do not let that French blood get you into any more trouble."
Alex's eyes flew wide in surprise. Before she could think what to say, Lady MacDrummond winked in sly conspiracy.
"Oh, I am aware of your little indiscretion in London, my dear, but we all have our indiscretions, private or public. I would not hold it against you."
Alexandra wondered if her eyes were in danger of falling from her head. She blinked hard. "Thank you."
The grandmotherly woman leaned in, scarlet skirts brushing against Alex's blue dress. "If it had been a Scotsman, dearie, he would've thought to lock the door."
"Oh," she murmured dumbly. "Of course."
Lady MacDrummond glided away in a cloud of laughter, skirt swinging around her, while Alex was left to wipe her sweaty gloves against the striped silk of her dress. The narrow strips of periwinkle and royal blue made her seem taller and she certainly needed help with that. It was one reason she preferred the French fashion. The wider English skirts did not suit her—she looked rather like a giant pudding sliding about.