To Tempt a Scotsman (Somerhart 1)

The word in the Lowlands is that your husband is a jealous man, a man who in no way trusts you. How would he respond to a few stories about your past? How would he feel if I set the neighbors abuzz with tales of your talented lips? Could I adequately de­scribe the slick heat of your quim ? I would dearly love the chance.

Fortunately for you, my silence comes cheaply. £20,000. Do not deny me this or I will give your hus­band something to be jealous of. You have two days. Leave it in the place you received this note. Jewels will do nicely if gold is not at hand.

He had not signed it. Why bother? There was no ques­tion of who had penned it.

So now she could not enjoy her husband's compliments. She could not enjoy the party. She could not even enjoy the way Collin had cradled her hand in his on the ride toward Kirkland Hall. Instead, her stomach lurched each time she looked in his direction, for she had finally betrayed him. She had betrayed him the moment she'd received the note and hidden it beneath her linens. She had betrayed him when she'd spread her jewels out on the dresser and tried to calculate the value of each piece.

She had lost all the certainty she'd carried with her through life. She no longer knew who she was or how to behave.

Fergus was her husband's best friend and so she'd thought of him as a brother and treated him as such. It must have been wrong to do so. It must have been improper, for even Fergus avoided her now.

Improper. Always improper. Alexandra Huntington Blackburn was an unnatural girl. She had finally come to believe what her governesses had told her and what her Cousin Merriweather had screamed at her. Really, it had been obvious to everyone else. Why had it taken her so long to realize?

Collin turned her toward another introduction and she tried her best to be bright and lovely. She wanted to make him proud. She wanted him to watch her and see a lady and a wife. She wanted things to settle into place.

Why wouldn't they just settle into place?

Another gentleman approached her husband and, even in her musings, Alex blinked and stood straighter. The man had tears in his eyes. She was quite sure she had never seen the like. The older gentleman took Collin's hand in a hearty hold, shaking his head as he did so.

"Lord Waterford?"

"We had to put her down, Westmore." "What?"

"Devil's Drop. She snapped her foreleg right in half in a post hole. Just a week ago." His jowls trembled. "A damn shame, I tell you. Pardon the strong language."

"My wife," Collin murmured, placing his hand beneath the man's elbow. "A mare of ours," he explained, meeting her eyes and angling his head toward the library.

Alex nodded, cringing as the man pressed his hand to his chest.

"By God, she was a fine one. You should have seen her, Lady Westmore."

Still nodding, she watched her husband stride away, his head bent close to Lord Waterford, the better to hear the details of the accident. Her heart ached in sympathy as she remembered the pain she'd felt when her first pony had been put down, remembered looking into her sad, wise eyes and knowing they'd soon be lifeless.

Tears welled at the memory, and she blinked hard to force them away as a sudden weariness descended. It must be after one, hours past her normal bedtime, but the guests plowed on, bright and cheerful around her. Jeannie's smile flashed toward her through the crowd of dancers, drawing a quick lift of Alex's lips before her friend disappeared again, swallowed by the festive storm.

The relative quiet of the foyer beckoned, and she slipped past the milling people toward the realm of quiet conver­sations and murmured laughter. Relief cooled her warm cheeks for just a moment. . . The barest moment of calm before she saw him, before she watched in shock as his blond head came up and his eyes focused on her with narrow pleasure. Blond hair, cold eyes. But not St. Claire. Not the threat she'd half expected.

Robert Dixon. Heat returned to her cheeks like a gust of bellowed flame, and the feel of that blush only made the warmth prickle. He would look at her pinkness as a sign of guilt, when she felt nothing more than disconcerted. He would relish the thought of her embarrassment.

She watched him smile, watched his eyes sweep down to delve the shadows of her cleavage as he made a quick excuse to his companion and stepped away. Alex turned a foot, began to pivot, but pride stopped her from fleeing. She had no reason to run from this scrap of a man, she told herself as he approached, but she truly did not wish to speak to him. Not when his hazel eyes were so coldly lit.

So pride would not let her leave, but now, as he took his time approaching, it looked as if she waited for him, as if she gave him permission to join her. Her flat glare of dis­gust did nothing to dim his satisfaction or the curl of his lip.

"Lady . . . Westmore, is it now?" She pressed her lips hard together. "A pleasure to see you again."

She neither spoke nor offered a hand. A cut of the utmost dignity. It only served to brighten the amusement in his eyes.

"Come now. Aren't you happy to see an old friend from home? I insisted to Lord Bonnet that we attend as I was sure you'd be here."

"I think I made clear that you were not to come near me."

"A misunderstanding, I believe." "How so?"

"How so?" He leaned in, eyes darting down her bodice as his lips crept close to her ear. "I can see now that you were only disappointed at my lack of persistence."

Alex inched to the side and did her best to look down her nose at a man taller than her. "Move away from me."

"Imagine my shock at finding out that the oh-so-demure Lady Alexandra had given herself over to no less an animal than an illegitimate Scotsman."