Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)
“Nothing,” she replied, forcing herself to push aside the distraction. “I was simply making mental note of the details. It’s an unusual room.”
It was far larger than a traditional London drawing room, with soaring stone
columns rising up to a vaulted ceiling. Beneath its arch, massive oak beams ran the length of the space, and from the center beam hung an ornate chandelier wrought of stag horn and silver. Tapestries of hunting scenes hung on the honey-colored pine paneling—rather fiercely graphic scenes that were not for the faint of heart.
The Scots appeared to be a bellicose, bloodthirsty people, noted Anna, as her gaze came to rest on a display of ancient claymores and crossbows.
“The fireplaces look large enough to roast an ox,” observed Caro. There were two set at opposite ends of the room, with high granite mantels and fanciful fire-breathing dragons carved into the decorative stone work above them.
“Or two English nobles,” said a deep, hard-edged voice.
“That is not amusing, Alec.” Lady Dunbar whirled around and fixed the sandy-haired gentleman who had just stepped out from the recessed book alcove with a reproving glare. “Miss Sloane, Miss Caro, please forgive my cousin. His sense of humor can be a little rough around the edges.”
“You don’t like the English, Lord McClellan?” asked Caro, once Lady Dunbar had performed the introductions.
“No,” came the blunt reply, which earned another pained look from the countess.
“Why?” demanded Caro, ignoring their mother’s surreptitious warning pinch to maintain a ladylike silence.
“Don’t you south-of-the-borderlands schoolgirls study history?” he shot back. “If you did so, you would know that the history between our two countries is a violent and bloody one.”
If sufficiently provoked, Caro could display a fiery temper to go along with her flair for drama. Sure enough, her sister was quick to fling back a retort. “Don’t you north-of-the-borderlands nobles study social etiquette?” she asked. “If you did so, you would know that I would not be a guest at your cousin’s house party if I were still in the schoolroom.”
Hoping to forestall further pyrotechnics, Anna took her sister by the arm. “Perhaps we ought to move on, before Lord McClellan decides to roast us as a sacrifice to the Celtic God of War.”
His mouth twitched, softening for just a fleeting instant his stony visage. “It would be too great a waste of beauty, so I shall confine my murderous impulses to the males of your country.”
Caro’s eyes narrowed. If looks could kill…
As her sister hitched in an angry breath, Anna nudged her forward before any retort could be uttered. “Let us try not to spark an international incident on our first night here,” she counseled.
“Ill-mannered oaf,” muttered Caro.
“True, the man does display a decided lack of charm and good manners.” Her gaze unconsciously darted around the room again. “If he annoys you, the best thing is to simply avoid any further contact with him.”
“With pleasure,” replied her sister darkly.
The chance for any further exchange was ended by Lady Dunbar’s cheerful summons to the German gentlemen to come greet them.
Lord Saxe-Colza and Count Rupert, two of the unmarried gentlemen among the prince’s party, proved far more polished and polite than the countess’s cousin. Their English was excellent, and they made amiable conversation about their fondness for London and how much they were looking forward to hunting in Scotland.
The count was especially delighted with Anna’s ability to converse in his native tongue. “I am impressed, Miss Sloane. Most English ladies know only French.”
“My father was a serious scholar and spoke many languages. I had a good ear for them and he encouraged my interest.”
“What others do you speak?” inquired Saxe-Colza.
“French, along with a little Russian and Italian,” replied Anna. “And I can read classical Greek and Latin.”
“You speak Russian?” remarked Lady Dunbar. “How nice. One of the other guests is Colonel Polianov, an attaché from the Russian embassy in London.”
“La, but you mustn’t think my daughter is a bluestocking, Count Rupert,” interjected Lady Trumbull. To Anna she added, “Pray, my dear, don’t give the gentlemen the wrong impression. They might think you are bookish.”
Rupert looked bewildered. “Blue stocking? Is this some new English fashion?”
Anna smiled. “No, my lord. It is a rather unflattering term for a lady who has an interest in intellectual pursuits. You see, in our country, a lady is not supposed to be too clever.”
“Indeed, beauty, not brains, is all that matters to a proper Englishman.” Devlin joined their little circle and tossed back a swallow of his champagne. “Is it the same in Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt?”