The Lover
“By reputation, merely. Who has not heard of the infamous Niall McLaren?”
His sensual mouth curled at one corner. “I believe I detect a note of censure, Mistress Duncan.”
“It is hardly my place to judge you, sir.”
“But you disapprove of me even so.”
She did disapprove of him, an attitude she strongly suspected amused him. Prudish, Sabrina was sure he would define it. “In most circles it is considered scandalous to pursue an affair with a married lady.”
“Apparently we move in different circles,” he responded dryly. “I don’t suppose you would credit it if I told you the lady was pursuing me?”
She could well believe that might be the case. The brazen Highlander would be idolized for his startling physical beauty alone. Yet there was an air about him that was utterly irresistible to women. To her as well, Sabrina acknowledged reluctantly.
“I don’t remember you putting up any resistance,” she said, mimicking his dry tone.
“But then ’twould hardly have been the act of a gentleman to disappoint the lady.”
She was amusing him, Sabrina realized. Even in the darkness she could see his arresting eyes were lit with a mocking sparkle.
“I assure you, mistress, this would not be the first time a lass has lured me into a secluded garden.”
She bit back a smile at the thought of this bold rogue hiding from over amorous females. “It must be a great trial, being hounded by languishing ladies eager to be seduced.”
His grin was unwilling—and devastating. “You might be surprised by the tribulations I must endure to uphold my reputation.”
Sabrina shook her head. She should know better than to enter into a duel of words with an expert in verbal swordplay. Indeed, she should leave at once. Simply being alone with this man could compromise her.
Yet before she could respond, the Highlander spoke. “If you were not spying, what brought you out here to the garden when a ball is in progress?”
Sabrina suddenly looked down at her clasped hands. She had no intention of divulging the true reason she’d fled the ballroom: to escape the painful sight of her former suitor dancing with his betrothed—her own cousin. “Is it a crime to partake of fresh air, sir?”
“Not that I’m aware. I do not recall seeing you earlier this evening, mistress.”
There was a simple reason for that, Sabrina reflected. Niall McLaren simply hadn’t noticed her. Such a man would scarcely give her a second glance, a wren among a flock of peacocks. She was still in half mourning for her mother, so she had worn her plain gray bombazine gown, much to her aunt’s dismay. Now she wished she had swathed herself in armor of silk and lace, for it might have helped disguise her lack of beauty.
“Doubtless,” Sabrina forced herself to reply, “it was because I sat with the spinsters and chaperons while you held court with your legion of admirers.”
“You are unmarried, are you?”
Sabrina found herself fighting a swift surge of wanton rebellion. At one-and-twenty, she was past the common age for marriage and considered almost on the shelf. “I am, sir.”
“I own surprise that an heiress would lack for suitors.”
She averted her gaze from his measuring scrutiny. He could not know how deeply his casual remark wounded her. She’d had a suitor. She and Oliver had met during her mother’s illness and developed an understanding after her death: they would marry only after an appropriate period of mourning. But then Oliver had caught one glimpse of her cousin Frances and tumbled head over heels. When he pleaded with Sabrina to release him from his pledge, she had agreed. What else could she do? And indeed, her pride had suffered most. If her heart had also shriveled a little, if his defection had killed something elusive inside her, well she didn’t delude herself that she was the only female who had ever been jilted.
“My mother was ill for some months before passing away,” Sabrina answered defensively, “so I had little time for suitors. I have not yet wholly put off mourning.”
To her dismay, his gaze raked over her, coolly appraising. Sabrina tensed. Tall and angular, she lacked the soft prettiness that characterized the other women in her family. Her mother had been a celebrated beauty, as was her Aunt Helen and her cousin Frances.
Moreover, she was not in her best looks this evening, Sabrina knew. She wore face paint, which washed any color from her complexion and rendered her features pasty and indistinct. And the hairstyle she’d adopted at her aunt’s insistence covered her most attractive attribute, her rich brown hair. It was dressed and powdered and artfully arranged in intricate puffs and rolls, yet she felt awkward and pretentious in it.
“Duncan…” he mused, not taking his eyes from her. “I call numerous Duncans friend. Would I know your kin?”
“No doubt you are acquainted with my grandfather, laird of Clan Duncan. I understand you hail from the same region of the Highlands.”
“Your grandfather is Angus Duncan?” One black eyebrow rose. “Aye, I know him well. We are near neighbors, in fact. Angus once saved my father’s life in a feud with the Buchanans, a debt I am not likely to forget. But I do not recall him ever speaking of a granddaughter.”
“Oh, Grandfather Duncan would doubtless prefer to disregard my existence. I was not the right gender, you see. A granddaughter was useless to him, since I could not carry on the clan name. And he never really approved of my mother, either.”