That last made him frown. “I was not wild, and I won’t be an Englishman.”
“Oh nay, never.” Grinning fiendishly, Duncan folded the letters and tossed them back at him. “It might take a while, but you’ll become one. No more Scots for you, only King’s English. You’ll wed a pale Englishwoman and your grandchildren will never venture north of the River Tweed.”
Tight-lipped, he replaced the documents in his trunk. “That’s lunacy speaking.” Even though he’d consciously spoken crisp English at Carlyle, and all but invited the duchess to find an appropriate wife for him. Of course she would choose an English lady . . .
“Is it?” murmured Duncan with a devilish gleam in his eye. “We’ll see about that.” He left the room, and Drew went back to unpacking his things, irate at his friend for speaking such blunt truth.
Several minutes later Duncan was back, a slim book in his hand. “If you’re going to remain a Scot, you’ll need help.”
The Widower and Bachelor’s Directory, read the title. Frowning, Drew opened it, and gave a bark of disbelieving laughter as he realized what it was. “A guide to rich ladies and where to find them, eh? What rubbish is this?”
“Not rubbish,” countered Duncan, still smirking. “Invaluable intelligence for the man in search of a wife!”
“Who said I was in search of a wife?”
Duncan arched his brows. “A single man with expectation of a wealthy dukedom will be in want of a bride. And even if he’s not in want of one, he shall have one thrust upon him, whether he wills it or no. Every unwed woman between the ages of seventeen and seventy will fling herself—or be flung—into his path until one of them trips him up and drags him to church, like a wild boar caught in a snare and trundled off to market.”
“You’re the only one in Edinburgh who knows,” returned Drew, annoyed. “I’d prefer to keep it that way. If women start flinging themselves at me, I’ll know whom to blame.”
Duncan snorted. “Aye, as if I’d go about telling all the lasses you’re about to be rich beyond their dreams. ’Tis of course the only way any sensible woman would take you . . .”
“You’re about to get to practice your fencing in earnest.”
His friend waved it off as he held out the silly little book. “Keep it! I know all the eligible ladies in town already. And once word gets out that there’s a ducal heir on the loose, you’ll need to know which ones to fend off.”
Drew replied with a suggestion that would have made any soldier blush. Duncan only grinned, beyond pleased with himself. “If you’re to depart the realm of ordinary men soon, we must make your last days memorable. Let me change my coat.”
That was more amenable to his humor. He’d been at the castle for six weeks, always minding his tongue, constantly alert. A wild, carefree night was just the respite he needed.
To his relief, Duncan’s idea of memorable turned out to be much the same as it had been in years past. At an oyster cellar beneath a tavern they met up with two other old friends, Adam Monteith and William Ross, and all proceeded to gorge themselves on oysters, well lubricated with strong Scottish porter. There was nothing anywhere to match the taste of oysters from the Firth of Forth.
He had never been to this cellar. There were several in Edinburgh, and some seemed to migrate around town. The gathering was lively, packed to the walls and operating at a dull roar of laughter and conversation.
At another table sat a large group of people including several ladies. They laughed and chattered with a gaiety that caught his eye, and made Drew think of his own sisters.
Well—not exactly in the same way.
Finally Ross caught him looking and nudged him. “D’you fancy her?”
There was no doubt whom Ross meant. The woman at the head of the table was mesmerizing. Not only was she one of the merriest people in the room, inciting roars of laughter at her table, but she positively glowed. Her dark hair was loosely twisted up, and her gown was a brilliant blue. It was her eyes, though, that captured his attention. Those dark eyes danced with wicked humor and glee and made him want to know what had put that sparkle there.
As if she’d heard Ross’s question, she glanced his way. Caught, he gazed boldly back, and her mouth curled in an impish yet mysterious way before she shifted her attention away from him. Drew turned back to his porter, trying to hide the flush of heat that had gone through him and set his heart racing.
Ross nudged his shoulder again, brows raised knowingly. He shrugged, and stole another glance over his shoulder.
At some point a piper set up in the corner and began to play. In an instant the tables were shoved aside and figures formed for a country dance. Duncan leapt over a table to join in, as did Monteith and Ross. Drew threw his coat in the corner with everyone else’s and took his place.
The dance was as boisterous as the interlude before it had been. Within minutes he was out of breath, laughing as he swung first one lady, then another on his arm. There was no chance of conversation, over the drone and wail of the pipes, the stomping of so many feet on the wooden floor, the shouts and laughter of the dancers and those cheering them on. It was hot and fast and exuberant, and he loved it. There had been nothing like this at Carlyle, nor at Fort George. Colonel Fitzwilliam, the old prig, disapproved of his officers attending social gatherings.
He was so caught up in the dance that it gave him a genuine start when the next woman turned to take his hand, and he recognized the alluring beauty from the other table. The one who had smiled at him.
Hand in hand they spun around each other, then separated. Each time the dance brought them back together, Drew stared. Up close she was more than mesmerizing. Her dark hair was coming out of its pins, trailing down her back and flying around her as she circled the other dancers. Like the other ladies, she picked up her skirts and tapped her feet with energy. Her color was high and her face fierce with joy. And when she caught him staring at her, she only gave him that infectious flirtatious smile again.
The dance came to an abrupt end when someone tripped and sprawled on the floor. The piper stopped playing just as the fallen man began vomiting. With cries of alarm, the dancers scrambled away from him.
By sheer chance, Drew and the mystery woman were crowded together into a back corner, pushed almost behind the piper by the crush of people hurrying for the stairs. Someone shoved him in the back, and then the woman stumbled against him. Instinctively he put up an arm to shield her, and her eyes flashed toward him in gratitude.
He could only think of one thing.
“Who are you?” he asked, lowering his head to hers and stubbornly blocking the stream of people from this quiet corner. She smelled like the sea and oranges and woman.
She gave him a gleaming glance and said something he couldn’t quite make out over the roar of the crowd. He leaned down more. “What? What’s your name?”
Her hands came up on both sides of his face. For one breathless heartbeat, she pressed her lips to his in a sudden, searing kiss. He felt it to the soles of his feet and the roots of his hair; every nerve seemed to snap with the shock and beauty of it, as if she’d struck him with lightning. On pure instinct he cupped one hand around her nape and kissed her back.
Before he could manage to put an arm around her, though, she released him and ducked under his elbow into the crowd surging up the stairs. Even with his height advantage, he lost all sight of her in an instant.