Chapter One
What a pity Jamie MacLeod had to be such a good-looking man. And so tall. With such broad shoulders.
Because he was quite the most annoying male Marissa Barclay had ever met.
He was doing it again. Mari tugged at the collar of her pelisse to cut the chill of the autumn air and sighed in exasperation as Jamie blocked the door to the carriage the footman held open for her.
“I dinnae think Jillian will approve of ye leaving for London,” Jamie said.
Mari refrained from rolling her eyes since it was quite unladylike. She might get by with such practices here at the Newburn country estate, but London’stonwould surely judge such action as boorish and common—terms she did not wish applied to her.
“My sister is in Scotland, happily married to your brother, Ian, in case you do not recall.”
A breeze ruffled Jamie’s longish, dark hair as he raised a brow. “Do ye think me daft, lass? I recall quite well yer sister said she would return to chaperone yer Season—in the spring.”
“That was before she found out she was preg—with child.” Mari reminded herself she would have to watch her vocabulary in London. One simply did not use words like pregnant in polite Society. “I see no reason to wait for spring. The Little Season will do quite nicely for an introduction into Society. Besides, I already sent a post to Aunt Agnes. She will be awaiting my arrival at the townhouse. Now please step aside.”
He didn’t budge. Mari moved to the right, and he countered with a move to his left. When she stepped the other way, he blocked her again, solid as a castle curtain wall. The footman snickered but quickly sobered before Mari could glare at him. Instead, she glared at Jamie.
“You are not my guardian, sirrah!”
“Nae? I seem torecallthat Ian left me in charge of the estates.”
“Your estate!” Mari nearly stamped her foot in frustration. “Cantford. Not Newburn.”
He shrugged. “The lands are linked by marriage, are they nae? Ian left me in charge.”
“Of theland, not me!” How could one man be so maddeningly obtuse? And instead of apologizing for agitating her, he actually grinned.Grinned. And showed that disarming dimple in his right cheek that left her feeling flustered.Gads!
As if he realized the effect it had on her, his golden eyes turned the color of malt whisky. “Ye are only seven and ten. Yer sister asked me to protect ye.”
“As if you are that much older.”
“I am four and twenty,” Jamie replied, “and have been using a claymore for nigh ten years.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It proves I am able to protect ye.”
“You cannot go around London’s streets brandishing that thing.” How could Jillian do this to her? And without even a by-your-leave? This was not the Middle Ages. Mari did not need some rakish rogue ordering her about.
“She asked me to protect ye,” Jamie repeated patiently as if speaking to a slow-witted child. “’Tis what I intend to do.”
“Oooh!” Mari took a deep breath, summoning what little patience she had. Arguing with this stubborn Scot would do no good. She’d watched that happen between her sister and Ian. Ian always won, although for some reason, Jillian did not seem to mind. Thinking about it, Ian usually gave in when Jillian looked sad.
Mari managed to look contrite, although it irked her to do so. “Would you deny me an introduction into proper English Society?”
His grin faltered. “Nae, lass. Can ye nae wait for spring when this matter can be settled?”
“I will have missed two entire months ofsoireesand luncheons and teas.” Jamie would not understand how important a girl’s first Season was. “My friend, Madeline, has already written about a special ball planned for Almack’s in November.Everyoneof the first stare will be there.” Including eligible bachelors that the likes of Violetta Billingsly and Amelia Tansworth would sink their claws into.
Jillian had endured an arranged marriage to an abusive old marquess who’d eventually cocked his toes up, so that Mari would have a proper Season and be able to marry a man of her choice—one whom she could love. Mari felt tears spring to her eyes.Thatwas the whole purpose of this entire endeavor. Jillian wanted Mari to have a choice.
Mari wanted to find a true gentleman—one who was refined, cultured and even-tempered—not prone to violence. Lord knows, Jillian had been beaten whenever the old marquess’s temper had flared. Mari wanted no part of that, and if she missed the Little Season, her dream husband might already be taken.
She started at the feel of Jamie’s hand beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. His thumb swiped a tear away. She stared at him as if moonstruck, unable to move. His big, calloused hand was surprisingly gentle.
Lowering his hand, he frowned. “Does it mean so much to ye, lass?”
