“He teases me because he wants to torment me. I pity his poor sisters once he goes home.” Mari shook her head. “I want someone courtly and genteel, not someone who constantly wants to spar. What I really liked about Nicholas is that he is charming.”
“Nicholas is French. They are born that way.”
Mari laughed. “Perhaps so, but I find I quite like his cultivated attention.” She tilted her head to study Maddie. “Are you interested in Jamie?”
Maddie hoped no tell-tale blush was creeping over her cheeks, although she felt her face warm. “Of course not. I am simply saying you should remember Mr. MacLeod has his good points too.”
“I suppose he does, but I would be grateful if you could distract him at the next party so I can spend more time with Nicholas. Would you do that?”
Slowly, Maddie nodded and then wondered if Mari really knew what she was asking.
Jamie scowled as Givens appeared in the doorway to the breakfast room carrying a vase of pink roses. Across the table from him, Mari clasped her hands in delight.
“Are those for me?”
“Indeed.” Givens gave her a brief smile—or what passed for a smile from a butler—did the English have to be so damn proper? “From a Mr. Algernon. Shall I put them in the parlor, Miss Barclay?”
Christ. That lace-wearing dandy was sending Mari flowers?
“Oooh!” she exclaimed and jumped up, nearly upsetting her tea. “No. Place them right here where I can see them while I eat.” Mari leaned down to inhale their fragrance and took the card Givens handed her, blushing when she read its contents. “How kind of Mr. Algernon,” was all she said as she sat back and turned shining eyes to Jamie. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Jamie found the smell overwhelmingly sweet, but the happy expression on her face stayed him from making the comment. Instead, he pushed his half-eaten bowl of porridge away. The cloying scent diminished his appetite. “I suppose they are, if ye like flowers.”
“Every girl likes flowers. Do you Scots not give them to your ladies?”
A sudden memory of his father presenting his stepmother with handpicked heather and primroses flashed through his mind. She had looked at the wildflowers in disgust, asking where his father expected her to putthoseand suggested they build a hothouse to grow…roses.Jamie had found the bouquet in the trash later. He had hated the smell of roses ever since.
“Aye, lass,” he said quietly, “some do.”
Mari gave him a quizzical look. “But you do not?”
He shrugged. “I ne’re had a special lass.”
She looked back at the flowers, a pleased expression on her face. “Flowers do make a girl feel special. I have a feeling I will be seeing more of Mr. Algernon.”
Something akin to a dirk pierced Jamie’s stomach at the thought. He did not like the man. The Frenchman had said naught to him, but Jamie had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts.
“Ye need to take care, lass. The mon is a stranger.”
Mari smiled. “You sound just like Maddie.”
He lifted a brow. “And what did yer friend tell ye?”
“That I had just met Nicholas—Mr. Algernon—and not to fall too hard for him.”
“Those are wise words.”
“Perhaps, but the purpose of the Little Season and the regular one is to find a suitable husband.”
The dirk twisted. Jamie knew what all these ridiculous parties were for, but the idea of Mari actually marrying one of the dandies was not appealing—and especially not the Frenchman with his long-fingered pale hands.
“Mr. Algernon is a refined, cultured gentleman,” Mari said. “He may not be titled, but he is quite well known in France for his paintings. Lady Jersey vouched for him. I daresay a lot of debutantes’ fathers would consider Mr. Algernon quite the catch.”
As if that mattered. A woman with as much fire in her soul as Mari had—his groin tightened at the thought of igniting that flame—would be bored silly with a milksopgentleman. Jamie had tupped enough wenches to recognize sexually fervent passion even if it lurked behind the mask of propriety. Mari had it—he was sure of it—but he could hardly tell her in words.
Somehow, he would draw those feelings out until she recognized them herself. And when she did, he would take her to heights nogentlemanwould think to climb.
“From the smirk on your face, I assume your introduction to thetonwent well?” Wesley asked Nicholas the next evening as he poured a generous amount of French cognac into a chipped cup from his sparsely furnished flat. The one good point to Napoleon’s defeat was having French liquor flowing freely across the channel again. Not that Wesley could walk into whisky shop to purchase such niceties, but Nicholas could.
