“You are right, however, I’m not certain Lady Emma cares about the competition your sister may give her for being the belle of the countryside. As you can see, her attentions are firmly fixed, which is one of the reasons so many of our bucks came running to claim your sister’s attention.” He nodded toward the other side of the barn as he spoke.
Portia had been introduced to Lady Emma at church. The girl was all of eighteen with creamy skin, black-as-a-raven’s-wing hair and blue eyes—just the sort of Scottish lass troubadours would have lauded in songs.
She was also willful and condescending. Portia usually steered clear of her, as did Minnie.
But right now, all of Lady Emma’s attention was claimed by a man, a tall man, one who was familiar to Portia—the English Chattan.
For a second, all Portia could do was stare. Mr. Buchanan was introducing his wife to her, a pretty woman with merry eyes, but Portia listened with only half an ear.
The Chattan was more handsome in the lamplight than he had been in the moonlight. He was dressed as all the other men were here. Some wore evening dress but a good number more wore breeches and tall boots. Of course, the boots were shined and their best clothes pressed, however, the Chattan wore his with the unmistakable air of a Corinthian through and through.
Many of the young men this evening were already aping his manner. They lacked the money to purchase buff-colored breeches of material woven so tightly they hugged his form perfectly or leather boots that fit so well they seemed a part of his legs.
His jacket was a deep, dark blue so that the neck cloth at his neck, tied in the most current fashion, appeared an even more brilliant white. His waistcoat was red, as if to bring a cheery note to the festivities.
Of course the one thing the Scottish lads couldnot copy no matter how hard they tried was the Chattan’s military bearing, developed, no doubt, over years of discipline. There was a touch of gray at his temples, something she could not have seen during their meeting beneath the Great Oak.
But it was his eyes that claimed all her attention. He was a keen-eyed man—and he was looking right at her.
Portia’s breath caught in her throat. Her first instinct was panic. He must not recognize her. He couldn’t.
And yet, what if he did?
She murmured some words to excuse herself to Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan. She feared she cut Mrs. Buchanan off in mid-sentence but what else could she do?
She had to gather Minnie and her mother and tell them they must leave immediately.
It would be a challenge, but their very lives—no,Portia’svery life—might depend upon it.
Blending in the best she could with the crowd and keeping her head down, Portia worked toward where her mother was gaily chatting away. She dared to glance over her shoulder, hoping that she had been mistaken and the Chattan had not been staring at her.
Oh. No. He wasstillwatching her.
Lady Emma had noticed he was not completely attentive to her and turned to see why.
Portia ducked her head lower. She had reached the dance floor. Her purpose was to catch Minnie’s notice. However, as Minnie’s young man preened at having such a lovely partner, she was looking over at the punch table where Mr. Tolliver stood alone studying the contents of his drink glass. He appeared as heart bereft as Minnie.
If he would look up, he would see Minnie’s longing ... and Portia decided what he needed was a good talking to, something to counter her mother’s insensitivity, but it wasn’t going to happen tonight. They needed to go home with all possible haste—
Portia almost walked into him before she saw him.
The Chattan stood right in front of her.
She looked up, frightened. He bowed, a short, courteous movement. “Miss Maclean, I beg the opportunity to introduce myself to you. I’m Colonel Harry Chattan. I knew your father.”
Portia didn’t dare speak. She didn’t know if she trusted her voice. In any second, she expected him to denounce her, to accuse her of stealing, of lying, of pretending to bea witch.
He was going to expose her, right there in front of everyone—
Another man’s voice interrupted them. “Miss Maclean, would you dance with me?”
Portia whirled around to face the speaker. Mr. Longacre was the caretaker at church. He was some thirty years her senior with an earnest expression on his face. She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Of course I would,” she said, delighted to be whisked away from the Englishman, but then Colonel Chattan proved he had other plans.
I’m sorry, I’ve spoken for this dance,” the colonel said—and thenhetook her arm.
Portia’s temper flared. “I did not hear you ask to dance,” she said.
Colonel Chattan directed her to their place on the dance floor. “That was my intent,” he said. “And you should be honored. I don’t dance.”
