The elderly Duke of Kintail himself came forward and begged to be presented to the beauty on the McLaren’s arm. “You did not tell me she was such a ravishing creature, milord.”
“I thought I would permit you to see for yourself, your grace. May I present the love of my life, my wife, Sabrina, Lady McLaren.”
The duke bowed elegantly over her hand. “Charmed, milady. So this is the lass who’s caused you to wear your heart on your sleeve. Where have you been hiding her?”
Niall appraised Sabrina, his glance caressing her in an affectionate way. “Oh, I am not the culprit, your grace. She has been hiding herself. I fear she is rather shy.”
Sabrina nearly choked at such a blatant falsehood.
“It required,” Niall continued smoothly, “a herculean effort to persuade her even to attend this evening.”
“Well,” the duke replied, beaming, “I trust we will make it worth your while, milady. Pray allow me to partner you in a dance later.”
He took his leave then, while Sabrina gazed after him quizzically.
“Do not look so startled by his attentions, sweeting,” her husband admonished. “Kintail has a discerning eye to seek out the most alluring woman present. In truth, I was of two minds whether to permit him your hand. I would far rather keep you all to myself.”
His smile was lavish and heart-familiar. Sabrina found herself staring at that blatant, sensual mouth that could make her go wild with a grin or a caress.
“You cannot,” she observed archly, “dance solely with me. What will the company think?”
“They will think me captivated by my beautiful wife, which is no less than the truth.”
She might have replied, but the duke’s departure seemed to be the signal for the crowd to converge upon her. Dozens of guests came forward to be presented to the remarkable woman who had cap
tured the elusive Highland laird who was the bane of every feminine heart.
Niall watched in satisfaction as she was fawned over by the company, relishing the stir she’d caused with her uncommon beauty. Tonight Sabrina positively glowed. Among the ladies armored in wide, panniered skirts, wielding gaily painted fans, she stood out like an exotic hothouse flower, her unadorned tresses shining in the gleam of a thousand candles. Yet she responded to the attention as he had taught her, accepting their accolades as her due, with a lively grace that charmed and titillated.
For the next quarter hour as she was made known to the assembly, Sabrina was scarcely permitted a chance to catch her breath, but when the crowd finally parted, she felt her heart catch in her throat. Across an open space stood an extraordinarily beautiful woman with her own court of admirers. It was the English noblewoman, Sabrina realized. The colonel’s wife whom Niall had been seducing when they’d first met at her cousin Frances’s betrothal ball. Lady Chivington wore a rose velvet gown adorned with gold lace and distended by an enormous hooped petticoat, and she was giving Niall a sultry glance from a distance, her perfect, bow-shaped mouth turned down in a pout.
Sabrina’s fingers clenched around her fan, before she looked up to find Niall watching her. Their gazes locked, and she knew he too was remembering that first encounter.
“Ah, no, sweeting, that is not the way to show displeasure. Here, permit me.” Gently grasping her fingers, he snapped open the fragile sticks and made three short, brisk passes with the fan beneath her chin. “There, ’tis an art, you see.”
Vexed, Sabrina gazed up into his laughing eyes. “An art you seem to have perfected,” she returned waspishly.
He smiled. “I am gratified that you’re jealous. It gives me hope that you care more deeply for me than you’re willing to admit.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You think me jealous?”
“Aye. Come now, love, confess. You are as smitten by me as I am by you.”
“’Tis a wonder anyone else can fit in this vast ballroom alongside you, my lord, considering the inflated proportions of your self-esteem.”
He laughed, amusement spilling out of his eyes. “Sabrina, sweet Sabrina, how I ache with wanting you.”
Just then the musicians struck up the stately strains of a minuet.
“May I have the honor?” Niall murmured.
Allowing her no opportunity to protest, he took her arm and led her in the genteel steps of a minuet. As he did all else, Niall executed the intricate turns of the dance with flawless grace. Sabrina felt dazed by his nearness, and by the way he was gazing at her. His attention was fixed solely on her, his eyes caressing, as if she were the only woman in the world. When the set concluded, he gave her up with obvious reluctance.
Afterward Sabrina found herself in great demand as a dance partner; she was not allowed a moment’s rest. It was a heady feeling, in truth—and yet she found herself yearning for the simple honesty of the Highlands. This company seemed too civilized, too pretentious, too frivolous, with its preoccupation with banal chatter and physical beauty.
And then her triumph was nearly spoiled by her cousin Frances. When the music paused and Sabrina’s partner left to fetch her a glass of punch, Frances approached her, swathed in a gown of stiff pink brocade.
“Brina, there you are. I could not get near you, what with the crowd fawning around you. I would never have credited it, you making a byword of yourself, wearing a gown that calls such provocative attention to yourself. Mama is shocked, let me tell you.”