A burst of song came down the hall--fiddles and pipes, the beat of a drum. Guests laughed and clapped. Louisa should return, should sit with her mother, dance with other gentlemen, make herself agreeable.
She couldn't move. Louisa opened her mouth to make an inane remark to Mr. Fellows, anything to keep the conversation going, and found him looking up at the doorway in which they stood.
Someone had hung mistletoe in it. Louisa had made a wide berth around the sprig that hung in the hall, but in her quest to find Mr. Fellows, she'd not seen this one.
He looked at her for a frozen moment. Louisa's words died, every lesson that governesses and finishing school had pounded into her evaporating.
She only knew that a strong man stood with her, different from any gentleman she'd ever met. A cushion of music floated up the hall, canceling all other sound.
Louisa had kissed him before. She remembered the pressure of his mouth, the taste of his lips. She, the forward thing, had coerced him into kissing her.
Louisa grasped the lapels of his coat, rose on her tiptoes, and caught his mouth in another kiss. Mr. Fellows stiffened under her touch, ready to pull away.
Then something in him changed. His mouth formed to hers, responding, and his arms flowed around her.
He tasted of whiskey and the acrid bite of smoke. Hard arms enfolded her, crushing her against the flat planes of his body. No hesitant kisses of a gentleman wanting to court a lady--Fellows kissed her in hunger, in need.
Desperation fluttered in Louisa's heart. His mouth opened hers, pressing inside her, demanding, wanting.
She hung on to him, her fingers curling into his coat, tears wetting the corners of her eyes. He kissed like a madman, with hot desire, a forbidden taste of what she could never have.
He released her, his eyes glittering with anger, but not at her. "Louisa," he whispered.
Louisa tightened her grip on his coat, wanting to come against him again, needing to feel his strong body against hers. He slid a hand under her hair . . .
A crowd of laughing, flushed dancers poured from the ballroom and headed down the hall for the mistletoe in the middle. Daniel's voice rose over the others--"Don't all rush at once. It's only a little wager."
Fellows released Louisa and faded from her. One moment, she saw him in the shadows of the staircase, the next, he was gone.
Louisa put her hand to her hair and gulped deep breaths. The imprint of his mouth lingered on her lips, the bite of his fingers on her back. She could barely stand, her legs weak and hot.
But the others were coming. Louisa pasted on a smile and moved on shaking legs to meld with the crowd and pretend she'd been part of it all along.
*** *** ***
"Don't disappoint me, Dad," Daniel said the next day.
Cameron shot his son a half-teasing, half-annoyed look and moved to the middle of the ballroom.
Garlands still hung the walls, draped the windows, and dripped from the chandeliers. Gone were the orchestra, dancers' finery, and footmen circulating with champagne; in their place were men in kilts, women in plaid gowns, the English guests in casual clothes that indicated they'd next take a tramp in the garden. The footmen, who had the day off, lounged with the maids on the other side of the room, and tea, coffee, and champagne had been set up on a long table for the guests to serve themselves.
Ainsley pressed her hands together and tried not to obviously ogle her husband. Cameron had stripped down to shirtsleeves, kilt, wool socks and soft shoes. Bellamy wore the same except he had close-fitting breeches rather than a kilt.
Cameron, with his athletic, tall body, was a fine specimen, and Ainsley tried not to think too hard about what that body looked like under his clothing. Other ladies of the party cast glances at the men and whispered, Cameron drawing as many gazes as Bellamy.
At one time, Ainsley would have burned with jealousy. Cameron had made it known, however, that his rakehell days were over. No more mistresses, a different one every six-month, no more trysts with other men's wives. He was married, and happily so. Besides, Eleanor, in charge of the guest lists, had the good taste not to invite any ladies who'd once shared a bed with Cameron Mackenzie.
Cameron's Christmas gift to her revealed his more thoughtful side--a beautiful ebony and mother-of-pearl box in which to keep Ainsley's embroidery things. Cam had expressed puzzlement at first that Ainsley made things when she could afford to buy them, but he'd come to understand that the act of embroidering was special to her. He'd been equally pleased with the gift she'd given him--a horse blanket she'd sewn herself for his favorite horse, Jasmine. Their private exchange of gifts had been a most satisfying occasion.
David Fleming had agreed to referee the match before he returned to England in pursuit of Ian's Ming bowl. Daniel was busy coordinating the many wagers, which he'd gathered with ruthless efficiency. Hart, when he'd agreed that Bellamy and Cameron could have the match, had stipulated that it should be for amusement only, no wagering.
Hart must have known everyone would ignore him. Ainsley had placed a nice sum on her husband, but she knew the servants had bet heavily on Bellamy.
Perhaps too heavily. Some of them looked worried as they waited anxiously for the event to begin.
Bellamy, however, was in fine form. Though he'd not fought in years, he'd managed to keep his strength and steadiness. Against a skilled opponent Daniel's age, Bellamy might come to grief, but he and Cameron, both in their thirties, both honed from exercise, and both experienced, were well matched.
"Gentlemen," David said, standing between them. "You'll box until I call time in each round. Then you'll break apart until I call time again. If a man falls and stays down for a count of ten, he will be considered defeated. Shake hands, make it a fair fight."
Cameron and Bellamy shook, each confident, each wishing the other well. Then they broke apart.
"Very well, then," David said. "Gentlemen. Fight."
Chapter Thirteen
The room exploded with noise.
The two men began by circling each other, looking for a weakness, a chance to get in the first hit.
Ainsley held her breath, suddenly nervous. It was one thing to imagine her husband in a splendid fight, another to wait for an equally large man to strike him.
Bellamy punched first. He did it with quick efficiency, but Cameron was ready and blocked the blow. Cameron sidestepped and came back into place, throwing a sudden jab at Bellamy's jaw. Bellamy blocked that and countered, which Cameron blocked in turn.
They stepped apart but swiftly came together again, each having the measure of the other. The punches began in earnest, Bellamy with a powerful, straight fist, Cameron moving under his guard and getting in a quick jab. Shouting escalated as the match moved from polite entertainment to serious combat.