Page 3 of The Baron’s Halo

“Because of the way you jerked away from him just now, after the dance.”

Curse the man for having sharp eyes. She shouldn’t have been so obvious, but when Lord Barclay’s hand had strayed to her waist and she’d felt the pressure of him pulling her toward him, she’d reacted without rational thought. For him to have done it during the dance had been bad enough. To repeat the offense while they were conversing afterward, when anyone could see the liberty—had seen it, apparently—had been too much to bear. “It was nothing, my lord. I…I should not have been so…hasty.”

“Indeed?” Lord MacKay strode forward into the light, his face now clearly visible in the lantern’s glow. It was an arresting face, handsome as a chiseled stone had beauty in its stark planes. Jet black hair glinted coldly in the soft light. His dark eyes under darker brows rested unwaveringly on her. “I must disagree with you, Miss Devereaux. I believe Lord Barclay took egregious liberties with you, both on and off the dance floor.”

“And why would you think that, my lord?” Oh, she should never have come out here with Lord MacKay. Should never have agreed to dance with Lord Barclay. Should never have come to Lady Winslow’s ball at all.

“Because I know Lord Barclay to be a cad of the most dangerous kind.”

“What kind is that?”

“A gentleman with a title that makes matchmaking mamas overlook his lack of decency in the hopes of securing him and his position for their daughters.” Lord MacKay’s stare bore into her. “Did you accept a dance with him because you wished to do so, or was it at the urging of your mother perhaps?”

Isabelle hung her head. “My mother suggested it. She wishes me settled this year.” Which was nothing out of the ordinary in Polite Society. Raising her head, she stared back at Lord MacKay. “There is nothing inappropriate in dancing with a gentleman.”

“Inappropriate, no. Ill-advised yes, especially when the man in question has no respect whatsoever for women.” He drew himself up, as if about to make a formal declaration. “Did Lord Barclay insult you with attentions that are considered beyond the pale, Miss Devereaux?”

“If he did do so, my lord, there is nothing that can be done about it now.” Her words came out sharper than intended, but Lord MacKay seemed to be bordering on impertinence himself.

“On the contrary, Miss Devereaux, if you tell me he engaged in indecent behavior toward you, it will be my pleasure to call the scoundrel out.”

Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat. “Call him out?”

“In a duel for your honor.” Lord MacKay looked deathly serious.

“But…but dueling isn’t done. Not anymore.” He would champion her in such a manner when they hadn’t even been properly introduced? Isabelle’s head spun. It was either the most foolhardy or the most romantic thing she’d ever heard. “And it can’t be legal.”

He shrugged, keeping his gaze firmly on her. “A mere technicality. That would not deter me in the least from seeking satisfaction from such a cad.”

Gracious, the gentleman was serious. He actually meant to fight Lord Barclay. She must put a stop to the notion this instant. The ensuing scandal would, without a doubt, ruin her forever. “I assure you, my lord, such an action is not necessary, although I thank you for your chivalry.”

“I deem it the greatest honor, Miss Devereaux, to be at your service in whatever capacity you find a need.” Lord MacKay’s intense gaze continued to hold hers, leaving her quite breathless. The earnestness in his deep voice made her heart stutter.

A sudden gust of wind sent a chill through Isabelle, reminding her that they had been outside for too long.

“Allow me at least to demonstrate my service to you, albeit in a much more trivial way.”

Before she could protest, he had whipped off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. A hint of citrus cologne immediately enveloped her, a somehow comforting fragrance. The heavy garment, of soft dark wool, warmed her as though she stood before a friendly fire. She pulled the jacket closer, reveling in the comfort it provided her. “Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.”

“Think nothing of it.” His face split in a grin that changed him from somber to boyish. “I am partial to rescuing damsels in distress. Unfortunately, I am rarely able to do so here in England, although I manage it fairly often at my home in Scotland.”

“Are the ladies of Scotland so often beset by cads and scoundrels?” Isabelle couldn’t help but smile. “Or do you still have to deal with dragons up in the north?”

“You might be surprised, Miss Devereaux,” his warm chuckle raised her spirits, “what we Scots have to put up with.” He paused, his manner suddenly sober. “You make me forget that we still have not been properly introduced.”

She’d forgotten also. Totally improper for them to be conversing so familiarly without a formal introduction. But it had been an unusual night all around. “Do you truly think we should stand on ceremony? If so I suppose we should return to the ballroom. Lady Winslow will be able to make the introductions if we can find her.” Still, she was loathe to leave the comfort of the verandah and the solace of Lord MacKay’s company. “Is that what you desire, my lord?”

“As I said earlier, Miss Devereaux, my desires matter not at all. But if you wish to remain outside here, may I suggest you permit me to introduce myself.” He drew himself up, then clicked his heels and bowed low before her. “Saunders MacKay, Baron MacKay of Carnwath in Scotland, at your devoted service.”

Biting back a giggle, Isabelle curtsied deeply to him. Turn about was fair play after all. “A Scottish baron.” That sounded so romantic. “I am so pleased to meet you, my lord. Allow me to introduce myself as well. Miss Isabelle Devereaux.”

“Enchanted, Miss Devereaux.” He grasped her hand and bent over it. The barest graze of his lips on the fabric of her glove brought a wave a heat all the way to Isabelle’s head.

Oh, dear. And now she was here alone with him and feeling so…warm, despite the chilly wind. Isabelle shook her head to clear it. They should go back inside. Sooner or later they would be missed and that could prove disastrous.

Also, she must find and apologize to Mr. Bufkin for her abominably rude behavior. He had been promised her next dance and the gentleman had likely scoured the ballroom in search of his partner. Perhaps he could be placated with the promise of another set, although he might not now wish to partner her if he felt he’d been snubbed. The rules of etiquette were strict and people took offence to the smallest infractions. But if a young lady wished to be out in Society to find a husband, she had to abide by the rules or risk the life of a spinster.

A fate Isabelle fervently wished for. Despite her mother’s instructions on how to secure a husband, thoughts of marriage brought disturbing images to Isabelle’s mind. Her mother’s marriage to her father had been happy, but memories of that long ago time did nothing to persuade her to wish for marriage.