“First, you must propose to me.”
Brodie lifted his other hand to grasp her hip, and delicious tingles of excitement shot through her.
“Propose what?” he asked.
“Marriage, of course.” She rolled her eyes, giggling at his silly teasing.
“Marriage?” He chuckled. “Oh, lass, I’ll not be doing any such thing.”
“What?” Her gaze sharpened on him.
“I’m of no mind to marry, but I willna say no to a kiss, if you wish to give me one.”
Portia was infuriated. She slapped his cheek hard enough that his eyes widened, and his lips parted in shock.
“Well, I never,” Portia growled. “Honestly. Without marriage.” She glared up at him. “You will marry me, Mr. Kincade. Then you will have as many kisses as you wish.”
Brodie stepped back, running a palm over his cheek. “Actually, lass, I think not. Good night to you.” He turned and walked away, disappearing back into the assembly room.
Portia blinked. No man had ever said no to her before, for anything. But Brodie Kincade just did. That intrigued her. No, it excited her. A man who was not so easily won over by her charm and beauty. That was a man worth catching. But how to do it?
I shall have him compromise me, she thought. There’s no other way to it. He won’t agree, otherwise, that much is quite clear.
With a devious giggle, she pulled her hood up and returned to the foyer to wait for her dreadful great-aunt to return. Her sour mood had dissipated in the wake of her new plans. Brodie Kincade would be her husband within a week—she would bet her life on it.
2
Brodie rejoined his friend Rafe to watch the dancers swirl around the assembly room. “What the devil was that about?” Rafe asked.
Brodie tried not to scowl. He’d been in a good mood until a moment ago. Surely he wasn’t that off his usual seduction methods, was he? He usually got slapped after a kiss, not before. His cheek stung faintly, but it was a strong reminder that English ladies weren’t nearly so easily charmed as the ladies in Scotland. They clearly expected more to result from a bit of fun.
“The wee lass who introduced herself. She wanted to speak to me.”
Rafe shot Brodie a sardonic grin. “Did she have anything interesting to say?”
“She wanted me to marry her.” Brodie smiled ruefully. “Damned innocent creature.”
Rafe’s laugh held a hint of darkness. “Brodie, my friend, here is your first lesson of life in England. No one in this room is innocent, especially the young unmarried ladies. They are far more dangerous than anyone else here tonight.”
Brodie took a glass of ratafia from a servant who passed them carrying a tray. “I’m not afraid of a wee hen.”
“You should be. Even the most fire-breathing dragon of a chaperone should be less feared than a young unmarried lady. You see, we are the prey.” Rafe tapped his own chest. “We’re the ones being hunted.”
“You let English lasses frighten you so?” Brodie chuckled. “My brother Brock wasna afraid of his bride. He simply ran off with her. Not even your brother and his fancy friends could stop him from claiming Joanna.”
Rafe’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You don’t understand. Your brother was doing what my sister wanted him to do. She was in charge of that adventure. Never assume otherwise. You forget, I stopped them on the road under the guise of a highwayman and caught your brother unaware. He stood no chance against us.”
“There were three of you, and he was protecting your sister. If he hadna been with her, he would have easily taken you all,” Brodie challenged. He would not let his friend speak ill of his brother. Brock had always looked after him and their younger siblings, Rosalind and Aiden.
“I seek no quarrel with you,” Rafe cut in more amiably. “My point was to remind you that the unmarried ladies here in England treat marriage as a serious business. If that chit has marked you as hers, you had better watch your back.”
“I thank you for the warning.” Brodie swept his gaze over the ballroom with fresh eyes, searching for predators in pretty skirts.
Rafe continued his lesson. “Allow me to provide an example. You might think that an invitation to a dark alcove is a good idea. But unless you can be certain that the lady issuing the invitation is set on nothing more than a bit of fun, odds are you’re walking into a trap.” Rafe tapped his temple. “Best to keep a sharp eye until you are comfortable recognizing which ladies do not have marriage in mind. Widows are always good.” Rafe nodded toward a curvaceous brunette dancing nearby.
“Widows?” Brodie repeated. “They dinna mourn their husbands?”
Rafe threw his head back and laughed.
“Depends on the widow, old boy. Many widows here are young and starved for a decent man’s touch after having been married to men thirty or forty years their elder.”
Brodie didn’t like the sound of that. He knew that women most often married older men for practical or social reasons, but in Scotland the age difference usually did not exceed twenty years.
“Now spinsters are also an option, if they make it clear to you that they have given up on marriage. In fact, the ones with a bit of financial security often welcome romantic entanglements without marriage being offered. They have too much to lose if they marry.”
Brodie listened to Rafe explain the various types of English ladies, from bluestockings down to cyprians.
“Now, these bluestockings, do they actually wear blue stockings?” Brodie asked. He was still foxed from their drinking earlier, and he was quite enjoying listening to his friend lecture about women. He was so foxed, in fact, that his vision was a bit blurred at times.
“Not that I’ve noticed,” Rafe mused. “Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea where the name comes from. But you won’t get far with one of those. Take Lysandra Russell.” He discreetly pointed to a red-haired beauty in a green silk gown who had just been asked to dance.
“Aye, what of that one?” Brodie inquired curiously. He wouldn’t mind bedding that lass.
“Complete bluestocking. She’ll chatter to no end about science if you let her.”
“Have you?” Brodie teased his companion.
Rafe flashed him a devil-may-care-grin. “I might have . . . in the hopes of a kiss. Half an hour later, all I had was some rather useless knowledge about comets.”
“Comets?” That did mildly interest Brodie. While he was the most outgoing of his siblings, and by far the most scandalous, he did enjoy discussing things with women, at least when he wasn’t kissing them. In Scotland, he spent much of his time at Castle Kincade and rarely in town, which meant his choice of ladies, especially ones who were well educated, was far lower than it was in Edinburgh, London, or even Bath.
“Perhaps the lass would like me,” Brodie murmured as he watched her dance. She did have a pretty smile.
“Er . . . No. You must not have heard me say her name. She’s a Russell.”
Brodie still stared at him, having not a clue what the man was on about.
“As in Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester. One of Ashton’s friends?”
“Ah.” Brodie nodded. “One of the League of Rogues, is he?” Not that he was worried. English gentlemen were no match for Scots in a bout of fisticuffs.