"Suitable?" Charlotte almost stuttered over the word. "Is that all you can say?"

Kirk boldly met her gaze, though his face was slightly flushed. "It's enough."

There was a stubborn note to his voice that said far more than he was able or willing.

Before Charlotte could answer, Margaret said, "I see." She rather thought she did, too.

He raised a brow. "So you'll a.s.sist me as you'd promised when I agreed to press Lord Balfour for that cursed loan?"

"Of course, but I must be plain. While I will do what I can to a.s.sist you in making a case for Miss Dahlia, you must make an effort, as well."

"An effort? To do what?"

"Whatever I say." She tapped her chin with a finger, her gaze never wavering. "Fortunately, you have an amazing amount of potential."

Charlotte tilted her head to one side, regarding Kirk from head to toe. "Unrealized potential."

Margaret followed Charlotte's expert gaze. While Kirk didn't adhere to fashion in any way-his brown coat and trousers were at least a decade old in style-he was very neatly dressed, his neckcloth knotted about his throat, the ends tucked into his brown waistcoat, his boots firmly placed upon the ground. There was a solidness about him that a woman could appreciate. An older woman, yes-but perhaps not a younger one. No, if he wishes to woo Dahlia Balfour, he will have to gain some polish. "We must get him a tailor," she told Charlotte.

"New clothes, definitely," Charlotte murmured. "And some proper boots."

"And someone to teach him to tie a neckcloth."

"Oh yes." Charlotte reached down and picked up a pug, then plopped him in her lap, though her gaze never left Lord Kirk. "Can you dance?"

"With this?" He gestured toward his knee. "No, d.a.m.n it."

Charlotte tsked. "Such language."

"He'll have to work on that, too," Margaret said thoughtfully, her mind racing as she made a mental list. "And his address, for he's rude as a-"

"That's enough." Kirk grasped his cane and struggled to his feet, his face set. "I did not come here to be insulted."

"No, you came to be transformed into a man worthy of a beautiful woman-one you believe is clearly out of your reach." Margaret waited until her words had sunk in. "She's lovely."

"Yes."

"And lively, as well, if she's anything like her sisters."

"Very much so."

"And intelligent-"

"She's everything, d.a.m.n it!"

"Then you will have to be everything to her."

His fingers were white where they gripped the handle of his cane. "What the h.e.l.l was I thinking, to come here? I should have admitted the truth, that she's not for me, and just be done with it. But oh no. I hoped." He laughed bitterly, and then walked toward the door. "I'm a fool."

Charlotte exchanged a surprised glance with Margaret.

"Lord Kirk," Margaret called. "Please. Just one question, and then you may go." When he didn't pause, she added, "For your mother's sake."

He stiffened, but stopped. After a moment, he turned back to face them. "Yes?"

"I know this may seem rude, but how old are you?"

"What's that-" At her raised brows, he grimaced. "I turned twenty-eight a week ago."

"That's all?" Charlotte exclaimed. "I would have thought-" She caught his dark gaze and flushed. "I mean, twenty-eight is a lovely age."

"No, it's not a lovely age." Margaret stood and walked toward him. "It's the age of a man who should be settled and married."

His eyes blazed with anger. "I'm finished with this conversation. I'm sorry I wasted your time." His scowl grew blacker with each word, the scar menacing. He started to turn back to the door.

"Since you don't wish to win Miss Balfour's regard, then you won't mind if I turn her attention elsewhere."

He froze in place as if suddenly nailed there. When he slowly turned, his face was a mask of frozen fury. "You will turn her attention elsewhere?"

He really had the most amazingly beautiful eyes, sherry brown and thickly fringed. Looking at them made her think of his mother, and the memory stiffened Margaret's resolve. "We'll need two months of your time."

"Two months? For what?"

"To teach you the basics of seduction, of course. Or courtship, if you prefer to call it that."

"It will also take that long to order your new wardrobe," Charlotte added. "That coat-" She wrinkled her nose.

Kirk looked down at his coat. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's out of fashion and ill fits you," Charlotte answered without pause. "Worsted is a horrid material for a coat, and your cravat is a mere knot, rather than a properly tied arrangement. But even more distressing than your clothing are your manners." Charlotte smiled kindly. "They could use a little polish. Actually, they could use a lot."

"I'm surprised you allowed me in your presence."

"You're a friend of her grace's. I had no choice," Lady Charlotte pointed out fairly.

Lord Kirk's lips thinned. "Is there anything else I must change?"

Margaret looked him over. "Your hair."

He looked exasperated. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"It's far too long for current fashion. It's a bit aging."

"I am my age, madam. I cannot change that."

"You look thirty and seven, perhaps even forty."

He started to turn back to the door and Margaret called out, "Leave if you wish, but know this: Miss Balfour has already accepted an invitation to my Christmas Ball. She will attend my house party for the three weeks beforehand, and she will not leave unattached."

"You don't know that."

"But I do. I shall see to it that she receives at least one offer for her hand in marriage, if not more."

"You would work against me?"

"While I genuinely wish you to succeed in your endeavors, Miss Dahlia is also one of my G.o.dchildren, and I wish to see her happily and well settled. She knows that I invited her to my house party for the express purpose of a.s.sisting her in making a fortuitous match."

He fixed an incredulous gaze on Margaret. "She specifically stated that was the reason she's coming here? To make a match?"

"Lord Kirk, she's twenty years of age; if she waits much longer, she'll be upon the shelf. When I invited her and a.s.sured her that she would receive at least one palatable offer, I thought you were serious about wishing to win her. Believing in your steadfastness, I committed myself to that end. So you can see that I cannot rescind my offer merely because you are getting cold feet and refuse to make an effort to win her attention, much less her hand in marriage."

"I'm not getting cold feet. I am merely questioning the intelligence of this idea. I cannot transform into something I'm not."

"Something you're not? And what is that? A gentleman? Your mother would weep to hear such an admission."

His jaw tightened. "As much as I loved her, my mother is no longer with us."

"Which only means that now you are responsible for living up to your potential. The invitation has been issued; Dahlia Balfour will leave this house attached to someone. Whether that is you or not is entirely your-and her-decision."

The white lines beside his mouth told Margaret how furious her words had made him, but he didn't leave. Indeed, he stood rooted to the floor as if every word had set him even more firmly in place. Ah yes. That's promising.

Margaret turned away, leaving him to collect himself. "We are understood, Lord Kirk. You will put yourself in my hands, and you will be a willing and enthusiastic pupil. By the time Miss Balfour arrives two months from now, you will be ready to meet her, a new-and vastly improved-man. One capable of competing with the other gentlemen who will be present, men bound to notice her and her beauty."

There was a long silence and then he gave a sigh so deep that it seemed to come from his toes. "d.a.m.n you! I will admit I need some polish, but you are right, this is my last chance to secure Miss Dahlia's interest." He raked a hand through his hair, his expression bleak. "I'll return home and make arrangements to spend two months here. But take note: I will not be turned into a fop."

Charlotte blinked. "We could never hope for that in two months. The best you can expect is that you'll become a gentleman of some address and possess a much better wardrobe. Becoming a fop would take another three, perhaps four months, and we haven't that much time."

Kirk started to argue, but one look at Charlotte's wide, sweet gaze and he closed his mouth. He turned stiffly and then limped out the door.

The door closed behind him with a loud thump and Margaret dropped into her seat, her gown fluttering about her. "Good G.o.d, that was ridiculously difficult!"

Charlotte nodded. "He looked as if he would breathe fire upon us."

"He's furious, there's no doubt, but he asked for my help and now he will take it." Margaret stretched her feet out and plopped them on a small footstool. Feenie rose and jumped into her lap.

"Do you think Kirk can learn what he must in such a short time?"

"He has to, or the fairy tale will be quite offset."

"I hate an offset fairy tale."

"Don't we all? Fortunately, we have a secret weapon."

Charlotte's eyes brightened. "We do?" She waited. When the silence merely grew, she sighed. "You're not going to tell me what it is."

"In due time, Charlotte. I can't express what I only suspect, but do not know."

"I suppose not. Very well. I shall be patient." Charlotte found her book and began to search for her place. "But whatever your weapon might be, I can only hope it will tame our Beast before our Beauty arrives."

"So do I, Charlotte. So do I."

Two.

From the Diary of the d.u.c.h.ess of Roxburghe

It took two entire months, but Lord Alasdair Kirk has completed what Charlotte and I privately called "beast taming" but in public called "gentleman training." I shall not sully the pages of this diary with the t.i.tle bequeathed upon this time by Lord Kirk.

Be that as it may, both Charlotte and I are pleased by his improvements, which are many and noticeable. While not perfect, his overall appearance and manner have enthused us both. My secret weapon was a most worthy valet named MacCreedy, who was once in the employ of the Duke of Wellington himself, and thus used to dealing with rough and ready men possessing an irascible manner.

MacCreedy did his work much better than even I had hoped. Our Beast, if not tamed, is at least better mannered and far better dressed.

Now to see if Beauty notices . . .

Coaches lined the ancient cobbled courtyard of Floors Castle as the guests arrived for the d.u.c.h.ess's house party. Amidst the ma.s.s confusion, Angus the footman waited for the Roxburghe coach to appear with Miss Balfour inside. After what seemed an interminable wait, during which the d.u.c.h.ess leaned out the salon window no less than four times to ask if the coach had yet arrived, the blasted thing finally lumbered into the courtyard.

Angus gave a sigh of relief and grabbed the heavy wooden steps he'd been sitting upon and hurried to meet the coach. The famed Roxburghe crest, a bold unicorn flanked by a muscular arm holding a scimitar in a very audacious manner, was emblazoned upon a side panel, making the coach hard to miss even in the busy courtyard. Angus wished his family had a crest, something equally intimidating. Perhaps a golden dragon carrying arrows or a large snake eating a baby, something to give his neighbors pause when they thought about fishing from his da's pond.

Reaching the coach, he nodded a greeting to the coachman before placing the carpeted steps upon the cobblestones. Then, just as MacDougal had taught him, he smoothed his hair and made certain his uniform was in place before he opened the door and stood at attention.

Nothing happened.

He remained still, straining his ears.

Still no guest stirred within the coach.

Angus frowned, wishing Miss Balfour would hurry, as the chill November wind was seeping through his woolen breeches. But the interior of the coach remained shrouded in silence.

Other coaches pulled away, their occupants already walking toward the front door, their trunks being carried to the back entrance. Frowning, Angus shifted from one foot to the other, wondering what he should do. MacDougal's instructions hadn't covered this.

The thought of her grace's impatience made Angus sweat despite the chilly air. What if Miss Balfour hadn't come? Surely the coachman would have said something . . . wouldn't he?

Finally, unable to stand the silence a moment more, he stole a quick glance inside the coach.

It was not empty. The d.u.c.h.ess's guest was stretched out upon one cushioned seat, her head propped upon a bunched-up cloak, an open book under one hand, a carriage blanket on the floor where it had been across her legs. Her arm was thrown across her face as the softest of snores drifted from her lips.