The fat pug's graying muzzle parted in a wide, panting grin.

"Rejoin your mistress. I don't like dogs."

The pug wagged his tail harder, as if he thought Kirk a liar.

"Good G.o.d, I don't know who is sillier: you for wanting to come into my bedchamber as if an exalted guest, or me for talking to you. Off with you! Trundle back downstairs, where your cohorts and mistress await." With that, Kirk entered his bedchamber and shut the door behind him.

MacCreedy was just putting away a stack of neatly starched cravats. "Ah, me lor'. I was just getting ready to put oot yer evenin' clothes."

"Ask for a tray to be sent to my room. I have decided to join the company after dinner, after that d.a.m.ned reading is over." He no longer held out any hope of getting a private word with Dahlia while the d.u.c.h.ess and Lady Charlotte were in the room.

"What reading is that, me lor'?"

"Lady Charlotte and her grace are attempting to organize guests to perform after dinner."

"Tha' sounds like a pleasant way to spend an evening."

"Not for me. In a moment of utter weakness, I foolishly agreed to read a poem. So I shall avoid the entire affair and send a note to her grace that I won't be joining them."

The valet bowed. "I shall tell her grace ye've a headache."

"Why would you tell her that?"

"Ye have to give a reason fer refusin' to go to dinner, me lor'. 'Tis only polite."

"Politeness can go to h.e.l.l. It's a bother and rarely gets one what one wants." Kirk dropped into a chair and let his cane fall against the footrest.

"Och, ye seem a bit miffed, me lor'. Ye've been miffed fer two days now, and I'm beginnin' to wonder if 'tis a permanent condition."

Kirk wished his knee didn't hurt, for he'd like nothing better than to kick the footstool. He contented himself with a short "It's Miss Balfour."

"Ah, the object o' yer affections."

"Yes, or as I've come to think of her, 'the woman who should be spanked.'"

"Mind if I ask why ye've been thinkin' such a thing aboot Miss Balfour?"

Kirk scowled. "Several days ago, she challenged some of the ladies of the house party to a duel."

MacCreedy lifted his brows. "Pardon me, me lor', but did you say a duel?"

"Yes. Her weapon of choice was a battledore paddle." Kirk dropped his head back against the high cushions of the chair and looked at his valet. "And you can stop pretending you didn't know about the match, for I'm sure it was discussed as much belowstairs as it was abovestairs."

"I may ha' heard some'at of it earlier." When Kirk raised his brows, MacCreedy added, "But 'twas obvious ye dinna wish to talk aboot it, so I dinna bring it oop."

"I still don't. It's a colossal embarra.s.sment. Thanks to that d.a.m.ned battledore duel, which every person in the castle apparently attended, I'm now treated as an object of pity."

"Sure 'tis no' so bad as tha'."

"Just this morning, two gentlemen-gentlemen, MacCreedy-got into a tussle over which would hold the breakfast room door for me."

The valet winced.

"Exactly. I yanked the door from their hands and ordered them in before me. And that's just one example. Everyone is suddenly anxious to accommodate me, as if I were an invalid. Except Miss Balfour. She can't seem to find ten minutes to spare for a conversation." And his G.o.dmother, who'd suddenly switched sides in this battle and was now working for the enemy.

The valet placed a dark blue silk waistcoat with the coat on the bed. "Do ye know wha' I think ye need, me lor'?"

"A battledore paddle to use on Miss Balfour's bottom?"

"I was thinkin' ye needed a wee dram." The valet nodded to where a tray sat upon a small table beside the fire, a crystal decanter catching the light of the flames. "I had it brought up, thinkin' ye may need a bit to soften oot the day."

"Good G.o.d, yes. Pour me a heavy one, please."

The valet smiled and soon brought a drink to Kirk, who was rubbing his leg. "Had another seize oop, did ye?"

"Yes, in the hallway as I was turning the corner."

"'Tis the twistin' that's causin' it. I know it hurts, me lor', but ye'll be glad ye're workin' it-ye truly will."

"I hope so." Kirk leaned back in his chair and took a generous drink. "By Zeus, that's good."

"Jus' wha' ye needed. Take another sip, and then tell ol' MacCreedy aboot Miss Balfour and why ye think she's avoidin' ye. Ye canno' keep a Scot from a spate o' gossip."

"h.e.l.l, there's not a person under this roof who hasn't involved themselves in my business, so why not you, too?" The whiskey was warming Kirk into a better mood with each swallow. "It began two days ago. As you know, I offered to teach Miss Balfour how to kiss more genteelly."

"And she agreed?"

"Yes, and we had our first encounter." The memory was so fresh that it almost stole his breath. Aware of the valet's gaze, he said quietly, "It went well."

"Tha' is good."

"Is it?" He frowned at his gla.s.s and took another drink, this one slower as he savored the whiskey. "I think it frightened her."

"Ah-and now she'll no' meet ye at all."

Kirk stared at the remaining amber liquid. "There's a bit more to it than that. After the battledore match and everyone started whispering about me, I was angry."

"Were ye now?"

"Yes, and I hauled her into the salon and demanded to know what she thought she was doing."

"And other people saw this?"

"Yes."

The valet winced.

"I know, I know, but I was vexed."

"So now she willna' speak to ye."

"I believe someone else has a hand in it. It dawned on me this evening that Lady Charlotte and the d.u.c.h.ess have been involved in keeping Dahlia and myself apart. I don't believe it's at Dahlia's behest."

"I see." The valet shook his head. "Women do like to tie a man into knots, me lor'. There's a maid I've been wishin' to walk oot wit', and she's a cheeky la.s.s. She's no' made it easy."

"They never do."

"Nay." MacCreedy came to stand at the end of the bed. "If Miss Balfour's been avoidin' ye, then dinna ye think tha' is all the more reason to go down to dinner and read yer poem, like ye promised to? Be visible, as it were, rather tha' givin' oop."

"I'm not giving up. I'm merely looking for a more strategic position." Kirk finished his drink. Before he'd even swallowed, the valet had scooped it up and refilled it. "You're good, MacCreedy."

His valet grinned as he handed the gla.s.s back. "I know me way aboot a whiskey bottle, me lor'." He went to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of neatly pressed breeches and placed them on the bed with the other clothes. "If ye go to dinner and read yer poem, 'twill show Miss Balfour tha' ye are no' the sort as ye'll turn into a hermit jus' because things are no' goin' yer way."

"She already thinks me a hermit."

"She can think it all she wants, but if ye dinna go to dinner and read yer poem, then she'll know it to be true, me lor'."

He sighed.

"Or," the valet added with a shrug, "ye can jus' quit an' leave it all be."

"I'm a Kirk. Kirks never quit. I was going to go down after the performance."

"But ye dinna know if she'll still be aboot or no'."

Kark paused. "That's true."

"Ye've a stout heart, me lor'; I've seen it meself. But ye're missin' the strategy o' showin' yerself to advantage tonight. Ye could win a bit o' favor, which can only help ye."

"By reading a poem. What foolery." Yet the taste of Dahlia's kiss was still fresh, and he longed for another. "Miss Balfour was very taken when I repeated a few lines of Byron in the library."

"Mayhap ye could read her a poem fro' the book ye bought her. 'Tis by Byron, is it no'?"

"Yes."

"So read her a poem, and make her a gift o' the book after. Tha' would be a pretty gesture, and 'twill make the book seem all the more special."

Kirk supposed there was no harm in trying. Anything was better than merely hoping, and that's what he'd been reduced to doing. He took another sip of whiskey, its warmth easing the pain in his leg even more.

Perhaps I've been going about this all wrong. Perhaps I should prove myself to her, show her that I'm willing to meet her halfway. His gaze found the books he'd had the valet purchase for him and he remembered the smile on Dahlia's lips when he'd quoted Byron in the library. It might be just the thing.

A scratching noise came from the door, and a low growl followed as a paw appeared under the door, reaching as if in search of a treat.

Kirk's gaze narrowed. "One of the d.u.c.h.ess's pudgy pugs followed me here."

"Ye dislike animals, me lor'?"

"Of course not. I just don't like them in the house. They belong outside, where-"

A low, mournful howl erupted from the hall.

Kirk glared at the closed door.

MacCreedy unsuccessfully hid a smile. "He's pinin' fer ye, me lor'."

"He's pining for anyone who will give him food."

Another howl, even more mournful.

"Should I let him in? If he sees we've no food, mayhap he'll wander back oot."

Kirk muttered a curse, grabbed his cane, went to the door and yanked it open. When the pug saw Kirk, he became a wiggling, happy ball of fur.

"What in the h.e.l.l are you doing, yowling like that?" Kirk demanded.

The pug plopped his haunches onto the floor and then looked pleased, as if he'd performed a mighty trick.

"I'm not impressed," Kirk told the mutt.

MacCreedy peered around Kirk. "Tha' is Randolph, the oldest pug. MacDougal says he canno' take the stairs on his own now, bein' too feeble."

"Or lazy."

"MacDougal suggested tha' as weel, me lor'. I'll ring fer someone to fetch 'im."

"Don't bother; it's not worth their time. I'll carry him back downstairs when I go." Kirk eyed the dog. "Don't get any ideas, mutt. You are only to be allowed into this bedchamber this one time."

The dog wagged his tail and peered up at Kirk in a way that made MacCreedy snicker.

Kirk snapped his fingers. "Randolph, come!" He turned and went back to his chair and whiskey.

Behind him, he could hear the tap tap tap of Randolph's nails as the dog waddled after him. MacCreedy shut the door, smiling.

Kirk drank his whiskey as Randolph toured the room, snuffling the rug, the wardrobe, and finally the legs of Kirk's breeches that hung over the side of the bed.

"Och, dinna muss his lordship's clothin'." MacCreedy rescued the breeches, placing them higher on the bed.

Randolph sniffed the place where the breeches had been and then sneezed.

MacCreedy tsked. "Ye're a right wisty pup, aren't ye?"

The dog wagged his tail as if to agree. Perhaps it was the generous amount of whiskey MacCreedy had poured, but Kirk found himself smiling at the cheeky dog. "He's spoiled, but he's well behaved. Except for the howling, that is." He nodded toward the clothes on the bed. "I suppose I should get dressed."

The valet brightened. "Ye're goin' to dinner and the entertainment after all, then."

"I suppose so. You'd make a masterful negotiator, MacCreedy."

"So Duke Wellington always tol' me. Do ye know which poem ye wish to read, me lor'?"