“I’m confused,” Mrs. Highwood moaned from somewhere nearby. “What are my Charlotte’s chances? Is the handsome, wealthy baron still single or not?”
Without turning his gaze from Nora, Dash lifted an eyebrow. “Care to answer?”
“This handsome, wealthy baron is not single. Not any longer.” Nora smiled. “Lord Dashwood has met his match.”
He gathered her to him and kissed her soundly. Everything around them melted away. There was only the heat of sherry and the sweetness of teacakes and the delicious spice of the passion between them.
Blended together, it tasted like victory. A triumph they could share, and savor for a lifetime.
Applause greeted them when they parted at last.
Except from one quarter of the room, where a displeased matron flicked open her fan. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. There’s still the Ashwood one, then.”
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed Lord Dashwood Missed Out. If you feel so inclined, I invite you to recommend this book to a friend or post an honest review. Recommendations and reviews help other readers find new books to enjoy.
If you’re new to Spindle Cove, here’s the full series in suggested reading order:
A Night to Surrender (Susanna and Bram, Book One)
Once Upon a Winter’s Eve (Violet and Christian, novella)
A Week to be Wicked (Minerva and Colin, Book Two)
A Lady by Midnight (Kate and Thorne, Book Three)
Beauty and the Blacksmith (Diana and Aaron, novella)
Any Duchess Will Do (Pauline and Griff, Book Four)
And coming in 2016, look for Spindle Cove, Book Five:
Do You Want to Start a Scandal, where the youngest of the Highwood sisters, Charlotte, finally gets her hero!
The best way to receive updates about Charlotte’s story and my other new books is to sign up for my email newsletter at: tessadare.com/newsletter-signup.
You can also visit my website, www.TessaDare.com, for all the most current information.
Keep reading for an excerpt from of my latest bestseller, When a Scot Ties the Knot!
Tessa
Keep reading for an excerpt from RITA® Award winner
Tessa Dare’s New York Times bestseller
WHEN A SCOT TIES THE KNOT
On the cusp of her first London season, Miss Madeline Gracechurch was shy, pretty and talented with a drawing pencil, but hopelessly awkward with gentlemen. She was certain to be a dismal failure on the London marriage mart. So Maddie did what generations of shy, awkward young ladies have done: she invented a sweetheart.
A Scottish sweetheart. One who was handsome and honorable and devoted to her, but conveniently never around. Maddie poured her heart into writing the imaginary Captain MacKenzie letter after letter . . . and by pretending to be devastated when he was (not really) killed in battle, she managed to avoid the pressures of London society entirely.
Until years later, when this kilted Highland lover of her imaginings shows up in the flesh. The real Captain Logan MacKenzie arrives on her doorstep—handsome as anything, but not entirely honorable. He’s wounded, jaded, in possession of her letters . . . and ready to make good on every promise Maddie never expected to keep.
Available now!
CHAPTER ONE
Invernesshire, Scotland
April 1817
Blub.
Blub-blub-blub.
Maddie’s hand jerked.
Ink sputtered from her pen, making great blots on the wing structure she’d been outlining. Her delicate Brazilian dragonfly now resembled a leprous chicken.
Two hours of work, gone in a heartbeat.
But it would be nothing if those bubbles signified what she hoped.
Copulation.
Her heart began to beat faster. She set aside her pen, lifted her head just enough for a clear view of the glass-walled seawater tank, and went still.
Maddie was, by nature, an observer. She knew how to fade into the background, be it drawing-room wallpaper, ballroom wainscoting, or the plastered-over stone of Lannair Castle. And she had a great deal of experience observing the mating rituals of many strange and wondrous creatures, from English aristocrats to cabbage moths.
When it came to courtship, however, lobsters were the most prudish and formal of all.
She’d been waiting months for Fluffy, the female, to molt and declare herself available to mate. So had Rex, the male specimen in the tank. She didn’t know which of them was the more frustrated.
Perhaps today would be the day. Maddie peered hard at the tank, breathless with anticipation.
There. From behind a broken chunk of coral, a slender orange antennae waved in the murky gloom.
Hallelujah.
That’s it, she silently willed. Go on, Fluffy. That’s a girl. It’s been a long, lonely winter under that rock. But you’re ready now.
A blue claw appeared.
Then receded.
Shameless tease.
“Stop being so missish.”
At last, the female’s full head came into view as she rose from her hiding place.
And then someone rapped at the door. “Miss Gracechurch?”
That was the end of that.
With a blub-blub-blub, Fluffy disappeared as quickly as she’d emerged. Back under her rock.
Drat.
“What is it, Becky?” Maddie called. “Is my aunt ill?”
If she’d been disturbed in her studio, someone must be ill. The servants knew not to interrupt her when she was working.
“No one’s ill, miss. But there’s a caller for you.”
“A caller? Now that’s a surprise.”
For an on-the-shelf Englishwoman residing in the barren wilds of the Scottish Highlands, callers were always a surprise.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“It’s a man.”
A man.
Now Maddie was more than surprised. She was positively shocked.
She pushed aside her ruined dragonfly illustration and stood to peer out the window. No luck. She’d chosen this tower room for its breathtaking view of the rugged green hills and the glassy loch settled like a mirror shard between them. It offered no useful vantage of the gate or entryway.
“Oh, Miss Gracechurch.” Becky sounded nervous. “He’s ever so big.”
“Goodness. And does this big man have a name?”
“No. I mean, he must have a name, mustn’t he? But he didn’t say. Not yet. Your aunt thought you had best come and see for yourself.”
Well. This grew more and more mysterious.
“I’ll be there in a moment. Ask Cook to prepare some tea, if you will.”
Maddie untied her smock. After pulling the apron over her head and hanging it on a nearby peg, she took a quick inventory of her appearance. Her slate-gray frock wasn’t too wrinkled, but her hands were stained with ink and her hair was a travesty—loose and disheveled. There was no time for a proper coiffure. No hairpins to be found, either. She gathered the dark locks in her hands and twisted them into a loose knot at the back of her head, securing the chignon with a nearby pencil. The best she could do under the circumstances.
Whoever this unexpected, nameless, ever-so-big man was, he wasn’t likely to be impressed with her.
But then, men seldom were.
She took her time descending the spiraling stairs, wondering who this visitor might be. Most likely a land agent from a neighboring estate. Lord Varleigh wasn’t due until tomorrow, and Becky would have known his name.
When Maddie finally reached the bottom, Aunt Thea joined her.
Her aunt touched a hand to her turban with dramatic flair. “Oh, Madling. At last.”
“Where is our mysterious caller? In the hall?”
“The parlor.” Her aunt took her arm, and together they moved down the corridor. “Now, my dear. You must be calm.”
“I am calm. Or at least, I was calm until you said that.” She studied her aunt’s face for clues. “What on earth is going on?”
“There may be a shock. But don’t you worry. Once it’s over, I’ll make a posset to set you straight.”
A posset.
Oh, dear. Aunt Thea fancied herself something of an amateur apothecary. The trouble was, her “cures” were usually worse than the disease.
“It’s only a caller. I’m sure a posset won’t be necessary.”
Maddie resolved to maintain squared shoulders and an air of good health when she greeted this big, nameless man.
When they stepped into the parlor, her resolve was tested.
This wasn’t just a man.
This was a man.
A tall, commanding figure of a Scotsman, dressed in what appeared to be military uniform: a kilt of dark green-and-blue plaid, paired with the traditional redcoat.
His hair was overlong (mostly brown, with hints of ginger), and his squared jaw sported several days’ growth of whiskers (mostly ginger, with hints of brown). Broad shoulders tapered to a trim torso. A simple black sporran was slung low around his waist, and a sheathed dirk rode his hip. Below the fall of his kilt, muscled, hairy legs disappeared into white hose and scuffed black boots.
Maddie pleaded with herself not to stare.
It was a losing campaign.
Taken altogether, his appearance was a veritable assault of virility.
“Good afternoon.” She managed an awkward curtsy.
He did not answer or bow. Wordlessly, he approached her.
And at the point where a well-mannered gentleman would stop, he drew closer still.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, anxious. At least he’d solved her staring problem. She could scarcely bear to look at him now.
He stopped close enough for Maddie to breathe in the scents of whisky and wood smoke, and to glimpse a wide, devilish mouth slashing through his light growth of beard. After long seconds, she coaxed herself into meeting his gaze.