Midnight Honor

muscle in his jaw flexed. She suspected he was holding entire conversationsinside his head, anticipating ways he might ward off potentially inflammatory subjects with his Jacobite mother and wife together in a room full of the Elector's representatives.
    He was well aware he was playing with fire bringing her here tonight and it puzzled her somewhat that he would even do it, much less be so adamant about her attending—especially when word of the prince's retreat would likely be a heated topic of every conversation. In spite of his insistence that her absence would be misconstrued as an insult to the Dowager Lady Forbes, there would be few who would regard her presence as anything other than an affront.
    Unfortunately, it was too late to balk now. They were through the gates and in the drive, pulling to a halt near the sweeping front staircase. When Angus helped her out of the coach, he held her hand a moment longer than necessary.
    “What is it? Is something wrong?”
    The hood of her cloak had slipped back, revealing her cloud of red curls. The blue of her eyes seemed to glow brightly in the torchlight, and her cheeks, kissed pink by the cool air, were fairly luminous against the darkness behind them.
    “No,” he murmured. “Nothing is wrong. I… I just wanted to say again how lovely you look tonight.”
    Anne's breath stopped as she returned the favor by looking into her husband's face. He was heartbreakingly handsome in daylight, doubly so by candlelight, as regal and aristocratic as one would imagine royalty should be. His gray eyes were deep set and surrounded by long, dark lashes. His nose was fine and straight, his mouth so near sensual perfection she doubted that any woman could stop herself from staring at him. Last night, that mouth had been everywhere on her body, bringing her incredible pleasure. Tonight what would it bring?
    “Shall we?”
    Anne's cloak was removed inside the foyer. The day rooms, parlors, and family dining hall were on the ground floor, all lit by multitiered chandeliers, with the south-facing rooms giving access to the rear terraces and manicured gardens. The second story boasted an arched hallway with eighteen-foot ceilings supported by solid oak columns; ithoused the grand ballroom, which, for the next few hours, would be converted into a banquet hall. Following the meal, the tables would be cleared away and dancing would commence, the musicians playing tirelessly through until dawn.
    The upper floor with its multitude of bedrooms was reserved for important guests or those who had traveled too far to consider returning home the same night. In happier times, ten miles would have been deemed much too great a distance after a long evening, but Anne doubted the invitation to remain over had been extended once the reply acknowledging her attendance was received.
    Duncan Forbes and his wife, Mary, stood at the top of the stairs, greeting their guests. Beside them was their only son, John, and his vapid bride of less than a year. Neither father nor son was striking enough to have drawn attention in a crowded room. Both had sallow complexions that were not flattered by the heavily powdered periwigs curled as tight and precise as their personalities. They had long, sharp noses and protruding brown eyes, mouths that were thin and stern, chins whose characters could have benefitted from beards.
    Another relative, the Reverend Robert Forbes, stood alongside a nephew, Douglas. The latter was modestly more invigorated in appearance than the rest of his family, for he possessed a youthful, almost handsome face. If the reputation he was developing with the ladies was accurate among the gossips, he was also a throwback to his grandfather, the late and greatly lamented “Bumper John” Forbes, who had begun the tradition that was still in evidence—that of opening a large anker of whisky and setting it alongside the host and hostess, the contents to be ladled generously into cups to welcome each guest.
    It was Bumper John's widow who was celebrating her eightieth birthday, not a moment too soon. A tiny, wrinkled gnome with the familial brown eyes bulging from beneath a ridiculously oversized wig, Lady Regina Forbes perched on a thronelike chaise between her son and grandson. In one hand, she clutched an ear trumpet that she was barely able to lift; on the other, she wore so many rings it drooped like a deadweight over the arm of the chair.
    While Anne waited with her husband to be