Flirting with Ruin by Marguerite Kaye Page A

through Spain, Portugal and ultimately France had been spiked with embassy balls, diplomatic gatherings and ad hoc parties in the officers’ mess. But though his hard-earned rank made him eligible, his reputation made him courted, and the very rough edges of his upbringing had long ago been smoothed over, Major Fraser Lennox was not a man who enjoyed the pomp and ceremony that accompanied such affairs. He found the dancing insipid, the finer nuances of sophisticated flirting tedious, and he was not inclined to adultery, no matter how many excuses the gore and guts of war, the imminence of death that hung its pall over them all gave the wives who offered themselves to him. It was that same pall of death that had kept him single. He would not take a wife when the odds were he would make her a widow before long.
    It was a lonely life, but it was the only one he knew, and now it was over he had no idea what to do with himself. Rootless and restless, Fraser did not miss the act of war, but he missed the cut and thrust of campaigning, the constant testing of his nerve and stretching of his intellect. He missed the edge it gave to life. At heart, he was a bold and reckless man; it was what had made him such a successful soldier. He feared how he would fare, leading a life that required none of those qualities.
    Which was not to say he was incapable of enjoying this gathering of honest working folk celebrating an arduous year’s labour. It was a pleasant enough interlude before the main event that had brought him here to Derbyshire. He had danced, enjoying the carefree gusto that the Castonbury villagers threw into the rollicking reels and jigs. He had danced with the prettiest girls and the oldest women. He had danced with the Queen of the Harvest and with Mrs Moffat, the landlady. It had been fun. It had been a very pleasant distraction from the very unpleasant task that lay ahead tomorrow. But Fraser was tired now, contemplating a walk to clear his head before retiring, when he saw her framed by the doorway and immediately changed his mind.
    It was her hair he noticed first, a flaming Titian red, piled carelessly up on top of her head. She was not stick thin but nicely curved. What’s more, she didn’t have that pale, about-to-faint look about her that seemed to pass for beauty these days and that he could not abide, having seen too much real hunger and want in his travels. This woman exuded health. Energy vibrated from her, from the deep, vibrant red of her curls, which seemed to have a life of their own, to the crimson of her lips, the glow on her cheeks. And those eyes. Big blue eyes. Fraser had always loved big blue eyes.
    Who the devil was she? Not a villager, that was for sure. One of the Castonbury servants? A lady’s maid, unable to keep to the family mourning? Abandoning his position by the window embrasure, Fraser decided to find out for himself.
    He was a moment too late. Before he could reach her one of the villagers beat him to it, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her, unresisting, into the crowd. The tables had been drawn back against the wall to form a dance floor on the flagstones. Three fiddlers played a raucous tune. Fraser watched as she danced, swaying gracefully, smiling up at her partner as he steered her clear of an overexuberant couple just in time. She was lovely. Not beautiful, but lush. Not as young as he’d first thought. Not a girl, but a woman. Built like a woman too. Hips. He liked a woman to have hips, though perversely, he didn’t like the way her partner obviously liked her hips too. The man’s hand was on her bottom. She wriggled free, placed his hand back on her waist, still laughing, so that the farmer took no offence. A light touch she had, though she was obviously no light touch.
    When the music ceased, she was immediately claimed by another. And then another. Fraser watched, content to watch, content to bide his time.
    * * *
    Rosalind was aware of him watching as she was