Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

Quince Winthrop. “Saw it just here,” he indicated the small table with the vase of heather spilling over the edge.
    “Here?” Fergus peered around the base of the vase. “Don’t see it.”
    “Nay. Just at the side there. I’m sure of it.” Alasdair picked up the vase, so there would be no mistake, no missing the wee silver box.  
    But there was no mistaking that the table was now empty. The snuffbox was gone.
    It had been right here—he had seen it himself. It had to still be right there. Unless… “Did you pick it up from here, and then misplace it perhaps somewhere else?”  
    “I don’t think so,” Fergus answered Alasdair’s first question. “But I say, auld mon, ye seem to have lost something as well. The buttons on the back of your coat. They’re gone.”
    “The hell you say.” Alasdair whirled around, grabbing up his coattails to have a look. And there, where only an hour ago the shining silver buttons had winked at him in the mirror, there was only plain, unadorned, blood red velvet.
    Well, damn him for a fool.

Chapter Three

    The Honorable Fergus McElmore’s snuffbox was all but burning a hole in her pocket, but it was really her conscience that was on fire.  
    She ought not have taken it. She really, really ought not. But the box had just been sitting there. Calling out to her. Reminding her that one tiny silver and enamel box could feed many, many little mouths.
    But the very bad fact of the matter was that she could resist neither the temptation, nor the slippery jangle of anticipatory excitement that had set her pulse to beating from the moment she’d decided she would take the glittering little prize. Nor the illicit thrill buzzing through her veins now that she had the tiny container safely stowed away. The thrill that was as addictive as any opiate. And addicted she was—she would always be tempted.
    Yet, even such clear-sighted self-awareness did little to curb her magpie habit.
    Quince escaped the ballroom by slipping into the withdrawing room, where she might splash some cool water on her cheeks, and calm her hectic pulse. As nervy as she felt, it would quite likely show. Someone—meaning her nearly omniscient mama—would think she had been doing more than sparring with Strathcairn if she looked all flushed and giddy.  
    No fool Mama.
    And then there was Strathcairn, no longer earl thereof but marquess, who might put one and two together, and come up with a sovereign—which was about as much money as she would get from melting down the silver from the buttons and snuffbox.  
    Speaking of which—the ruddy buttons were still digging into her skin. She tried to shift the press of her stays, but nothing worked. “Jeannie?”
    “Mileddy?” The withdrawing room attendant, a local dressmaker who had once been Quince’s personal maid, came to her feet. “May I help ye?”
    There were other young ladies taking advantage of the withdrawing room as well, so Quince would have to be discreet. She gave Jeannie a subtle nod before she adjusted her bodice in a way that made the two buttons fall silently to the floor at her feet, and raised her voice. “Yes, please. I’m afraid I’ve torn the lace on my bodice. If you’d be so kind?”
    “Certainly, mileddy.” Jeannie picked up her basket full of sewing notions and spools of threads in every color, and set it on the floor before she got to work, while Quince smiled over her shoulder and murmured greetings as other young ladies and matrons came and went.
    “There ye are, mileddy.” Jeannie bit off the thread, and scooped the buttons into her basket amongst all the other notions. “And let me get ye a cool cloth. Ye’ve gone a bit pink in the cheeks.”
    “Thank you, Jeannie.” She pressed the linen to her face, and adjusted her clothing   “That’s better.”  
    She had been smart to come, and take a moment to calm down and collect herself. There was a time to rise to a challenge, and a time to hide away, and save