Must Be Magic Read Free

mistakenly offered. “Shall I run upstairs and slip into something more to your liking? In red, perhaps?”
    Dunstan glanced down at her wide black skirts, then focused his gaze on the expanse of bosom exposed by her low-cut gown. “Scarlet seems appropriate.”
    The lady’s sensual perfume of roses and jasmine wafted around him, and Dunstan stiffened. He didn’t want to notice her at all, but she stood taller than most women, reaching past his chin in her heeled shoes. His gaze fell in direct contact with her lacy black cap, forcing him to notice how her tight, powdered curls accentuated her rouged lips and darkened lashes. Despite the white powder, he knew she was a Malcolm, and she’d have sun-kissed blond hair like all the rest of her kind, along with eyes that could ensnare and bewitch. He refused to look down and fall into the trap.
    Nodding curtly in dismissal, ignoring Ninian and Drogo, Dunstan spun on his heel and strode blindly for what he hoped was the card room.
    The lady’s exotic perfume clung to his senses as he departed, and raw hunger clawed at his insides.
    It had been that way with Celia.
    Never again. He would put a bullet through his ear before he became enthralled with another aristocratic, conniving female.
    Especially a Malcolm. He had enough disaster in his life without courting more.

Two
    Women pulled their skirts aside as Dunstan passed. Men scowled. Card tables emptied when he showed an interest in the play.
    The clawing at his insides became a hot anger he could taste on his tongue. He didn’t need this pack of rats and jackals. He had only put in an appearance because Drogo requested it, and he owed his brother far more than he could ever repay.
    Loosening his confining neckcloth, Dunstan located the door to the balcony and stepped outside to let the familiar elements feed his soul. He’d never been a part of the fashionable London scene that his wife had adored—the scene that should have been his by birthright. Instead, his spoiled earl of a father had chosen to hide Dunstan’s rustic mother and her uncouth sons in the country while the earl dallied in London with his aristocratic mistress.
    His father’s neglect had taught Dunstan to live without society. He’d grown up in the village vicarage of his mother’s brother, had learned from his maternal grandfather to respect the land and nature. London’s decadence had never called to him.
    Of course, if he’d made even the slightest effort to enter society, Celia might be alive today.
    Guilt joined the cold damp of the London fog permeating Dunstan’s bones. Behind him, through the brilliantly lit glass, he could hear the poignant notes of violin and flute. Couples executed elegant dance steps and whirled about in colorful silks, laughing, flirting, arranging trysts. Celia had become a part of that world without him.
    His innards writhed in an agony of discomfort. He had no place here. His abilities related to the land, not people. Experience had taught him he could only hurt people.
    The land his grandfather had left him was little more than a useless bog he couldn’t afford to drain, but Drogo had offered a few acres of solid ground for Dunstan’s experimental crop—a fodder that would revolutionize farming by growing large enough to feed a flock of sheep all winter. This was the hope his future turned on, not this glittering artificial world.
    He didn’t have time to plant the seeds before returning to his tedious duties as estate agent for the Marquess of Hampton. The marquess’s heir demanded his presence in Gloucestershire two days hence. Even dealing with the marquess’s foolish son, Rolly, was far better than enduring an entire city of brainless fribbles.
    Leaning against the cold balcony rail, Dunstan fretted over the lack of time to plant his valuable crop, concerned about leaving it in the dubious care of Drogo’s steward.
    Now that his