The Scottish Duke Read online

  Kneeling on the hearth in the cottage’s parlor, he began to build up the fire.

  “You know how to make a fire, Your Grace?” she asked.

  He glanced at her, his greatcoat around her shoulders. She was dwarfed in it, but at least she was warm. A good deal warmer than he was at the moment.

  “My parents were determined that I wouldn’t be helpless. I can also tie my own shoes, obtain my own food, and shave myself.”

  “I’ll bet that doesn’t please Matthews,” she said.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Do you know him?”

  Of course she would. Maybe he just wanted to ask her opinion of the valet. It wasn’t forthcoming.

  “You should take your coat back,” she said.

  “No. You keep it. At least until you’re warmer.”

  Standing, he went to her. “There’s nothing I can do about your hands. We have to buy you better gloves.”

  “I can’t afford a cottage, Your Grace, but I can get my own gloves.”

  She was stubborn, a trait he’d already noticed, but at least she wasn’t foolish. She’d come with him without a fuss. She’d known there was no possibility of remaining in Wittan.

  “The reverend is a fool,” he said.

  “The reverend is Church of Scotland.” She smiled. “He was only spouting what he believed. I am the Whore of Babylon to him. I’m the epitome of all things bad and horrible. Children should be spared the sight of me. Men are tempted by me. I’m an example to women of what not to do. The wages of sin and all that.”

  He guided her to one of the two overstuffed chairs in the cottage’s parlor.

  “All that?” he said as she removed his greatcoat and sat.

  “All that,” she said.

  He placed his coat on her lap so she wouldn’t get cold, letting his knuckles graze the curve of her stomach.

  “You should rest,” he said.

  “I’ve already taken a nap. I feel like I sleep all the time.”

  “You were tired.”

  “I’ve been tired for the last month,” she said, smiling.

  His command of the English language often failed him around her. Another irritant to add to the list.

  He glanced toward the fire. “A puny effort,” he said. “I need more kindling.”

  “I think it’s well done for the first one you’ve made in years.”

  How did she know that?

  Her smile was teasing rather than mocking, an expression that deserved a response. He smiled back at her. They were, in that moment, in perfect accord.

  Naked, they hadn’t had any difficulty communicating. Perhaps he should just shut up and kiss her, a thought that had the effect of emptying his mind.

  For a long moment he simply stared at her.

  “I’ve sent for Mrs. McDermott,” he finally said, sanity coming back to him in short bursts. “Also, a contingent of maids to set the cottage to rights.”

  She glanced around her. “All I see is a little dust,” she said. “I could take care of that.”

  “You have enough to do.”

  “What have I to do?” she asked, again with that teasing smile.

  “Unpack your trunk. Settle in. Prepare yourself for being a mother.”

  She looked up at him and there were questions in her eyes. Once more he wanted to say something to her, but the words wouldn’t form. He wanted to ease her mind about the future, to apologize for the cruelty she’d endured today. He wanted to offer some explanation for the world in which they lived, a society that held women to account but not men. Most of all, he wanted to do something more than stand there, ducal and authoritarian, maker of an inept fire.

  “I’ve also sent for Peter,” he said. “He’s one of our footmen.”

  “I know him,” she said. “Very tall, bright blond hair and a contagious smile.”

  He nodded. “That’s Peter. He’s going to be assigned to you. Send him to Blackhall if you need anything at all. Plus, I’m having your meals delivered three times a day. That way you won’t have to worry about cooking.”

  She was blinking rapidly. “You’ve been very kind,” she said.

  Once again he wanted to say something, but words flew from him like caged birds set free.

  “An hour or two more, that’s all, and then you can settle into your bed.”

  She nodded and he moved away to stand in front of the poor excuse for a fire, willing it to burst into flame.

  In moments Charles returned with the housekeeper and three maids, all of them wide-eyed and standing in a straight line as Mrs. McDermott marched forward to speak with him.

  She was a tall woman on the thin side. Her hands were large and capable; he’d seen her beat a rug one spring morning. Her face was thin, too, her cheekbones prominent as well as the ridges where dark brown eyebrows sat ready to frown at one of the staff. Keeping her face from severity was a head of lustrous brunette hair alive with red and gold highlights and a ready smile that often curved her mouth.

  She wasn’t smiling at the moment, however.

  “Miss Gordon will be staying here,” he said. He hadn’t figured out a way to adequately explain the situation, but hoped she would be able to read between the lines. “I need the cottage readied for her. Sheets on the bed, dishes in the kitchen, that sort of thing.”

  She nodded, her face giving nothing away. If she disapproved, he wouldn’t hear of it from her.

  “We’ll do a fast clean, Your Grace, and schedule more for tomorrow. Would that be acceptable?”

  “Excellent, thank you.”

  She turned to give out her orders.

  “Abigail, you’ll see that the kitchen is tidy. Hortensia, sweep and mop. Nan, you’ll ready the bedchamber.”

  They all nodded and dispersed to handle their duties. He noted that one of the maids—Nan, he thought it was—waved to Lorna with her hand down at her side. Lorna smiled in return.

  He followed Nan into the bedroom.

  The woman who was turning the mattress was short, barely to his shoulders. Her black hair was arranged in a bun with several tendrils loose around her face. Her cheeks were plump and pink, her mouth small but curved in a pleasant smile when he appeared.

  “Are you Lorna’s friend?” he asked.

  She blinked at him but answered nonetheless. “Yes, Your Grace, I am. Nan Geddes, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy.

  “What is she like as a friend?”

  A curious question, since he’d never once asked a similar question of anyone.

  “I’m not certain what you want to know, Your Grace,” Nan said, frowning. “I would trust Lorna with my life, even though we sometimes disagree about things.”

  “What things?” When she didn’t answer, he tried to explain. “I want to know who she is,” he said. The truth, if she but knew it.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to ask Lorna?”

  “I read something recently that a man is known by his deeds, how he treats animals in his care, and his friends.”

  “Does that apply to women as well?”

  “I would think so,” he said.

  “She works hard. Sometimes too much.”

  “On her herbal remedies,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Not just that. On her father’s book.”

  “Her father’s book?”

  Nan nodded. “Lorna is determined that it will be published. She’s drawn the most beautiful pictures in it.”

  He tucked that knowledge away to think about later.

  “She used to feed the birds here. And a pesky squirrel on the grounds. As for friends, there’s me, of course, but she has a great many friends at Blackhall. People like her.”

  “You live in the servants’ quarters?”

  She nodded. “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “Would you like to live here instead? With Lorna?”

  “Here, sir?”

  “I don’t want her to be alone. I’ve already arranged for Peter to be on duty, but I’d prefer she had a friend
with her.”

  “Oh, sir, I’d be pleased to.”

  He turned to leave, then stopped himself, glancing back at her.

  “Did you disapprove of her living in Wittan?”

  For a moment he wondered if she would answer him.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she finally said. “I did.”

  He nodded, one mystery answered. Now if he could only solve the greater enigma of Lorna.

  Chapter 12

  The duke had protected her from the Reverend McGill, saved her father’s book, and given her his coat. Not only that but he’d settled an amount of money on her so she wouldn’t have to worry about the future.

  The Church of Scotland wouldn’t approve, but they didn’t have to give birth to a child and rear him.

  She didn’t want anyone to think she was the duke’s mistress, but wouldn’t taking his money be the same thing? Probably, but she wasn’t going to be foolish when it came to her child. He shouldn’t suffer for that night. Nor was she going to compound her stupidity by refusing to take aid after she’d been almost banished from Wittan Village.

  When a circumstance changes, you must change with it.

  The memory of her father’s words eased her mind a little.

  She was prepared to face an arrogant duke. She was more than capable of handling him in that guise. But the Duke of Kinross being charming? That was something else entirely.

  Seeing him smile thrust her into the past, into a stormy night when she was pressed up against him, her arms wound around his neck. He kissed her senseless and she’d been desperate for more.

  It was safer if he’d maintained that persona she’d seen most of the time, preoccupied, distant, almost cold, detached from the world as if it didn’t interest him. Only sections of it had, small pieces that he plucked from the main. Until this moment she’d never been one of those fascinating bits.

  She pulled his greatcoat up around her neck, breathing deeply of tobacco and something spicy or exotic like sandalwood. “Do you smoke a pipe?” she asked when he came back into the parlor.

  He shook his head.

  “Why do I always smell tobacco around you?”

  “Do you? I occasionally smoke a cigarillo.”

  She nodded. “That’s it, then.”

  “Is it a displeasing odor?”

  “No,” she said. “Not at all.”

  “Good.”

  “Is that important to you, that you’re not displeasing?”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  Then he did something startling. He bowed slightly before moving away.

  She closed her eyes, mulling over that odd gesture.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  She opened her eyes to see Mrs. McDermott standing there, hands folded at her waist, the expression in her eyes carefully neutral.

  When Lorna first met the housekeeper in Inverness, the woman was visiting friends. Her squarish face had been transformed by laughter and the humor in her eyes. Now, eyebrows arched like question marks over her dark blue eyes. Her mouth, often smiling, currently bore a polite and false expression.

  Mrs. McDermott had always been fair to the staff and approachable. She was the first to defend anyone if she was accused of a misdeed. Although there was a majordomo on staff, most of the footmen preferred to go to the housekeeper if they had a problem or needed an issue addressed.

  Mrs. McDermott didn’t look the least bit approachable at the moment. Instead, the look in the housekeeper’s eyes reminded her of Reverend McGill.

  “Yes, please,” Lorna said now, attempting to rise. “I would like some tea.” It was easier to sit in the overstuffed chair than to get out of it.

  “You sit there, Miss Gordon,” the housekeeper said, reaching out and placing her hand on Lorna’s arm. “I’ll fetch it for you.”

  Miss Gordon? The coolness in the other woman’s eyes was a clue, then, to her reception at Blackhall.

  “I didn’t want to come back, Mrs. McDermott. I didn’t have a choice.”

  The housekeeper didn’t say anything, just stood in front of the chair with her hands folded at her waist. Evidently, she didn’t approve either of the living arrangements or the situation.

  Lorna glanced away, the temptation to cry almost unbearable. If she did, she wasn’t altogether sure she would be able to stop for a while. Instead, she leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

  “You’ll think whatever you want to think, Mrs. McDermott. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want any tea, thank you.”

  She heard the woman move away.

  Finally, they were gone, all of them, even Nan, who’d excitedly announced that she was to live with her in the cottage and wasn’t that grand? Mrs. McDermott hadn’t said another word to her, but her sharp eyes seemed to be everywhere. When the duke had come to stand in front of the chair where she sat, Lorna was conscious of her glance, not to mention the interest of Hortensia and Abigail.

  “There are two bedrooms,” he said. “I’ve had your trunk put in the larger one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You might want to make the smaller room a nursery.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  She wasn’t fine and he seemed to know it. He stood there, making no move to leave.

  “You’ve been very generous. Thank you.”

  “It’s hardly generosity,” he said.

  She nodded, which she hoped would preclude his explanation. She didn’t want him to tell her that anyone would have done the same, or that the duchess had been the instigator, or that the situation called for gentlemanly action on his part. The fact was, silly as it seemed, she wanted him to care for her, to have done all this for her.

  She wanted him to see her.

  Her son chose that moment to roll from one side to the other.

  The duke stared down at her stomach, his expression making her smile.

  “He likes to somersault sometimes,” she said. “Every once in a while I think I can see a foot or a hand poking me.”

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “No. It’s just his way of making sure I haven’t forgotten he’s there. I can’t help but wonder if you were the same.”

  He opened his mouth, shut it again, then opened it once more, as if words wanted to be spoken but he held them back by dint of his will.

  What did he want to say?

  “He’s a large baby,” she said.

  His frown deepened. “Is that unusual?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Especially since you’re very tall.” She patted her stomach as she sat back in the chair.

  “I should be going,” he said.

  She nodded, but he made no move toward the door.

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No,” she said, smiling.

  “Is there nothing you need?”

  “No. I’m used to doing for myself, Your Grace.”

  She wasn’t a cherished guest but a former maid, now hugely pregnant with the duke’s by-blow.

  Suddenly she was so tired she could barely keep her head up. She didn’t have the strength for verbal jousting.

  “Thank you, again,” she said, hoping he took the hint.

  He did. He bowed to her once more. She inclined her head in a gesture she’d seen the duchess make.

  Did he know how handsome he was? Had he been told that by countless women? Did he remark on his likeness when he stared into a mirror? Did he give thanks that he was so attractive?

  At the ball, women had followed him with their eyes as he crossed the room. He’d seemed impervious to their attention. Had a lifetime of admiration made him immune to women’s glances?

  Would their son be as handsome? Would that prove to be an asset or a deterrent?

  “May I call on you?” he asked, further surprising her. “I’d like to make sure you’re all right.”

  �
��Of course. It’s your cottage.”

  “Perhaps you can teach me more about herbs you’ve found at Blackhall,” he said.

  “I’m afraid any explorations are beyond me at the moment,” she said, smiling. “Perhaps another time.”

  She was imagining things. He did not look disappointed. No, she was simply too tired to make sense of anything at the moment.

  He walked to the door, his stride the same as she remembered, the stiffness of his shoulders just as she recalled from all those times she’d watched him. Had he ever known that she sat in the conservatory after her work was done, hoping for a glimpse of him?

  What a fool she’d been.

  What a fool she still was.

  Once she was alone, she laboriously made her way out of the chair and explored the cottage.

  Her new home could easily accommodate a family, with its five rooms. In the bedroom the late afternoon sunlight poured in through the white curtained windows, bathing the white and blue counterpane on the bed. A bureau with a white china washstand atop it, plus a wide armoire of the same walnut wood, sat adjacent to each other on the far wall. The third wall was occupied by a desk and a narrow bookcase, currently empty.

  Instead of a baby’s nursery, she would put her herbs in the smaller bedroom.

  There was even a bathing room, and although it didn’t possess all the fixtures found in the duke’s quarters, it was remarkably modern. The kitchen had a pump for water and an oak table with four chairs. The large parlor possessed two chairs in front of a spacious fireplace—one of the maids had built up the duke’s fire—two bookcases, and a small settee upholstered in a rust-colored fabric.

  The parlor window boasted a view of one wing of Blackhall through the trees. He was so close.

  May I call on you? He might forget she was here or he might come every day. Either would be disconcerting.

  She hadn’t felt this emotional since that stormy night, but now she could easily return to the overstuffed armchair and cry for an hour or two.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Nan said, entering the cottage followed by a gust of frosty air. Her cheeks were bright pink, but so was her nose. She held a valise with one hand and her coat closed with the other. “I knew it would work out. I did.”