Till Next We Meet Read online

  She folded her arms in a mirror image of his stance and glared at him. “Perhaps some other time we can discuss my wardrobe, Moncrief. At the moment, we have another, greater problem.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Do you know what Juliana is doing with the scraps from dinner?”

  “Giving them to the poor? Feeding them to the pigs?”

  “Either of which would be acceptable,” Catherine said. “No, she is having Cook make them into another dish.”

  Cook curtsied. Not a good sign that the cook was tall and skinny. Did she not eat her own cooking?

  “It’s true, Your Grace. Her Grace does not like food left over. She thinks it’s wasteful. So she has me scrape all the plates into a large pot, and I serve it the next day to the servants.”

  “I trust that wasn’t what she’s planned for tonight,” Moncrief said, his stomach rolling.

  “It is not, sir. But I have all the leftovers from dinner to feed staff this morning.”

  “That will not happen, Cook,” Catherine said, turning to her. “I have never heard of such thriftiness in my life. Even at Colstin Hall, Moncrief, we never treated the servants like they were rutting pigs.”

  “Nor will we here,” Moncrief said. “How many servants do we employ?”

  Glynneth appeared, and he realized she’d been standing behind the curved wall. In her hand was a large book, and she glanced down at it before answering him. “One hundred seventeen, Your Grace, all in various functions. Fifty-seven house staff. The remaining servants either work in the fields or in the stables or outbuildings.”

  “Send the scraps to the farm, Cook,” he said, before turning and leaving the room.

  Catherine followed as he hoped she would.

  He turned at the end of the corridor and faced her. “I take it you have appointed Glynneth as our new housekeeper?”

  She frowned at him again. “I have. She had experience at Colstin Hall, and with a prior employer. Do you have any objections?”

  He studied her for a moment. “I am willing to agree to your choice, if you are willing to concede one minor point to me.”

  She folded her arms again. “What would that be?”

  “I am tired of your eternal black. Although the color suits you, I would much rather see you in some other shade.”

  She opened her mouth as if she started to say something, then thought better of it. He wanted to congratulate her on her restraint. The last thing he wanted to hear at this moment was Harry Dunnan’s name.

  “Do we have an agreement?”

  “Yes, Moncrief, we have an agreement. But you are not to badger Glynneth. Allow her to do her job.”

  He smiled, and she no doubt took it as assent. In actuality, he was amused and pleased. Up until this moment, her speech had been carefully reserved. Today he’d heard a vestige of the woman he’d known from her letters.

  He turned and walked away, only to stop when she called out his name. He glanced over his shoulder at her.

  “Thank you,” she said. The stones seem to absorb the sound, but he heard it nonetheless. He sent a smile in her direction and left her before he was tempted to do more.

  His first meeting was with the farm manager, Munson. The man looked happy to see him, his face crinkling into a sunburst of wrinkles as he smiled. Munson was one of the few people he remembered from his youth. His clothing was worn but clean, his tall leather boots were scuffed but brushed. He looked exactly the same as he had fourteen years ago.

  “Lot of changes here lately,” Munson said around the stem of his pipe. “Don’t think your father would’ve been happy with most of them. He was a man who understood that the land owns you more than you owning the land.”

  Moncrief had grown up with Munson’s pronouncements, always dour and always profound.

  They inspected the stables that housed thirty-six stalls for horses. Only three of them were occupied. The outbuildings were in need of repair. Doors were falling off their hinges, and roofs needed to be patched. At the end of the survey of the castle and its close environs, he turned to Munson.

  “Why has everything gone to hell, Munson?”

  The old man clamped his teeth around the pipe and stared at the ground. He created an arc with the toe of his boot and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

  Finally, he looked up again, took the pipe out of his mouth, and spat. “It wasn’t me, Your Grace. It was her.”

  He jerked his chin toward Balidonough. “I thought your father was thrifty with a coin, but I’ve never yet seen a skinflint to beat her in the last six months. She begrudges the chickens their feed. She’s fired half the farm workers, saying that we should keep most of the fields fallow. Where does she think she’s going to get all the money to hoard? Balidonough isn’t just a pretty place,” he added in disgust. “The land needs to be farmed.”

  “The damage I’ve seen took longer than six months, Munson.”

  “Aye, that it did. Your brother had other things on his mind. Well, truth to tell, they both did, enough to beggar Balidonough.”

  Moncrief raised one eyebrow. “Jacobites?”

  Munson nodded.

  One thing from Moncrief’s past hadn’t changed. He’d always found it odd that as close in temperament as his brother and his father were, they’d disagreed on one fundamental point. His father had no love for those who’d instigated the rebellion while Colin had evidently drained Balidonough to support the Jacobite cause.

  That would change today.

  “I’m surprised the castle hasn’t fallen down around our ears. The east wall needs shoring up and the chapel roof’s sprung a leak. I’ve been trying to make do as I could, but I’ve been losing against the duchess. When I heard you were coming home, Your Grace, these old legs almost danced a jig.” He puffed on his pipe some more, then smiled again. “You’ll begging my pardon, Your Grace, but I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my entire life.”

  What would his father think to know that Moncrief had returned after all these years, that the third son, wastrel and ruin, was now the twelfth Duke of Lymond? He could almost hear his father’s voice echoing through time. You will not fail, Moncrief. You will do your duty.

  What other choice had he? Balidonough was his birthright, the castle more than brick and mortar and stone. Instead it was a heritage, a past, and a future that he somehow needed to protect.

  In the last fourteen years, he’d been faced with challenges, some of them meaning the difference between a man living or dying. At this moment, however, not only did he have the problem of Balidonough to solve, but he had a suspicion that Catherine would prove even more daunting a trial.

  Why had he married her? A tiny voice, no doubt the voice of his conscience, knew full well why he had taken advantage of the situation. He had wanted with Catherine what they’d had during their correspondence, a melding of the minds, a union of thoughts and feelings that hinted at, then promised, more. But he was as far from that goal as he was of turning her thoughts from the damnable Harry Dunnan.

  Perhaps he should write her again.

  Dearest Catherine,

  I am home again, in a place I dreamed of for so many years. And I’ve brought you here, a woman who confuses, irritates, and charms me.

  You love with such fervor that I wonder if you will ever surrender Harry. Life is for the living, Catherine, and I wonder if time will teach you that essential lesson.

  How do I battle a ghost, especially when that ghost is me?

  Chapter 9

  “Why do I have to be introduced to a group of strangers?”

  Catherine stared at herself in the mirror. Tonight they were hosting a dinner for Juliana’s friends. A command performance, she had been told.

  “They’ll leave soon enough,” Moncrief said, when he’d told her about the dinner plans. “They simply want to get a look at you and me.”

  “Is it absolutely necessary?”

  He’d only smiled at her, in the same way the yo
ung maid who’d been assigned to her since Glynneth’s promotion to housekeeper was now smiling: a patient, kindly smile one would give to the village idiot.

  The young maid continued to arrange her hair in a style much more formal than anything she’d worn before. Her hair had been swept back, artfully arranged curls cascading down to rest at the back of her neck. Through it all, Mary had wound a lavender ribbon, which had been further adorned with small pearls.

  Mary, who had been assigned to her in a promotion of sorts, had been with the staff for three years. She was a sweet thing with a milkmaid’s spotted complexion and a regrettable shyness. Catherine wished she was more talkative, but she’d said hardly a word since being assigned to her. With Glynneth’s elevation to housekeeper, the only person Catherine had to speak with was Moncrief.

  Sometimes silence was wiser.

  Tonight she was wearing lavender, a gown Balidonough’s seamstress had constructed for her in the last week. It was a lovely creation, simple in design, with trailing sleeves and an underskirt of cream linen. She’d gone from black to lavender in deference to her arrangement with Moncrief.

  “I feel woefully unprepared for tonight,” she confessed to Mary.

  “You look beautiful, however, Your Grace.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “It is not kindness, truly…” Mary’s words trailed away.

  Catherine looked up to find Moncrief standing in the doorway. She nodded to Mary, who put down the comb she was using, curtsied, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Moncrief still didn’t speak, and after a moment Catherine fumbled with the bows adorning the front of the gown.

  “I’ve never seen you dressed in anything but black before,” he said finally. “I thought the color suited you, but I was wrong.”

  She glanced up to meet his eyes in the mirror and looked away, uncomfortable with his steady gaze.

  “Then I take it you don’t disapprove?”

  “On the contrary. You look lovely, but then, you always do.”

  Why did being around Moncrief always make her uncomfortable? Especially now? The décolletage of the dress had not been too low earlier, but now it felt as if the whole of her chest was exposed for his gaze. She glanced toward the door to the hall, wishing she could escape as quickly as Mary.

  “Have the guests begun to arrive?” she asked, desperate to have him leave. Moncrief could simply enter a room and dominate it by his presence. No wonder the staff were spending most of their time bowing or curtsying around him.

  “Not yet. Are you anticipating their arrival?”

  “Dreading it, actually.”

  “You have no reason to do so. They’ve come to meet you.”

  “To gawk, you mean.”

  “Let them gawk. You’re the Duchess of Lymond.”

  “Did your men always obey you?” she asked, wishing the question back the minute the words were out of her mouth.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I was thinking that most people at Balidonough seem to fear you.”

  He didn’t say anything, and when she glanced he was smiling at her. The expression so startled her that she stared at him for a moment before looking away again.

  “I think what you see is uncertainty, because people do not know if I’m more like my brothers or my father. My father ruled with a tyrannical hand while I suspect my brother didn’t rule at all.”

  “Which are you?”

  “Neither,” he said shortly. “I am Moncrief.”

  He’d said that before, in just that tone of supreme confidence. She envied him that, and his fearlessness.

  “Do you not care what other people think of you?”

  “I have never found that it was an exercise much to my liking,” he said. “Especially not since I am paying their wages.”

  “Do you not care what I think of you?”

  “I am torn, Catherine, between giving you the truth and sweetening it for your benefit.”

  “By all means, Moncrief, give me the truth,” she said when she found her voice.

  “Very well. You will form your own opinion over my actions and my words. It would be best, therefore, if I simply act as myself.”

  Once again, he had the effect of transporting her from one emotion to the next, as if she were a runaway coach on a crooked road. She careened from confusion to irritation and back to confusion again.

  “The people who are attending this dinner tonight are important in the neighborhood,” he said.

  She nodded, having been given the guest list by Juliana. Minor nobility, the religious leader of the community, a few widows, and three prosperous landowners and their families. More people then Catherine had entertained in all her years at Colstin Hall.

  “I would appreciate it if they were left in ignorance of the nature of our marriage.”

  She turned on the bench and regarded him. Sitting with hands clasped and knees together, she hoped she looked the very picture of propriety. Her father had been a wealthy man and had sent her to a dame school, providing for her education as well as any parent, duke or farmer.

  “Is their opinion important to you?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “However, I’m a private man and would prefer that the exact nature of my personal dealings be left that way.”

  She rearranged the comb on the top of the vanity with one finger, carefully not looking at him.

  “Are you afraid of me, Catherine?”

  “You’ve never before given me a reason to feel afraid, Moncrief.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “You’ve allowed some of my staff to come with me from Colstin Hall, a concession that most men might not have made. You’ve allowed me Harry’s trunk. The fact that you do not smile often does not take away from your cordiality. Instead, it’s a personal characteristic, like your height. Your…largeness.”

  “I’m large?”

  “Do you not think so? You tower over the footmen. Even Wallace has to look up at you.”

  “I sound like an amiable giant.”

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

  “Perhaps I should be grateful that your compliments are flavored with vinegar. I will forever be humbled by them.”

  Had she offended him?

  Blessedly, he turned and left the room.

  Then, just before he closed the door between their rooms, he hesitated, then strode across to room to stand directly in front of her. He stood so close that the skirts of her dress covered his boots.

  She looked up at him, at the impossible height of him, irritated that he would stand so close that she would have to tilt her head backwards so far to see him.

  “I neglected to give you this,” he said, and held out his hand.

  He was not yet done with surprises. Sitting on his palm with the arrogance of Moncrief himself, was an enormous ring. A brilliant cut sapphire, surrounded by rubies and emeralds, sat sparkling in a gold setting.

  “What is it?” she asked, reaching out her fingers to touch it. But she didn’t take it from him.

  “An ancestral ring, given to the Duchess of Lymond at the occasion of her wedding.” She still had not taken it from him, so he hooked one finger around it and held it out to her.

  “Juliana could not have surrendered it without a struggle,” she said.

  His laughter startled her.

  She looked up at him, thinking that she’d never heard Moncrief truly laugh before. The sound bemused her so much that she actually reached out and took the ring.

  “It is a very gaudy piece, isn’t it?” she asked, fixing her attention on the setting rather than Moncrief. All in all, the jewels were a less disturbing sight than Moncrief, amused.

  “It has been in the family for generations, so I cannot claim any responsibility for the setting.”

  “Must I wear it?”

  “Do possessions of any sort not impress you, Catherine?”

  She thought about the question for a mome
nt. “I don’t think I’ve ever liked or disliked a person because of what they owned, Moncrief.”

  “But you aren’t singularly impressed about Balidonough?”

  “Balidonough? It’s your home.”

  “And if I had brought you to a cottage, what would you have thought of me, then?”

  “Nothing more or less than I do now. Are you Balidonough, Moncrief? Or are you yourself? You can say that you are duke, but who is the man?”

  He studied her for a long moment, not the first time he had done so. She was uncomfortable, however, with this perusal, sensing that it went deeper than his normal examination. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but that was an intrusive and almost intimate question. Nor was she entirely certain she wanted to know. She had the impression that she had disappointed him in some way.

  “It’s a pity then, that I am not simply the colonel of the regiment since none of my possessions impress you.”

  “I didn’t say they failed to impress me. Balidonough is a magnificent place. But should I judge you by a structure?”

  “It might be easier,” he said. “What other criteria would you judge me on?”

  She sought kinder words this time. “Your honor. Your decency as a human being. Your generosity.” She realized as she enumerated all the qualities upon which she might judge him, that he had been exemplary in all of them. Scooting to the end of the bench, she stood. At least this way he did not tower over her so much.

  Catherine stretched out her hand to show that she slipped on the ring. Before she could withdraw it, he had captured her wrist. Gently he slipped the ring off her right hand. Giving her no chance to escape, he slid the gold band from her left hand and replaced it with the Lymond ring.

  Then, before she could protest or even feel a surge of resentment, he turned her hand and bent his head and very gently kissed the center of her palm.

  “There,” he said. “Now you are my bride.”

  Not until he left the room did she realize that he’d not returned Harry’s ring to her.

  The rain had delayed the coach, which meant that Glynneth would have to explain away her tardy return to Balidonough. Even though Catherine was generous, almost foolishly so, she deserved an explanation.