The Scottish Duke Read online

  He watched as her eyes narrowed, her thin nose flared, and her flush grew a deeper red.

  “Leave her alone,” he said. “She doesn’t deserve your antipathy.”

  “She’s used the situation to better herself,” she said. “She’s a maid, Alex, yet you’re treating her like an equal.”

  Mary had been living in what was little more than a ruin when she came to Blackhall. She and Ruth were daughters of an impecunious earl. What would have happened to her if he’d hadn’t offered her a home? A thought that evidently had never occurred to her.

  “The child will be an embarrassment, Alex. A shameful reminder. A bastard.”

  “You need to leave,” he said, annoyance seeping into his words. “I have work to do.”

  “Of course,” she said, moving to the door. Once there, she turned and studied him. “You will take my words to heart, though, won’t you?”

  He nodded, intent on getting her out of his office.

  When she was gone, he sat once more, staring at the title of the treatise but not seeing Jason’s careful penmanship. Instead, he saw Lorna’s face, carefully expressionless as Reverend McGill called her a whore.

  Evidently, there was more than one narrow-minded bigot in the vicinity.

  Chapter 15

  Every morning, Nan trotted off to Blackhall, enjoying her new popularity. People were curious about Lorna, and since Nan was also living in the gamekeeper’s cottage, they went to her for information. Her friend was an expert at saying nothing while seeming to say something.

  “They want to know if the duke has visited,” Nan said this morning.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That if he had, I wouldn’t know, working alongside them all day.”

  “He hasn’t,” Lorna said.

  Each one of her needs had been taken care of, including food. One of the girls from the kitchen brought her noon and evening meal, complete with entrée and a dessert. She was being treated like a valued guest, which meant she didn’t have to lift a finger.

  She was also being ignored by the Duke of Kinross.

  Peter sat in the kitchen carving a header for the front door. After that, he informed her, he was all for making the cradle a little fancier. The duchess had brought that on her last visit.

  “It’s the Russell cradle,” the duchess had said. “Every Russell child has been placed in that cradle.”

  Neither of them mentioned this child wouldn’t officially be a Russell. Instead, he would carry the Gordon name.

  “It needs something, Lorna,” Peter said when first viewing the plain wooden cradle. “Some flowers, maybe. Thistles or something.”

  She was in the process of sketching what she’d like him to carve, a task she thoroughly enjoyed and one that kept her from thinking about anything else. She found herself so involved in her drawing that she didn’t hear anything until Peter cleared his voice at the door.

  “Begging your pardon, Lorna, but the duke is here.”

  “Ask him to come in,” she said, staring down at her journal and trying to compose herself.

  In seconds he was standing at the entrance to the parlor, removing his coat.

  Today he was dressed simply in a white shirt and black trousers. But no one would mistake him for a servant or worker on the property, regardless of his casual attire. First of all, his shirt was too blinding white, indicating that it was a special item of care in the laundry. Probably the laundress herself worked on it. Secondly, and more important, he had an air about him, one of command, perhaps, or maybe it was simply of belonging.

  She told her heart to stop beating so fiercely, but it was no use. One glance at him and she changed from the woman she knew herself to be to the girl who’d watched him from behind the ferns and fronds in the conservatory.

  It hardly seemed fair that he was so beautiful and a duke. It was as if all the good fairies had been present at his birth, determined to visit every blessing on this child.

  May he be intelligent.

  May he possess the ability to charm.

  May his smile bestow such magic that people will recall it forever.

  May he be the most handsome of men.

  Would those magical beings have also granted him a certain enchantment when it came to women? Would they have transported themselves into the future, seeing not the bairn but the man? It seemed as if they had, because he certainly possessed carnal talents.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he said, glancing down at the journal on the arm of the chair. “What are you working on?”

  She smiled, and although she didn’t normally like to show her incomplete drawings to anyone, she held out the book.

  “Something to adorn the cradle,” she said.

  “The family cradle?” he asked, taking the book from her. “It can benefit from some adornment.”

  “Peter will be doing the work. He’s very talented,” she added. “Have you seen his carvings?”

  “I haven’t, but I’ll rectify that situation as soon as possible.”

  He didn’t hand her back her journal, but began to look at the other pages. She wanted to ask him to stop but was too late. One page in particular caught his attention. He angled his head and studied it.

  Oh dear.

  “I didn’t realize you drew anything but herbs,” he said, showing her the page that interested him.

  Eyes and more eyes filled the page. His eyes glancing to the left or right or staring straight ahead. She’d been fascinated with his eyes.

  She glanced away, focusing on the view from the parlor window.

  “Peter isn’t the only one with talent.”

  She glanced back at him.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Your sketches are only in pencil,” he said. “Why is that?”

  She blinked at him, surprised. Even the duchess hadn’t noticed that and she’d studied her father’s book for some time.

  “I don’t have the money to purchase any watercolors,” she said. There, the truth, given to him without fanfare.

  He stood there silent and unspeaking, making her wonder what he was thinking.

  She had this odd and unsettling wish to reach out and touch his face, to stroke the edge of his jaw and brush her knuckles against his skin. She wanted to bury her face in the crook of his neck and breathe in his scent.

  The afternoon was advancing, the shadows lengthening. Soon it would be dark and Nan would return.

  It was safer to stare out the window again than at him. From here she could see a wing of Blackhall, the sloping lawn leading to the forest and beyond. As a servant, she’d often explored that area, since she had no family to visit on her half days off.

  “I’ve brought you some books,” he said. “And a table and two stools. The former was my idea, the latter my mother’s.”

  The duchess hadn’t forgotten. Lorna hadn’t wanted to remind her, thinking that to do so would be rude.

  “Will you show me where you want the table?” he asked.

  He held out his hand, and she had no choice but to place hers in it. With a little effort, she was standing, but too close to him. She wanted to take a step back but the chair was there. She could always sidestep but was very much afraid that her belly would come into contact with some part of his body.

  He shocked her by placing his hand on her stomach, resting it gently against the fabric of her dress.

  Not a word passed between them. He didn’t comment on how large the child was or how ungainly she appeared. Nor did she remove his hand.

  A minute passed, then another. Finally, he dropped his hand, his head came up, and he regarded her silently.

  “You don’t have to be solicitous of me,” she said. “I don’t demand it of you. Nor do I expect it.”

  “I think, perhaps, you should.”

  With that surprising comment he stepped back.

  She led the way to her bedroom, since Nan was using the smaller chamber, and indicated the back wall. To
her surprise, he didn’t call for his driver to assist him. Instead, he and Peter moved the furniture themselves. In a few minutes everything was in place.

  He smiled as he passed her. She walked to the front door, to find that he hadn’t brought the carriage. Instead, he’d come to the cottage in a pony cart.

  “She’s Old Gretchen,” he said, glancing at the pony as he reached for the books in the cart. “She’s a sweet little thing, but she’s stubborn.”

  Old Gretchen turned her head and stared at her, the expression in the pony’s big brown eyes one of irritated acceptance. Almost as if the animal were saying, You and I, we are in this together. We have to do as we are told, but we don’t have to like it.

  “A pony cart?” she said, stepping back into the warmth of the doorway. “I didn’t know that Blackhall had such a thing.”

  “It dates from when we were small. A present from my father.”

  She could instantly see them, the children of Blackhall laughing as they rode over the paths winding around the castle.

  “Old Gretchen, does she date from that time, too?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled with an effortless charm. She was going to do her best to remain unaffected by him.

  “No, that was Angus. Poor old boy’s been gone for a few years now.”

  “Yet you still have a pony.”

  “Mary’s to thank for that. She rescued Old Gretchen from someone who was ill-using her. I think she paid twice what the pony was worth.”

  Mary was, no doubt, nicer to animals than she was to the people who served her. Was it something the peerage were trained to do in the nursery? Along with learning their letters, were they taught to ignore anyone who wasn’t their rank? Or if they did notice them, to treat them with derision?

  He stopped and looked at her.

  “What is it? Have I said something?”

  She shook her head and he blessedly dropped the subject.

  “I found a few volumes on herbs,” he said, glancing down at the books in his hands. “And one on Blackhall, in case you were interested.”

  “I recognize the books on herbs. They’re from the library. I confess that I borrowed a volume or two from time to time,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  Books were to be read, and when they weren’t, it seemed almost sad. She knew he used the great library at Blackhall, but she doubted anyone else did. One of her tasks had been to dust the books periodically, and she could always tell which volumes were well-used and which had never been moved from their spot on the shelves.

  “I wouldn’t have if I’d known,” he said. He joined her at the door. “Are you going to tell me what annoyed you?”

  She had a choice: to be entirely honest with him or to attempt to be as charming as he was being. She had little hope for the latter and she doubted the wisdom of the former.

  “Lorna?”

  She glanced up at him. He’d used her name before, but had he ever studied her so intently? The effect was disconcerting; it was as if he could not only see her, but into her.

  He entered the cottage, closing the door behind them. She watched as he put the books in the bookcase in the parlor and returned to her side. Slowly, probably to give her time to move away if she wished, he reached out and took one of her hands.

  Her fingers curled around his. For just a moment it seemed as if they were in perfect accord, if one could discount their circumstances. She could almost envision the tableau they made: duke and female servant. A girl in trouble because of the lascivious attentions of a peer. A story of ruination that might have appeared in one of the scandalous newspapers she’d been forbidden to read as a young girl.

  But it hadn’t exactly happened that way, had it? She was as much to blame as he for that night. Perhaps more so since she’d stepped outside her station.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “You really don’t want to know, Your Grace,” she said.

  “And if I said I did?”

  “Honesty might be a great virtue,” she said. “But it can be overrated. Besides, I’m here on sufferance, although I’m sure you won’t admit it. If I make you angry, what’s to keep you from snapping your fingers and banishing me from Blackhall?”

  Where would she go then?

  She pulled her hand free and walked into her bedroom again.

  He followed her.

  “You think I’m that much of a monster?”

  She turned to face the duke.

  “You’re not a monster at all, Your Grace. I don’t know you. Despite what we might have shared and share now,” she added, glancing down at her belly, “I have no idea who you are.”

  “Then why does it annoy you when I try to show you? Or if I want to learn who you are as well? Do you want my word that I won’t banish you from Blackhall regardless of what happens between us? Then you have it. I give you the freedom to say anything you wish or do anything you want to do. I shall not retaliate in any way. You have my word, and no one can say that I’ve ever broken my word.”

  She studied him for a moment before speaking.

  “I’ll tell you what annoyed me. I’m going to ensure that my son notices everyone. He’s not going to behave like a segment of society is completely invisible. He’s not going to be served and waited on and cleaned around without being aware of the people who do that work.”

  She’d tested his new declaration, hadn’t she? A muscle flexed in his cheek, a sure sign that he was irritated. Perhaps her rough edges were rubbing against his. Not that he would admit to having any, but she knew the Duke of Kinross a little better than she’d admitted. He was occasionally brusque, periodically insensitive. She didn’t know if he was capable of changing or of even wanting to, but if he meant what he said, she had at least a modicum of freedom to question his behavior.

  “I fluster people,” he said. When she looked at him in surprise, he continued. “Mrs. McDermott requested that I don’t address the maids. She said they giggle when I do. It stops them from their work.”

  He was right about that. Whenever one of the girls had an encounter with him, it was recalled in rapturous, sighing detail at their meals.

  “Because you look like a prince,” she said.

  Not at the moment, however. He was scowling at her. Did princes frown so forcefully in novels?

  “I never considered that Mrs. McDermott had asked you to avoid the staff,” she admitted. “I doubt, however, that it’s your sister-in-law’s problem. Nor can I imagine anyone giggling after an encounter with her.”

  “I’m sorry about Mary,” he said. “She said she visited you. I’m sorry for her rudeness.”

  “How do you know she was rude?” she asked.

  “It’s Mary we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  She bit back her smile.

  “Shall I talk to her?”

  “Good heavens, no. Please don’t do that. It would make the situation worse. At least I no longer have to clean her rooms.”

  There, she’d mentioned her circumstances. She could see the situation as it was and not as she wanted it to be, as Nan had always counseled. She was a former maid at Blackhall. She and the duke had a fateful encounter one night, that’s all. She was not charmed by him. She felt nothing for him but gratitude.

  “She can’t be allowed to be rude to you, Lorna.”

  She only smiled, not setting him straight. Mary could be rude to her, and she would be, in tiny ways that would never be seen by anyone else. She knew people like Mary. The sister of an inn owner where she and her father used to stay was of similar character. Lorna’s sheets were scratchy, her soup cold, and any comments or requests were always met with innocent eyes until her father turned his back. Then the woman would mouth some insult and Lorna knew she was being singled out for torment simply because she’d once complained to her father about the woman’s treatment.

  One of the maids at Blackhall had been as sly, but Mrs. McDermott hadn’t been fooled by the girl. A
n accusation of theft lodged against another maid had been disproved and the sneaky lass sent home.

  However, it would be better, if more difficult, if she remembered her father’s adage. When she achieved perfection, she could dictate how others behaved.

  “What are you going to do here?” he asked, placing his hand on the top of the table.

  She sent him a quick smile, grateful for the change of subject. She was not going to let Mary Taylor ruin her mood.

  “I’m going to arrange my herbs and perhaps develop new teas.”

  “Your landlady didn’t destroy your supplies?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I was able to save most of them.” She bent, and would have retrieved the small casket containing the most valuable herbs from inside the trunk, but he was there before her.

  “Let me,” he said. “You sit. Tell me what to do.”

  She folded her hands atop her stomach, biting back the questions that immediately came to mind.

  Why was he being so charming? Why, for that matter, did he want to know so much about her? Why did she think it would be better—and safer—if he remained the aloof Duke of Kinross?

  Chapter 16

  Lorna perched on one stool while he sat on the other retrieving items from the small trunk.

  He was surprised to see that she had a wide arrangement of bottles, from pale green to dark brown, some with stoppered tops. Others had corks carefully carved to fit.

  “Were these your father’s?” he asked. She nodded, then smiled, the sweetness of the expression causing him to stop and stare at her.

  “My father never threw anything away. We went from city to city carrying items we didn’t need. But he could never part with the perfect bottle or the ideal funnel. Or even mixing spoons. I’m a little more ruthless.”

  Or she couldn’t afford to transport more than she could carry. He could almost see her, regretfully discarding something her father had treasured, tucking away the memories it evoked, but ridding herself of the physical object.

  He thought of Blackhall and the possessions of generations of people still occupying the attic and spare rooms. Without trying he could find a snuffbox with his grandfather’s initials or a hand mirror his great-great-grandmother had used.