The Scottish Duke Page 17
Nothing mattered but Robbie. The child’s parentage was unmistakable. It was like looking in a mirror, albeit a younger one.
The sight of that tiny chest rising and falling, his feet kicking the blanket, the mouth pursing and relaxing, was enough to render Alex silent and awed.
For the first time in three years he allowed himself to think of that poor infant who hadn’t survived his birth. He would have been like Robbie, each small breath he took the promise of another. Whether the child had been his or not didn’t matter. He should have felt the loss regardless.
In the silence, he faced Ruth’s ghost, bowing his head in the face of that death as well. He’d been numb and angry, feeling lost and stunned. Had he ever felt the grief? He’d been a young man when he fell in love with her. He’d never believed that she would betray him, but she had. Yet the young man who’d loved Ruth had never had a chance to feel pain at her death. He hadn’t just created a moat around himself. He’d built a wall.
In the last three years he’d thought himself complete. Oh, there were niches and hollows in his life. Until now, until this moment, with Lorna asleep and his child in his arms, he hadn’t known how empty the hollows or how cavernous the niches.
He had a wife. He had a son.
He carefully placed Robbie in his cradle and sat watching as the two of them, mother and son, slept.
Alex had been reared to understand that he was steward of Blackhall and his other estates. He comprehended that it was up to him to make wise decisions to increase the family coffers.
Until now, he’d never felt the weight of responsibility so keenly.
He had a wife. He had a son.
He reached out a hand and covered Lorna’s where it lay on the bed. Somehow, it was necessary to make a connection with her, to let her know he was still there.
His wife.
Her long eyelashes lay atop the shadows beneath her eyes. Her cheeks were pink, her mouth the same color. Someone had brushed her hair and it lay against the pillow, almost summoning his touch. One finger did just that before he returned his hand to cover hers.
He had a wife.
He’d never thought to marry again. Never believed that it would be important to do so. He’d already had his heir in his uncle, if anything happened to him. Now he had a son.
Thomas probably wouldn’t be happy. Or it could be that he’d be relieved.
He had a wife.
Lorna sighed in her sleep, and he wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her that he was there, watching over her.
In the last hours, he’d been too terrified to draw a deep breath. When he first heard his son’s newborn cry, it wasn’t for him that he was concerned. His first question had been about Lorna.
His wife.
He would have to arrange for her transport to the castle. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or should they wait a week or so? He didn’t know, but it was somehow important that she take her rightful place at Blackhall.
She hadn’t seemed all that pleased during the ceremony. Of course, she’d been in labor at the time. Was she unhappy that he was her husband? Surely other unions were built on flimsier ground.
He had a wife.
Of course she was his wife. It had almost been destined the moment he’d taken her from the Wittan Village square and brought her to this cottage. The moment he’d kissed her in the rain. The moment he’d seen her standing there with her towering white wig and gold mask.
They were destined to be together, a thought as sharp as a blow to his chest.
The strange convoy he’d arranged made it by degrees to Blackhall. The first carriage held Lorna, the baby, and his mother. The second held Peter, all of Lorna’s belongings except for her herbs, and Nan.
Alex sat beside Lorna, watchful for anything that could cause her discomfort. His mother was giving him what he considered her “Russell look,” something she’d borrowed from his father. Comprised of a frown, watchful stare, and thinned lips, it as much as shouted: I’m disappointed in you. You have not lived up to the expectations I had.
Other than insisting on transporting Lorna to Blackhall, he hadn’t done anything but accede to her wishes. How was he to know that he’d violated all the tenets of new motherhood?
“She isn’t supposed to move for two weeks, Alex. Nor get out of bed. You try giving birth and you’ll understand.”
Lorna didn’t appear worse for the disruption. In fact, her eyes were sparkling when she did glance at him. Most of her attention was devoted to Robbie, and the ease with which she handled the baby amazed him.
They weren’t going to take the formal entrance. Instead, they would enter the back way, normally used by tradesmen. He didn’t want Lorna subjected to the intense scrutiny of the curious staff. Nor was she dressed for her first appearance as a duchess. In fact, she wasn’t dressed at all. His mother had brought one of her French nightgowns, laboriously embroidered by some nuns in a convent in France. He’d wrapped his greatcoat around her to keep her warm. The thick white cotton was too virginal for his taste, especially since his wife didn’t appear the least virginal with her hair around her shoulders, her pink cheeks, and the pink mouth that reminded him too much of her kisses.
He’d been intoxicated by Lorna’s kisses.
His wife. He should repeat the words a few hundred times and maybe he wouldn’t be feeling so . . . not out of sorts as much as confused. No, confused wasn’t the right word, either. He was befuddled, perhaps. Bemused. Beneath it all, whether befuddlement or bemusement, he was strangely happy. He hadn’t expected to be happy at this moment. Nor had he anticipated feeling this odd buoyancy accompanied by an unfamiliar peace.
Was it being a new father? Or was it being Lorna’s husband?
She glanced at him again as if hearing his thoughts. Her smile lit up something inside him. He liked her. An odd realization to have at this moment. He admired her, and he didn’t think he’d ever used that word about another woman.
He’d spent hours thinking about her, trying to understand the former maid with her artistic talent and her determination.
When his father died, along with Moira and Donald, it had been a dark and terrible time. But he’d had his mother to give him emotional sustenance and never had to worry about his next meal. Lorna had, but she hadn’t appealed to the parish poorhouse. Nor did she live off the charity of others. Instead, she’d come to Blackhall and worked as a maid.
He’d visited Mrs. McDermott last week and asked her a question that had concerned him for a long time.
“Why did you employ her, when she had no references or experiences?”
When she hesitated, he moved to assure her that he wasn’t criticizing her decision.
“It’s my curiosity,” he said, trying to explain. “You maintain an admirable staff, Mrs. McDermott. In fact, I’d say that no one could do a better job at Blackhall.”
Once she was appeased, she told him what he wanted to know.
“I felt sorry for her, Your Grace. She was so brave, but it was evident that getting the job was important to her. Even a matter of life or death. Poor lass, it was obvious she hadn’t eaten well for some time. But she had a way about her, you know?”
Yes, he knew.
He wondered what Mrs. McDermott would think to learn that he’d married the young maid, the courageous lass with the sparkling brown eyes and the enchanting smile. She certainly hadn’t approved of him moving Lorna into the cottage.
When they arrived at the castle, he sent Peter to fetch three other young men along with a chair. All four men could be trusted to keep their counsel and not talk about this ignominious arrival.
In the interim, he assisted his mother and then Lorna from the carriage, carefully transferring his well-bundled son from his mother’s arms to his grandmother’s.
“You might not get him back,” he said to Lorna after watching his mother’s face. In her eyes was a joy he hadn’t seen for many years. She cooed to Robbie and he stared up at her, transfixed.
&nb
sp; Lorna only smiled at him, placed her hands on his shoulders and allowed him to half lift, half carry her to the ground.
When the chair arrived, she looked at him quizzically.
“If you’ll sit,” he said, having been informed that stairs were a difficult feat for a new mother, “the footmen will carry you to the second floor.”
His mother nodded approvingly, then ignored them all as she carried Robbie into Blackhall.
They climbed the steps slowly in deference to Lorna’s condition. The baby gave out a wail, summoning all their attention. Alex had not yet gotten used to his son’s cry. It tore the skin off his back and alerted all his senses. He immediately wanted it to stop. Either Robbie was hungry or wet or was frightened. Someone had to fix the situation now.
His mother began to bounce the baby in her arms, a curious rocking motion that evidently soothed Robbie. The baby still wanted his mother, since he turned his head and began beating on his grandmother’s chest.
“Look here, son,” Alex said, going to his mother’s side. “There’s time enough for petulance, but this isn’t it.”
Before his mother could stop him, he scooped Robbie up in his arms and resumed his journey up the grand staircase, all the while addressing his son.
“When we get your mother settled, there will be time enough to make your needs known. Only ten minutes, that’s all I ask.”
Robbie stared up at him, one fist inserted firmly in his mouth.
It was strange seeing his features melded in this perfect little boy. Something creaked open inside Alex, a gate he hadn’t known was closed, a door that had never been unstuck. Something new and novel flooded through him. Gratitude, perhaps, or something else. Joy, pure, sweet, and elemental, nearly swamped him.
They watched each other, father and son, as he entered his suite. Robbie was reclaimed by his grandmother and Alex was banished as Lorna was settled into the bed.
He stood in the sitting room glancing around at the chamber he’d occupied since he was sixteen. Everything was the same, from the oil painting of Blackhall above the fireplace to the escritoire crafted in Edinburgh on the far wall. The scarlet curtains were exactly as they had been for a dozen years, hemmed with gold fringe and held back with braided gold ties.
Nothing was out of place yet everything had changed.
The carpet was scarlet, with the same blue leaves found in the family crest. As he walked over it he remembered all those occasions when the maids had been on their hands and knees with a brush and a pail of spent tea leaves. Had Lorna been one of them?
In his mind he saw her all those times when he’d deliberately ignored the staff. She nodded to him in the hall. She smiled at him when he was entering his library as she left it. She was here, dusting the Chinese urn on the hearth or the potpourri pot on the bookshelf. She diligently brushed away nonexistent dust from the sofa and the wing chairs arranged in front of the fireplace. Or maybe she even emptied the ashes, getting soot on her cheek.
The curtains on the three tall windows had been opened, the view the approach to Blackhall. He knew that just beyond the copse of trees to his right, hidden from his view, was the cottage.
How many times had he stood there in the last month wondering if Lorna was well, if she needed anything, if she was happy with her decision to return?
Now she was in his bedchamber, being settled into the tall and wide bed that had belonged to Russells for generations. His son would rest beside the bed in his cradle, an heirloom that Lorna had seen fit to alter. Where before it had been utilitarian and almost ugly, now it was beautiful.
What else would she change at Blackhall?
Even now he could feel the wall thinning between him and other people until he could almost see through it. He was going to be weakened. He could almost feel the target on his back, the stuttering of his heart as it readied for the moment it was shredded.
He had to do something, anything, to protect himself.
Chapter 20
Lorna didn’t sleep well that first night, since Robbie insisted on eating every two hours.
The first time she got up, she sat on the edge of the giant bed and fed him, then tried to find the nappies. She finally located all of Robbie’s clothing in an armoire in the dressing room where she’d also found Alex, sleeping on a cot that didn’t accommodate his height or breadth easily. His feet were hanging off his impromptu bed, uncovered. She stopped herself from rearranging his blanket. He might be her husband, but they were little more than strangers.
She got what she needed and crept back into the bedroom. Once Robbie was changed and dry, she put him into the cradle again, dozing until he woke once more. That was the tenor of her night: sleep, feed him, change him, sleep, repeat.
She was in no mood for Matthews’s rudeness just past dawn.
Lorna knew Alex’s valet, but she didn’t like the man. Matthews was too officious, too conscious of his position as the duke’s personal servant, a role he bragged about endlessly.
Now the valet was staring at her as if she’d committed a sin worse than spilling wine on a priceless carpet. Perhaps she had; she’d married the duke.
“Where’s His Grace?” Matthews asked, taking in the cradle and Lorna’s disheveled appearance in one glance.
Pulling up the sheet, she covered the bodice of her borrowed nightgown and forced a smile to her face.
He, of course, was sartorially perfect as always.
His face was round, almost pudgy, with a double chin. He’d always appeared brown to her, with his thick brown hair and brown eyes that were always narrowed. He had a barrel chest with short legs and a curious way of walking. She often wanted to ask him if he’d ever been at sea because he had the rolling gate of the sailors she’d seen in Inverness.
She and Matthews didn’t converse, however. She wasn’t on his level, a fact he’d made perfectly clear when she was on staff.
“He’s in the dressing room,” she said.
The man was an inveterate gossip, passing along all sorts of stories. He didn’t really care if they were true; what mattered to him was whether they were salacious. Or if he’d learned the tale before anyone else. He would, no doubt, pass along that the duke had been sleeping on a cot.
She might as well tell him the rest.
“His Grace and I were married yesterday,” she said.
He stopped halfway to the dressing room but he didn’t turn around. Had she startled the man into apoplexy? She doubted it.
Matthews slowly turned, looking her up and down in a contemptuous perusal.
“You’re the Duchess of Kinross?”
She was grateful for the Dowager Duchess’s warnings, but she honestly hadn’t thought that a member of the staff would be the first to ridicule her.
Although she didn’t know anything about being a duchess or a wife a day ago, she hadn’t known anything about being a mother, either, and she was managing that well enough.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m the new duchess.”
Matthews didn’t say another word, just marched across the expanse of the room and into the dressing room, closing the door harder than necessary. Didn’t the fool care if he woke the duke?
Evidently, he didn’t care about waking the baby, either.
Robbie let out a startled wail. She sent an annoyed glance in the valet’s direction before picking up her son and bringing him into the bed with her. Arranging the covers in a mound to give her some privacy in case Matthews came storming out of the dressing room, she put Robbie to her breast.
He fussed for a bit, making her wonder if he could feel her irritation. Or maybe he was sensitive to her fear.
She didn’t want each day to be marked by confrontation. She didn’t want to have to justify her existence each time she encountered someone like Matthews. Would the rest of the staff behave in a similar fashion? Nan hadn’t, but then, she’d been the truest friend imaginable.
Robbie finally settled down. For the next ten minutes she was left in peace
with her son, the problems of her new position pushed aside for more elemental concerns. Would she be a good mother? Was he getting enough milk? Was she doing this right?
She concentrated on Robbie’s intent, determined infant face, seeing in his focus more than a hint of his father. Would they be the same in temperament? What would it be like to rear someone like Alex? She needed to ask the duchess.
A sound made her glance up to see Alex standing there, appearing ducal. His black suit showed off his snowy white cravat. He was freshly shaved, hair brushed and shining.
She, no doubt, looked like a maid who’d worked all day, more than a little messy and in need of a wash and a change of clothing.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, he spoke. “We have to arrange for a lady’s maid for you.”
“Good heavens, no.”
One eyebrow went up, an expression she’d seen the duchess wear. Part incredulity, part irritation, it gave her a clue to what he was thinking.
“I haven’t the slightest interest in having a lady’s maid. I would probably offend her on an hourly basis. ‘What are you doing nursing your child? Why isn’t he in the nursery? You should be thinking of your wardrobe rather than your son.’ I have absolutely no intention of being dictated to by another person.”
“Has anyone dictated to you?”
His eyebrow regained its normal appearance as he walked toward her. He sat sideways on the edge of the bed, one knee drawn up, and reached out with one hand, stroking a finger over Robbie’s cheek.
“He’s hungry this morning,” he said.
“And all night.”
“Were you up all night?” he asked.
“Don’t sound so surprised. Your son is a voracious eater. Every two hours he wants another feed.”
His palm cupped the baby’s head tenderly.
“You didn’t answer me. Has anyone dictated to you?”
“No,” she admitted. “Although Matthews is in a snit.”
“Matthews is always in a snit,” he said, smiling. “You just have to learn to ignore him.”