The Scottish Duke Page 2

  The two dresses she’d been given on coming to work at Blackhall Castle were comfortable and only necessitated one petticoat. After all, one didn’t expect a maid to be the height of fashion.

  After her father’s book was published and she no longer needed to be employed, she was not going to worry about what she wore. She’d wear something both comfortable and pretty.

  Turning her head to her right, she watched as lightning illuminated the lawn and the encroaching trees. The woods were so dark and so ominous that she sometimes had the thought that the trees pulled up their roots and made a slight step toward Blackhall each night. All the other plants, plus the undergrowth and saplings, obediently followed their elders. If the gardeners weren’t industrious enough, perhaps one day the forest would be right outside the window when she awoke. Instead of the turrets and the fireplaces of Blackhall, she would see only branches and leaves waving good morning.

  A man leered at her. She looked away, only to find herself the object of another man’s stare.

  Did they know she was an imposter? A woman in fancy dress who didn’t belong with all these dignitaries and important invited guests?

  The women with their bright smiles didn’t seem all that different from the maids with whom she served. Perhaps their accents were better. They had servants to help them dress, to inspect them before they left their rooms, and to arrange their belongings. They were fortunate in that they weren’t dependent on only themselves for sustenance and survival. They had families with wealth or they’d inherited fortunes and homes.

  Some of the girls who worked at Blackhall had been educated far above their stations. One girl had a penchant for numbers and helped Mrs. McDermott with sums. Another spoke three languages and amused the others by translating several sayings they could use when a footman or Lord Thomas Russell was too “handsy,” a word one of the maids had devised to describe the Earl of Montrassey’s habit of trying to feel up the staff.

  She hadn’t been around the peerage growing up. Her father’s friends were learned men who preferred either traipsing through woods, bogs, and marshes, or conversing in smoky, dark pubs. One or two had a title, but they always went by first names and didn’t make a point of flaunting their positions.

  In her lessons before she’d been allowed to take up her duties, Lorna was informed by Mrs. McDermott that the Earl of Montrassey was the Duke of Kinross’s incumbent heir.

  “Isn’t the duke married?” That had been the last personal question she’d been permitted to ask.

  “No, poor man. He’s a widower. Her Grace died some three years ago. In childbirth.” The housekeeper shook her head. “The wee one didn’t make it, either.”

  She didn’t even want to think about how terrible that had been.

  Was that why the duke walked every night? Why he stared up at the sky as though seeking answers from the stars?

  She couldn’t imagine such pain. Losing her father had been torture enough, but your wife and your child?

  The terrace door was to her right. If it hadn’t been raining, she would have escaped the ballroom with its heavy air and warmth for the clean, bracing air of a storm. No one came up to her to converse. Nor did they question her presence.

  But she hadn’t come to the ball to dance or to mingle with the guests.

  Straightening her shoulders, she scanned the crowd again.

  Where was he? Where was the duke?

  Alex noticed her first because of her stillness. The woman in the gold brocade dress was the only person in the ballroom who wasn’t animated by laughter or speech or movement. She stood straight as a reed, her hands resting, palms down, on the enormous skirts of her dress. She wasn’t smiling, but she was observing. Her gaze behind the gold and black mask darted to the left and right. She reminded him of a gosling hawk, smaller than the others but as fierce when provoked or when hunting.

  Who was she hunting?

  The footman was standing to his left, waiting patiently for him to trade glasses. Good lad, he was both obedient and diligent. This was Alex’s third whiskey, and it was finally beginning to numb some of the anger. With any luck he could get through the rest of the night without accusing anyone or making a scene.

  He was the bloody Duke of Kinross. What he said was deemed important, so he damn well better have his facts right before he opened his mouth. He was so damnably important that the tides would swell and the planets realign if he were wrong.

  Perhaps he should wave the footman away when the lad appeared again. If he could leave this place, he would retreat to where there were no people, no curious gazes, and no women with their tentative smiles.

  The woman in gold wasn’t batting her eyelashes at him.

  He took another sip, watching her.

  “You should have won the damn medal, especially since it means so much to you.”

  He turned his head to see Thomas standing there. “That’s not a criterion, Uncle.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have anything to do with those idiots at all. You should take up hunting. Your father was a great hunter.”

  “I have no intention of taking up hunting, either.”

  Maybe he’d have a few more of those whiskeys after all.

  “Why are you wasting time talking to me?” Alex asked. “Aren’t there any available wives around you could seduce?”

  His uncle had the same black hair as his father’s. Thomas’s eyes, a crystal blue similar to the eighth Duke of Kinross, were often red, the only indication that the night before had been spent in debauchery. Lately, over the past few years, his face had begun showing signs of dissolution, the clean-cut jaw sagging with the first sign of jowls. His cheeks and nose were often pink. But the charm was still there, evident in the twinkling of bloodshot eyes and the smile that so effortlessly graced his mouth.

  “People are watching you, Alex.”

  “People are always watching me, Uncle.”

  “You’re not acting yourself,” Thomas said.

  “Just how the hell am I supposed to be acting?”

  “Like a host, not a petulant child.”

  He smiled at his uncle. He knew that Thomas didn’t give a flying farthing how he acted. His mother had probably sent his uncle over to lecture him.

  Alex allowed his gaze to travel over the crowd, noticing that more than a few of the women were looking in their direction. Even the woman with the pompadour had turned to glance at him, her gaze finally still.

  He got a jolt from that look, as if she’d somehow absorbed the power of lightning and was transmitting it to him. Moments passed and he held her gaze. The whiskey in his glass was forgotten. His annoying uncle became invisible, the cautionary words he was speaking inaudible.

  He knew her. Or maybe he just wished to know her.

  “Are you listening to me, Alex?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  With some difficulty, he turned his attention back to his father’s brother. Thomas had been a surprise to his grandmother, the story went. Born some twenty years after his older brother, Thomas had been only ten years old when Alex arrived and altered his future.

  Had Thomas resented his future being altered?

  How strange that he didn’t know and, until this moment, hadn’t cared to ask. Still, Thomas bore one of the family’s lesser titles, the Earl of Montrassey. Because he was also Alex’s heir, he was considered a Master by Scottish law, but thank heavens no one had to address him in that manner. The Church of Scotland would have had a fit.

  “I was given to understand that I was in contention for the award,” Alex said now. “I think someone leaked my findings to Simons.”

  “What does it matter, Alex?”

  “It matters, Uncle, because it’s three years of my life. It’s work I did. It’s my ideas that were stolen, my research.”

  “You’re the Duke of Kinross. You’ve got better things to do than going around the county coating people’s fingers with soot.”

  “I apprec
iate your sentiments,” he said, pushing the words out with some difficulty. He added another hard-won smile, hoping Thomas would go back to finding a bed partner for tonight.

  The woman in gold stared at him, her brown eyes sweeping down his body.

  Was it the whiskey warming him or her gaze?

  He took another glass from the footman, nodded his thanks and drank half of it in one swallow.

  She smiled slightly, a worldly expression, one that told him she had noted his anger. If she couldn’t understand it, at least she recognized it. No one else had.

  Or maybe they had.

  Except for the glances when he’d entered the ballroom, he’d been left alone. No one came up to greet him. No guests complimented him on the decor of the ballroom or the quality of the refreshments. No one said a word about his appearance or glanced toward the dance floor in an unmistakable hint.

  He didn’t dance and most people knew that. Certainly the women with whom he’d been associated over the years. Some people had the patience for the activity and the prattling conversation that accompanied it. He didn’t.

  The woman in the golden gown didn’t glance toward the dance floor once. Nor did her gaze ever shift from him. She was daring and direct and just what he needed tonight.

  “Your Grace.”

  The footman was at his side with a full glass of whiskey on a silver salver. He shook his head, surrendered his empty glass, and strode toward the woman, giving up spirits for another, suddenly more important, thirst.

  Chapter 3

  The duke was the most handsome man she had ever seen. She knew she wasn’t the only female at the castle who stopped or slowed her duties when he walked past. His blue-green eyes were such an unusual shade that she could have stared at him forever. But it wasn’t just his eyes that made him stand out from other men. His face was square and strong. He had a cleft in his chin and twin dimples, one on either side of his mouth. They showed even when he wasn’t smiling.

  The Duke of Kinross didn’t smile often.

  Instead, he could turn his eyes on you, making you feel as if you were melting into the floor. She didn’t doubt he could command her to do almost anything and she would have done it without a word of protest.

  He’d never spoken to her. Not in the two years she’d been at Blackhall Castle.

  She’d seen him in his kilt before, attire he wore for formal occasions, but had never seen him appear as fierce as he did tonight. He stood there with his uncle, staring at the inhabitants of the ballroom, his face as immobile as stone, his eyes fixed on a point she couldn’t see. Tall and commanding, he was the perfect duke, an imposing descendant of all those stalwart men portrayed in the gallery on the third floor. Not one of those ancestors, however, was as handsome.

  He made her think of the Highlanders of hundreds of years ago. Men who fought against themselves or the English. She wondered about the story of the first Duke of Kinross, who’d been rewarded for his courage with a dukedom, and had built this castle that was added onto over the years.

  Alexander Russell, the ninth Duke of Kinross, was a devastating man. Yet he was a mystery, too, wasn’t he? Aloof and unapproachable, except on those nights when he watched the skies and she watched him.

  Suddenly, he turned his head and looked straight at her.

  Did he recognize her? Was that why his face suddenly stilled?

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She should have asked Nan to loosen the corset a little, but she wouldn’t have fit into the dress otherwise. At the time, she’d reasoned that fashion dictated the dress be tight around her chest. Now she felt as if she were going to faint. That would be a disaster, wouldn’t it? Not only would she call attention to herself, but she’d be found out.

  She’d saved most of her wages for the last two years, but it wasn’t enough to live on, not permanently. She’d been more than lucky to be introduced to Mrs. McDermott. She couldn’t be dismissed, especially without a reference.

  A thought she should have had a day earlier.

  Lorna pressed her hand against her waist, watched the duke slowly walk toward her. People parted as he passed, curious glances following him. He was Moses and they were the sea. He was a hot knife and they were butter. He was the Duke of Kinross and they were only observers to this tableau of disaster.

  The door was to her right. She could escape the ballroom, go down the terrace steps and around to the conservatory. There, she could hide until she was certain no one would see her gaining access to the servants’ stairs. She would retreat to her room, remove this damnable dress, and lecture herself sternly. No doubt Nan would think that she had finally regained her senses.

  He was coming closer. His gaze hadn’t moved from her face. Was he going to shame her in front of everyone? Would he pull the mask off? Would he banish her in the storm? Or would he simply demand to know why she was here?

  She would tell him anything but the truth, that she’d wanted to see him and be seen. For once, she didn’t want to be invisible. This one time, let the Duke of Kinross see her, Lorna Gordon. Not a maid, not one of the silent army that served him. Let him see her as a woman. Let them exchange a few words, even if it was polite banter.

  Not once had she considered that he might impale her with his gaze, or that he would march on her like a Highlander intent on capturing an English city.

  What did she do now? Terror rooted her to the spot. Her hand reached out and grabbed the handle of the door.

  She suddenly wanted to be outside, to experience the wind, to tilt her head up to see the fast-moving clouds. But if she opened the door, people would turn to look at her. A few of the women with their elaborate hairstyles would frown in her direction.

  “Go ahead and do it,” a voice said at her elbow.

  He was here. He was here.

  At least he wasn’t going to shame her in front of everyone.

  “Go ahead and open the door,” he said. “I’ll join you on the terrace. Let them fuss at us both.”

  If anyone looked at her, it wasn’t so much in condemnation as it was curiosity. Who was this oddly dressed woman and why was she with the Duke of Kinross?

  Her heart was beating fast. Her mouth was dry. She had imagined being this close to him before, but she’d seen herself being witty or flirtatious or so intelligent that her comments impressed him. She hadn’t envisioned being struck dumb.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Relief surged through her, making her knees weak. He didn’t know who she was.

  “I don’t recognize you.”

  For an eternity of seconds, words simply failed her. Did she tell him she was a neighbor? A guest of a guest? What did she say?

  “Marie Antoinette?”

  Thank God. He was talking about her costume dress.

  She opened the door and walked onto the terrace. He followed her, closing the door behind them. The wind pushed against the impossible towering wig until she thought it was going to topple. She reached up with one hand to hold it in place, startled by his laughter.

  “I’m surprised your dress hasn’t sailed you over the railing,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better if we went back inside.”

  No, not that. People would listen to their conversation.

  The rain began, coming down in a curtain. He pulled her off to the side, where the roof overhang protected them. It didn’t prevent the wind from dampening her face, however, or no doubt ruining the fabric of her borrowed dress.

  She should move, should protest. Any of the other women in the ballroom would have done that. Or would they? Would they have remained silent, too, in favor of spending a few quiet moments with the devastating Duke of Kinross?

  The light from the ballroom was pressed back by the storm, leaving them in a curiously shadowed world. Hardly proper, was it, being with him in such a secluded place?

  “Can I be Marie Antoinette if I don’t speak French?” she asked.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I’ve nev
er learned.”

  “A startling direct answer,” he said. “Are you normally direct?”

  What a curious question. His smile was crooked and amused. It took her a moment to realize that the Duke of Kinross was well on his way to being in his cups, or as her father would say: soused to the gills.

  Now she knew she shouldn’t be here with him. If he were any other man, she’d leave. She wouldn’t even bother making up an excuse, just grab her unmanageable skirts, find the steps leading down from the terrace, and flee as quickly as she could.

  Instead, she stayed where she was, one hand holding onto her wig, the other at her waist.

  They might have been two servants who met at the market. Or he might have been a cobbler to whom she was bringing a broken shoe. Not a duke and his maid, pretending to be someone else for a little while.

  “I’ve never been asked that before,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m direct or not.”

  His smile made his dimples deepen. What a beautiful face he had. She could stare at him for hours. Was he used to people looking at him? Did he think it was because of his title? Or did he realize it was because he was so handsome that others’ eyes just naturally gravitated to him?

  “Who do you belong to?”

  Another odd question, but she had a response to it. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

  “Who brought you here? Who is your escort? Are you married? Do you have a fiancé?”

  She really did have to make up someone now, didn’t she? Should she invent a husband?

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I want to know if someone’s going to pummel me if I kiss you.”

  The bird that was her heart had escaped from its cage and was now fluttering wildly in her chest. She could barely breathe. The silly wig was being buffeted by the wind, but so were the windows. She could hear them shivering in their panes.

  She loved a storm. She loved being out in it, regardless of the danger. She would sometimes tilt her head back to feel the rain baptizing her face. In those moments, she was as elemental as the first woman. Yet she’d never felt like she did right now.