The Scottish Duke Page 4

“You did what?” she repeated.

  Nan moved from the straight-back chair where she’d been sitting to stand at Lorna’s lone window. The unremarkable view was of the lane to the square in Wittan Village.

  “I left a note for the duchess,” she said. “I didn’t sign it, though.”

  Yes, that’s what she heard. She couldn’t believe Nan would do something like that.

  “But you told her about me? Why?”

  “Why?” Nan asked, turning to stare at her. Her hands flew out to encompass the small room where they sat. “Look where you’re living, Lorna.”

  “This is the only lodging I could afford.”

  “Your landlady is a horror.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Mrs. MacDonald was nosy, intrusive, and difficult.

  “The duchess needed to know she’s going to be a grandmother,” Nan said. “If nothing else, she could give you some money. How are you supposed to live?”

  “I’m doing fine,” Lorna said. She sat on the edge of the bed watching as Nan paced back and forth.

  “Fine? I wouldn’t call this fine.”

  “I’ve saved all my wages and I go to market every week. I’ve made some good customers, people who will come back.”

  “When the baby is born, what will you do?”

  “The same thing I’m doing now,” Lorna said, clutching her cloak to her for warmth.

  Nan used her half day off to come and visit her. The time they spent together was one of the bright spots of her week.

  The past months, ever since learning she was with child, had been difficult ones. Without Nan’s friendship, she didn’t know what she would have done. The other woman had helped her hide her condition for months. She’d even given Lorna some of her own wages.

  Yet all along Nan had fussed at her about her plans.

  “If the villagers find out, you’ll be shunned, Lorna. Your child will be known as a bastard and you’ll be called a whore. Mothers will cross the street rather than allow you near their children. Men will leer at you. You’ll be the face of sin.”

  Nan might be right, but what choice did she have? She had no family. Nor was she going to go to the duke and tell him she was with child. Not when he thought she was the most vile kind of creature, capable of blackmailing him.

  “I didn’t expect you to betray me like this,” Lorna said.

  “Betrayal? I’m doing what you should have done months ago.” Nan glanced at the walls that she’d tried to brighten with her own sketches. “No self-respecting rat would live here. It’s depressing and you’ve been freezing for months.”

  “Mrs. MacDonald charges too much for coal.”

  Money was probably always going to be a problem. She had to be smart about her funds, which was why the room was so cold. When the baby was born she’d make sure the space was warmer.

  “You only see what you want to see, Lorna.”

  She held herself still and silent.

  “Even the night of the ball, you had some idea in your mind what it was going to be like, and nothing I could say would stop you.”

  Nan extended both hands, palms up, fingers pointed at Lorna’s belly.

  “Look what happened.”

  What could she say to that? Nan was only stating the obvious.

  “My father always said that I should try to see the best in every situation. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “There’s a difference, Lorna, between looking for the best and seeing only what you want to see.” Nan returned to the straight-back chair. “I did what I thought would help you, Lorna. Not betray you. I can’t bear you living here.”

  “Did you tell the duchess where I was?”

  Nan nodded.

  “You know what’s going to happen,” Lorna said. “The duke is going to be involved. He’s going to make some outlandish demand because he’s the Duke of Kinross.”

  “Better than hear of his child starving to death.”

  “There’s my father’s book,” she said.

  Nan sat back, folded her arms and regarded her steadily.

  “If none of my father’s friends respond to my letters, I’ll travel to London to see a publisher myself.”

  “If your father couldn’t get his book published in his lifetime, what makes you think that you can?”

  “Faith,” Lorna said.

  “Faith won’t feed you and your baby, Lorna. Shouldn’t you be thinking of him? Shouldn’t you be less selfish?”

  She stared at Nan, startled.

  “Selfish? Is that what you think of me? Just because I don’t want charity?”

  “Yes.” Nan leaned forward. “It isn’t charity, Lorna. It’s help, and you desperately need it. The duke could provide for the child.”

  Lorna focused on the threadbare rug beneath her feet. Everything in the room was worn and well used, from the bureau with its ill-fitting drawers to the iron bed frame with its rust spots. Even the ewer and basin were chipped. Mrs. MacDonald, her landlady, was charging far more than the room was worth, but there hadn’t been many lodgings available for a woman six months pregnant.

  She should have thought of the consequences at the time. When, though? When the duke was kissing her? Or when he led her to the conservatory and she tumbled onto the couch? Or when they shared a glance that held her rooted to the spot?

  She’d been a virgin. Was becoming pregnant right away a normal situation?

  She’d only told Nan that she succumbed to the duke’s advances, not that passion had stripped every bit of sense from her. How did she tell her that the night had been like a whirlwind, the power of desire confusing and mesmerizing her?

  Sometimes she dreamed of him and woke feeling as if he’d seduced her again. She would lay in the bed staring up at the ceiling, feeling drained.

  “I know you’re angry at me, Lorna.”

  She wasn’t angry. She was terrified. Didn’t Nan know what she’d done? She had set into motion actions that she herself couldn’t alter.

  Unless the duke didn’t believe her. Unless he considered that it was some kind of ploy, just as he had that night.

  He hadn’t recognized her the next day. They passed in the corridor, her with a bucket and a scrub brush, tasked with refreshing the rug in the duchess’s sitting room. She would have ducked into one of the maids’ closets or the connection of staircases built so that the family never had to come face-to-face with a servant, but she was already there. She’d opened the door to the duchess’s suite and slipped inside, half waiting for him to say something.

  Marie. Is that you?

  But he hadn’t. Nor had he seen her on any subsequent encounter. For months she’d worried that he might recognize her, but that would have been difficult since he hadn’t once glanced in her direction.

  She never returned to the conservatory again after her duties were done. Instead, she sat in their small room and worked on her father’s book, at least until she’d expended her oil for the week. Then she retired early, trying to bite back resentment because of the duke. It wasn’t enough that he’d seduced her, although if she were fair, she’d admit it was a mutual effort, but he’d taken away the little freedom and daily enjoyment she had.

  The duke wouldn’t believe Nan’s words. The duchess, however, was an entirely different matter. How did she convince the woman that it had been a mistake?

  The Dowager Duchess of Kinross was one of the sweetest people she’d ever met. Whenever she did something for the woman, the duchess made a point of thanking her. When she was new, the duchess had asked if she liked working at the castle. How did she feel about Mrs. McDermott? When she answered in the affirmative to both questions, the duchess smiled.

  “I’m so glad. It’s nice to feel at home wherever one is, don’t you think?”

  Every time she saw the woman, the duchess remembered something about her. They’d spoken of her father and his work. The duchess had even recalled her birthday, which was a sincere surprise.

  “I had to do it,”
Nan said now. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know you think you had to.”

  She understood, she really did, but understanding didn’t make the situation easier. Either the duchess was going to descend on her, or the duke was going to send someone to threaten her. She could imagine what the man would say. Something along the lines of dissuading her from communicating with the duke in any fashion.

  She could go for the rest of her life without communicating with the Duke of Kinross. What a fool she’d been about the man.

  She stood and stared down at the floor, the window, anywhere but at Nan. Slowly, she made her way to the door, wishing some words would come to her.

  “You’re my friend,” she said finally. “You’ve always been my friend, Nan, from the first day we met. That will never change.”

  They hugged at the door.

  “I’ll come next week,” Nan said. “I’ll bring some more biscuits with me. And maybe some coal.”

  She was not going to weep in front of Nan. Instead, she bid her friend good-bye and watched as Nan left the house and hurried back to Blackhall.

  Dear God, what was she going to do now?

  She wasn’t going to think about the Duke of Kinross. Why should she? He certainly hadn’t spared one thought for her.

  The Chinese Parlor, decorated in crimson and black, was filled with objects acquired by a previous duke on his journeys through the Orient. Alex found the room oppressive, himself, but his mother liked it not only because of the unusual furnishings but because the room was bright most of the year.

  Of all the people in the world, Alex trusted her the most. He’d never told her that, but he suspected she knew. Just as he thought she was aware of most of his feelings.

  They’d never talked about Ruth, for example. He’d never expressed how he’d felt to learn that his wife had been unfaithful. Nor had he ever mentioned his confusion and despair over her death in childbirth. Or whether the child who’d died had been his. His mother never speaking Ruth’s name was a tacit admittance that she knew how he felt.

  Although she was in her late fifties, Louise Russell, the Dowager Duchess of Kinross, didn’t seem to age. Her black hair was without a touch of gray. Her face was unlined and her figure hadn’t developed the plumpness often associated with matronly women.

  If her eyes, the same shade as his, were sometimes farseeing, that was less due to the effects of time than the experiences she’d endured. His brother and sister both died of the influenza epidemic that had taken his father. In a matter of weeks their immediate family had been decimated, going from five to two.

  He’d been sixteen at the time and unprepared for the onslaught of grief. His brother, Douglas, had only been ten, and his sister fourteen. Moira had the promise of being a beauty like their mother. Her hair had been black as well, her eyes a clear blue and almost always sparkling with amusement. She seemed to see the world as a great and grand adventure into which she’d been born.

  Despite his mother’s caution, he had been at Moira’s bedside when she died. He held her hand while the fever burned fiercely through her. He’d wanted, in those hours, to say something reassuring, to let her believe that she could win the battle against this insidious disease. In the end, in her last lucid moment, Moira had turned to him and smiled. Just that, a farewell smile, but in her eyes had been a hint of amusement, as if she saw what lay beyond and thought Heaven to be a marvelous place.

  Decades had passed, but there were times when he felt her presence so strongly that he wanted to turn to greet her and ask if she was one of the angels. Did she guard the inhabitants of Blackhall? Or did she just report what sins and transgressions they’d committed to the Almighty?

  Strange, but he hadn’t realized until he stepped across the threshold just now that they didn’t often speak of Moira, either. Was that his mother’s conscious decision? Did she push away those thoughts that might bring her pain? If so, perhaps he should ask her how he could do the same.

  His mother was seated in her favorite chair before the window, her embroidery frame stand in front of her, her gaze on the approaching night. She was so still she might have been a statue, something carved with realism: Dowager Duchess, Receiving Bad News.

  Dread kept him silent as he walked across the room.

  He sat on the sofa facing her.

  “You’ve been very busy,” she said. “I’ve hardly seen you lately.”

  “I’m cataloging the samples we’ve obtained.”

  “Why does this work interest you so much, Alex?”

  No one had ever asked him that question. Nor did he think she really wanted to know now. He had the feeling she was easing into the conversation, that the topic she really wanted to discuss was difficult for her.

  His mother had a generous allowance for her personal needs, plus an inheritance from his father. Had she exceeded that? He’d never known her to squander money, but there was plenty in the Russell coffers if she needed it.

  He doubted, however, if issues about money would make her uncomfortable.

  She was tapping her fingers together. She still wore her wedding ring despite being a widow for years. He’d asked her about it once, and she only smiled softly.

  I’m still married, Alex, even if your father is no longer with me.

  He was a widower, but he didn’t feel the devotion for his wife that she had for his father.

  “Do you know how much I love you?” she asked now.

  Surprised, he only nodded.

  “Up until today, I respected you as well. I’ve often thought that God gave you to me to make up for the loss of your brother and sister. No mother could ever have been as proud of you as I was.”

  His mother didn’t sound like herself. There was a catch to her voice as if she fought back tears. He sat up straighter, waiting.

  “What’s wrong?” he finally asked, when all she did was stare down at something in her lap.

  Nothing could have prepared him for the look she gave him then. In her eyes was an emotion he’d rarely seen: disappointment.

  “You’re going to be a father, Alex. The father of an illegitimate child.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She smiled thinly at him.

  “I know for a fact, Alex, that your hearing is excellent. Perhaps you are just finding it difficult to come up with a reasonable response?”

  There was an edge to his mother’s voice that he’d never before heard. But, then, he’d never been accused of fathering an illegitimate child. Her words, however, were right on the mark. Surprise rendered him mute.

  “The girl is a former maid. I can’t help but wonder if the reason we are losing so many maids has something to do with you. Have you been lascivious with more than one?”

  He felt like he was in short pants once again, being chastised because he had taken one of cook’s biscuits without permission. The back of his neck was heating.

  “I have never bedded one of the maids, Mother, and I’m disappointed that you might think so.”

  “I’m sure that tone works well with other people, Alex, but I’m not impressed by the ducal frostiness.”

  She held up a letter. “The girl’s name is Lorna Gordon. She is due to give birth shortly. Evidently, she’s living in Wittan Village.”

  “I’ve never heard the name,” he said. “I don’t know her.”

  “At the risk of stating the obvious, son, she evidently knows you.”

  “Is that what she says?”

  He strode to stand in front of her chair and extended his hand. She held up the letter and he read it.

  “It isn’t signed.”

  “No. Does that make the accusation invalid?”

  “It’s an extortion scheme, nothing less. I don’t know this Lorna person.”

  His mother looked away from the needlework frame and stared off into space, her hand suspended in midair, the needle pointing toward the fabric she was embroidering.

  “I remember her. She’s a b
eautiful girl and so sweetly natured. I was disappointed when she left Blackhall. Mrs. McDermott thought highly of her, plus she made the most wonderful comfrey balm.”

  “Balm?”

  She nodded. “For my arthritis. She refused to take any payment, saying that she’d gathered the herbs on Blackhall land and used our equipment.” She smiled. “I quite liked her.”

  He felt compelled to say something to defend himself, but how did he prove a negative?

  His neck was getting warmer.

  “You can’t honestly believe such a thing of me?”

  “It’s been three years since Ruth died. I had hoped you would find someone to love, that you would be able to trust enough to do so. But I certainly understand that you’re a man and that men have needs.”

  “Not enough to swive the maids, Mother.”

  Her cheeks were pink. Was she as embarrassed about this conversation as he? He’d never thought to discuss his sex life—or lack of one—with his mother.

  He’d only been with one woman in the last year, and was so desperate to have her that he’d almost caused a scandal.

  He stared down at the letter, not seeing it. Instead, he saw her with her hair down around her shoulders, her face wet with rain. He would have taken her there, outside, only feet from the ballroom. He’d never felt what he had that night. Never come close to it, and it wasn’t the whiskey.

  The woman of the storm had disappeared.

  He’d been unable to find anyone by the name of Marie. Nor had his careful questions to various people resulted in the whereabouts or the identity of a ginger-haired enchantress. Hell, he didn’t even know if the mole near her eye was real or painted on. Maybe the entire episode had been induced by the amount of whiskey he’d imbibed.

  No, she’d been real enough, a fiercely voiced shadow, saying words that he hadn’t forgotten in all the months since that stormy night. No one else had been able to imbue as much disgust into her insults as she had. Or pinned his ears so effectively to the wall.

  Damn her, whenever a Highland storm passed over the mountains, heading toward Blackhall, he wondered if she’d appear again.

  “. . . do, Alex?”

  He realized he hadn’t been paying attention.