The Duke (10 page)

“Ah, our Bertrand, the peacemaker,” Percy said, and forked down a bit of fish.

In the minute of silence, Ian turned to Bertrand and questioned him about the fishing along the coast. Brandy wished she could add something to this benign conversation, but could think only of her own small
boat, nestled in a calm, protective cove. She started to open her mouth when Percy leaned toward her. She drew away, all thoughts of boats and fishing fleeing from her mind. She chanced to look over at Constance, and saw her green eyes resting upon her, hard and glittering.

Brandy looked down at her plate, feeling misery wash over her. Nay, Connie, she wanted to shout at her sister, Percy is a wretch and a philanderer, not worthy of yer affection.

When the interminable meal had drawn to a relatively calm close, Lady Adella made to rise. Brandy was out of her chair and standing beside her grandmother before the old lady had even planted her cane upon the floor.

“Tonight we ladies will leave yer to yer port, gentlemen,” she said grandly, and sailed majestically from the room, Brandy close on her heels. Constance lagged behind as long as she dared, her eyes on Percy.

Ian wondered if Lady Adella had decided to leave the gentlemen this evening with the hope of stirring up more mischief. Probably so. He resolved to keep a firm hold on his temper.

Brandy helped to settle her grandmother close to the roaring fire. Lady Adella said softly, “Ye're a coward, child, and have no notion of how to handle a gentleman.”

“I would hardly call Percy a gentleman,” Brandy said softly, knowing that Constance was near.

“He'll be one soon enough, child. That shifty old eagle MacPherson prepared the papers today. Perhaps ye'll think better of her cousin when he's not a bastard anymore. He'll have a fresher look about him, don't ye think?”

“No,” Brandy said. “A piece of paper won't turn him into a gentleman.”

“Mayhap,” Lady Adella continued, her eyes boring
into Brandy's, “when he becomes a true Robertson of Penderleigh, I will see to it that the duke settles an income on him. Would ye want him then, child? Robertsons make weak husbands, lassie, and Percy would be no different. It's just a matter of knowing how to hold the reins.”

Brandy realized in that moment that her grandmother not only wanted to tease her but her main goal was to tweak the duke's nose, to show him who was in control at Penderleigh. Her grandmother wasn't being very wise. In her short acquaintance with the duke, Brandy knew he was kind, he was a gentleman, and he was more stubborn than a stoat. He wouldn't let anyone control him. He could be the prince of autocrats. He wouldn't let anyone push him into doing something he didn't wish to do.

She said only, “Constance wants to wed Percy, not I.” She realized even as she spoke that the duke didn't need any help from her. Not a bit.

“The eldest weds first,” Lady Adella said with finality, thrusting out her pointed chin. “Our Constance will suit Bertrand.”

Brandy was too surprised by this to say anything. She looked over at her sister, who was obviously bored, and watched her stroll to the windows to look at her reflection in the panes. Didn't Lady Adella realize that Constance regarded Bertrand as a brother and nothing more? She decided to hold her peace, as she was certain Lady Adella would only become more outrageous if she dared to voice an opinion contrary to her own.

Lady Adella snorted as the gentlemen filed in, a gleeful expression lighting her rheumy eyes. “I see ye didn't take long over yer port. That's odd, isn't it? Old Angus had fine port laid aside in the cellar. Ye didn't enjoy each other's company?”

“Percy has been telling us about Edinburgh,” Ian
said. And Percy had spun a fine story. Too bad he couldn't keep his manners when it came to Brandy.

“Aye,” Bertrand said. “I enjoyed his story about how the butcher sent a sow's ear tucked in a bunch of flowers to his wife who'd made him very angry.”

“That doesn't sound funny at all to me,” Lady Adella said, not managing to hide her disappointment by turning to Constance and ordering her to the pianoforte.

Brandy saw Percy making toward her and whispered urgently to Lady Adella, “Let me go, Grandmama, I wish to see Fiona. She wasn't feeling well earlier. I'm worried about her.”

Lady Adella eyed her speculatively but said only, “Ye're a coward, girl. Ye don't lie well either. But I'm feeling mellow. Very well, off with ye.”

Brandy breathed a sigh of relief and swept a slight curtsy toward the gentlemen. “I bid ye all good night.”

Ian said, “A moment, please, Brandy, I would have a word with you, if you don't mind.”

Percy laughed softly. “Perhaps, little cousin, after his grace is done, I may also speak with ye.”

“Not until the next century, Percy,” she said, and looked like she wanted to kick him.

Percy shrugged and turned to Constance, who was tugging his sleeve. “Do come, Percy, I want ye to turn my pages.”

“I will walk you to the stairs,” Ian said to Brandy. “I'll be back presently, Lady Adella.” He turned and followed Brandy from the drawing room.

Brandy stopped outside the drawing room and looked up at him. “What is it ye wanted, yer grace?”

The duke drew up to his full height and gazed down at her with his uncle-like gentle look. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Percy, my dear. His wayward tongue needs to be tamed. I shall contrive to see that he doesn't bother you in the future.” He
wasn't quite certain exactly how he would accomplish this, particularly in the face of Lady Adella's perverse encouragement of Percy.

“It's strange, really a mystery,” she said, still pondering her grandmother's inexplicable behavior.

“What's a mystery?”

She smiled, not much of a smile, but it was an attempt. “Grandmama tells me that she intends Constance to wed Bertrand. Constance won't approve of that.”

There seemed to be no end to the old harridan's plotting, Ian thought. In this instance, though, her intention was not far removed from his own. “I see,” he said evenly.

He called himself back to his purpose and said gently, “I wished to speak to you, Brandy, because I wanted to apologize to you for causing you upset.”

She frowned up at him, then suddenly remembered her outburst of the morning. He had meant only to be kind, offering her a trip to London, offering to polish her up, and she had behaved churlishly.

“Nay, yer grace, er, Ian. The apology comes from the wrong mouth. It was I who behaved in an unseemly manner.” She had believed herself angry at his offer because he seemed to view her as a gauche provincial, a Scottish girl whose manners needed mending. But after she had fled from him, she was forced to admit to herself that her outrage had more to do with the thought of living with him and his future duchess. It had galled her, and she wasn't certain precisely why. Well, actually she knew exactly why, but she refused to think about it. It would do no good. Nothing could change the future.

He thought that she'd indeed behaved outrageously, but he said firmly, “No, your behavior, although unexpected, wasn't at all unseemly. After all, how could you have known?” Although he still saw no shyness
or embarrassment on her face, he couldn't bring himself to add that what she couldn't have known was that he would be standing naked and wet in his bedchamber.

“Aye, but I should have guessed. I should have known that ye'd already have a lady.”

The duke blinked. “What does my being betrothed have to say to anything? That Lady Felicity would have been mortified and berated me for my carelessness?”

“Mayhap she would have, Ian. It's not likely that she would approve of me.”

“I assure you, Brandy, that my future wife has nothing at all to say in this matter. Indeed, I cannot imagine a good reason for telling her.”

She felt dashed to her toes with hurt. “I've offended ye. Ye don't want me now.”

He blinked. Something was very wrong here. Dammit, but this was ridiculous. There was her damned innocence again. She simply didn't realize what she was saying. “It would be most improper of me to want you, Brandy. I only spoke to you because I didn't want you to feel awkward or embarrassed around me.”

She drew herself up proudly. “If ye didn't want me, then why ever did ye—” She broke off and turned away. “I'll not hold it against ye, Ian. Indeed, I'll never bring it up again.”

He felt mired in confusion. “Good God, I only wanted you to understand that I harbored no base intentions toward you. Rest assured that I shall keep the bedchamber door locked after this.”

Brandy had the inescapable feeling that Scottish was a far different language from the King's English. “Whatever does locking yer door have to say to anything?”

“Dammit, if I lock my door, you'll not burst in upon
me again. Really, Brandy, I'm not in the habit of allowing young girls to see me naked.”

“Naked. Oh, that. Well, oh goodness.”

He'd never before seen someone turn red from the top of her collar to her hairline. “Oh, dear,” she said in a tiny voice that sounded as if it were spun from a dream, “I thought ye were apologizing for this morning, when I was angry at ye for inviting me to London with yer wife.”

Smashed into the ground and he'd not even had a single blow. Dear God, he was a conceited fellow. He threw back his head and gave way to a booming laugh. So they had been speaking at cross-purposes. “No, cousin, I wasn't speaking of this morning. What a blow you've dished up to my masculine self. You didn't give the incident a second thought.”

She felt a strange tightness in her chest. She forced her eyes to his face and said, “Nay, Ian, ye're wrong.”

Before he could figure that out, she'd picked up her skirts and was running up the stairs, leaving him to stare after her.

I
an woke with a start the next morning. He turned a bleary eye toward the weathered windowpanes to see gray drizzle streaking down the glass, then glanced at the clock at his elbow. It was barely after five o'clock in the morning. He closed his eyes. He pressed his face against the pillow. He thought about Cheviot sheep. Nothing did any good. He couldn't fall asleep again. He cursed softly as he threw back the mountain of covers.

Mindful of splinters from the wooden floor, he walked to the fireplace, and after some more full-bodied curses he managed to coax a decent flame from the wood and peat. He shrugged into his dressing gown and decided, without much enthusiasm, that he might as well pass the time until breakfast penning a letter to Felicity.

He dug out paper, quill, and ink pot and settled himself in a large wing chair close to the fire. He chewed absently on the end of his quill for some moments, forming phrases in his mind before he wrote, as was his habit.

He wrote: “My dearest Felicity.” He frowned a moment and stared at nothing in particular, then wadded up the sheet of foolscap.

He began once again. “Dear Felicity . . .” The blank
page stretched before him endlessly. He stroked his chin a moment, then attacked with his quill, mindful that he did, after all, owe his betrothed some account of his journey and Penderleigh.

I arrived safely at Penderleigh three days ago. Unfortunately, my poor valet, Mabley, who was riding in the luggage coach, endured a mishap near Galashiels (a town to the southwest of here), and I pray to the stars that he will arrive today. I swear I shall embrace the fellow. If he doesn't arrive, I suppose I shall be obliged to borrow a change of clothing from Bertrand Robertson, a cousin of mine. He and his father, Claude (an old curmudgeon of the first order), reside in the dower house, quite happily from what I can gather, and Bertrand has and will continue to run the estate.

For some reason I have not yet been made privy to, Claude's father, Douglass, elder brother to the last earl, was disinherited many years ago, thus altering the inheritance line. It's a pity really, for Bertrand cares for Penderleigh and would make it a fine master. Lady Adella, the late earl's widow and an unaccountable old woman to boot, may wreak some magic and reverse the disinheritance. I might add that she has already begun to legitimize Percival Robertson, a cocky young buck who hates Englishmen in general and me in particular. If you find all of these family entanglements confusing, you can well imagine how I felt until I sorted everyone out.

The “gaggle” of females, as Giles calls the three girls, also cousins, are delightful, each in her own way. The youngest, Fiona, is a scarlet-haired little vixen who leads her eldest sister, Brandy (an odd name to be sure and shortened from
Brandella), a merry chase. The middle girl, Constance, all of sixteen years of age, fancies herself much the grown-up lady and flirts outrageously with Percy. Brandy, the eldest, though, is the different one.

He paused in his writing and sat back in his chair, rubbing his fingers along the line of his jaw. He found that thinking of Brandy brought words quickly to his mind.

Strangely enough, her eyes are a deep amber and match her to her nickname quite aptly. She is an unusual girl and rather vulnerable at present, for Percy, in this odd ménage, is enamored of her and makes no bones about it. She, however, wants nothing to do with him. She will be nineteen on Michaelmas Day, of marriageable age. Ah, but therein lies a problem.

Actually, he thought, she is the beauty of the family. He smiled, bemused. He decided not to mention trying to get Brandy to London. That could come later.

Everyone speaks with the soft, blurred Scottish brogue that, contrary to our snobs in England, is most pleasant to the ear. I myself find that I've slipped easily into some of their forms of speech.

He paused yet again, realizing that he had completed a full page, which normally was not at all his way. Felicity would wonder at his sudden verbosity. He cramped together the last few lines.

Bertrand and I plan to leave for the Cheviot today, if this accursed rain stops, to purchase, or at least inspect, what he informs me are the most
profitable of Scottish sheep. After that we are off to several central towns to speak to local mill owners. I'm sorry, my dear, but it appears I'll be gone longer than I originally believed. There is much to be done here at Penderleigh. I trust that Giles is sufficiently entertaining you. Yours, Ian.

After writing Felicity's direction, he rose and stretched lazily, casting a dubious eye toward the sleeting rain. He refused to let the weather depress him. As he dressed quickly in yesterday's riding breeches, a frilled white shirt, and hessians, he whistled the Robert Burns ballad that Brandy had sung.

Everyone appeared to be still abed. Only Crabbe was downstairs to bid him good morning. He opened the door to the breakfast room and, without precisely intending it, smiled broadly at the sight of Brandy, hunched over the table, dawdling listlessly over her porridge.

“Good morning, Brandy,” he said, and found that the sight of her made him feel quite lighthearted.

“Yer grace—Ian. It's so early, what are you doing up?”

As he walked toward her he saw a dull flush spread over her cheeks. Why the devil was she red in the face? It was seven o'clock in the bloody morning. Oh, yes, he'd been naked and perhaps she hadn't minded, which pleased him inordinately. He coughed slightly, cleared his throat, and said, “You think I'm a lazy slug, Brandy? Actually, the rain woke me up and my eyes wouldn't close again.”

She was looking at the snowy white lace at his throat and wrists. She knew he was wearing the clothes he'd worn the day before, but it didn't matter. He looked magnificent. She looked down at her lap. She was a mess, a poor relation, who was a sorry specimen.

Why was she looking him up and down? He grinned. “Do I meet with your approval?”

“Aye, I was thinking ye do quite well without yer valet.”

“Thank you, Brandy, but just one more day without Mabley and I'd have to borrow some of Bertrand's clothes. Ah, porridge, I see.” Damn, what he wouldn't give for just one slice of rare sirloin and a plate of eggs and kidneys.

“It's rather lumpy this morning. I think Cook must be in love again.”

“In love? Cook?”

“Aye. She's got such a soft heart. Every male within fifty miles can come to the kitchen door and she'll feed him. Sometimes she falls in love and then it's our food that suffers.”

She spooned a liberal amount into a bowl and placed it at the head of the table.

Ian seated himself and added some of Cook's delicious clotted cream and sugar to the brownish porridge. “Where is your wee bairn, Fiona, this morning?”

“She has the sniffles, so I ordered her to stay in bed. She hates it, so I'll have to stay close else she'll escape.”

“If Mabley arrives this morning, I'll ask him to look in on her. He always carries with him a formidable array of potions, salves, and the like. Indeed, if he arrives after I leave, Brandy, do make use of his services.”

“Ye're leaving?” Why had no one told her? She swallowed. “But why? Ye just got here, and it's too soon for ye to go too—”

“I'm leaving with Bertrand, not for England. We reached the decision last evening after you had gone to bed. We go to the Cheviot to look over sheep, then
on to several mill towns. I fancy we shouldn't be gone so very long.”

“How long?”

“A week perhaps? I'm not really certain.” He wondered what she was thinking. He thought again of their cross-purpose conversation of the evening before and her bald statement before she'd fled from him. He wanted her to explain exactly what she'd meant when she'd said something about his being wrong. Wrong about what? Oh, hell, he couldn't very well bring it up again. He'd make her turn red to her toes. Again. He said, “I hope you've reconsidered and will now come to London in the fall. You will have ample time to learn your way about before being presented in the spring.”

She just looked at him. He was clearly a man who never let go of a bone once he got it between his teeth, she'd give him that. Didn't he realize how much each of his words sliced into her? No, naturally not. How could he know that the thought of being with both him and his wife made her want to shrivel into one of Cook's winter apples. She looked at him steadily, shrugged just a tiny shrug, and said, “Scotland is my home, yer grace. I can't imagine why ye are so insistent at having a graceless Scot about to embarrass ye in front of all yer fine friends and yer bloody wife.” She cleared her throat, hoping perhaps he hadn't heard that. “I would, yer grace, that ye would leave well enough alone, and that includes me.”

“It seems to me, Brandy, that whenever you are displeased with me, I suddenly become ‘yer grace.”' Ah, that stubborn chin of hers just went up a good two inches. “We'll discuss this more when I return.

“You are aware that Lady Adella is behaving outrageously, particularly where you and Percy are concerned. I want you to be careful while I'm gone. Percy shows no signs of wishing to leave Penderleigh.”

Still, he'd worry. He had to do something, but what? He could break Percy's legs, he supposed. That would slow the blighter down. He brightened.

“I assure ye, yer grace—Ian, that I am well able to take care of myself. Percy's a bag of wind. He likes to bray and make me uncomfortable, but I don't worry that he'll try to kiss me.”

Percy trying to kiss her didn't particularly worry him. Percy attacking her did. Yes, he would break Percy's legs—only that would raise questions, eyebrows, and all the collective Robertsons' choler. It suddenly came to him that he could protect her without her knowing of it and without breaking any part of Percy's body, though the thought was appealing. He silently examined his idea for a few moments, then nodded at his porridge bowl, satisfied. He would see to her safety and avoid making her angry at the same time. She really thought she could handle Percy if he were intent on taking her? Her innocence, he thought, always it was her innocence mixed with her faith in herself. Only this time she was wrong. She couldn't handle Percy.

She caught him off his guard when she said abruptly, “Yer future wife, what is she like? A very fine lady, I suppose, all sleek and beautiful and graceful?”
And she knows how lucky she is to have you and she adores you and touches you and kisses you all the time.

He didn't want to talk about Felicity. Indeed, he didn't even want to remember her name at that moment. He said only, “I suppose that's all true.”

This was odd. He didn't want to talk about the woman who would be his wife? “What does she look like?”

Why was she so damned interested? He said, “Her hair is dark, her eyes green, and she's small. Does that satisfy you, Madame Curiosity?”

Not really. “Aye,” she said. She stirred the remains of the porridge with her spoon for some moments. “What do ye think of Scotland, Ian? And the Scots?”

“I suspect that people are much the same wherever they live. As to Scotland itself, I shall be in a much better position to answer you when I return.”

“Ye don't despise us?”

“Good God, Brandy, that's a ridiculous question. Why the devil would you think I'd despise you?”

“Ye're very polite. Maybe too polite, at least most of the time. And ye're kind. Bertrand thinks ye're a god. I suppose that like the rest of us, he expected another arrogant Englishman who would rob our lands and grind us under like so much dirt.”

He said steadily, “And what do you think of me, Brandy?”

“As well as being polite and kind, ye're real and solid and, well, perhaps ye're exciting as well.”

She was out of her chair in a flash and at the door in the next. “I wish ye good fortune on yer trip, Ian.”

He called to her, “I think I would like it if you added beautiful as you did last evening. Kind and polite are all well and good. And I shan't quibble with real and solid. Now, exciting. What does that mean, I wonder?”

He'd expected her to snarl or flee and was surprised when she said, “Since to me ye're all of those things, then ye shouldn't press for more.”

Then she was gone, the door eased quietly closed after her.

 

To Ian's relief, Mabley arrived not an hour later, delighted to be again with his master but determined not to show it.

“A fine sight you are, your grace,” he said, his voice more sour than ever as he followed the earl up to his bedchamber.

“Complain all you like, Mabley, but do pack a portmanteau, for I'm off for several days. No need to polish my hessians,” he added as his valet looked near to apoplexy at the sight of his boots. He rather hoped that Mabley wouldn't make the acquaintance of Morag too quickly, for he could well imagine how the poor man's veiny nose would twitch in disgust if he got within smelling distance of her. He left him grumbling and puttering about the room and went in search of Lady Adella, determined to see her before the weather cleared and he and Bertrand left Penderleigh. Now I will spike your guns, Brandy, he said to himself as he made his way to the seaward side of the castle to Lady Adella's suite of rooms. And I won't have to break Percy's legs, though I still like the thought.