The Duke (18 page)

She sat back in her chair and smiled at everyone.

B
randy clutched her wineglass and said in the coldest voice Ian had ever heard from her, “My little sister is not vulgar, Lady Felicity. Vulgarity, I think, is that quality in people that makes them quick to hurt others' feelings. It is that quality that shows they have no manners, probably little breeding as well, and not enough brain to hide their meanness in honeyed words.”

Felicity forced a laugh that held no mirth. “Miss Robertson, I meant no insult. After all, your dear little sister is your fishing companion, isn't she?”

Ian said sharply, “Fiona is many things, Felicity. I think, though, that Brandy regards her more as her own child rather than her sister—her wee bairn, as we would say in Scotland.”

“Wee bairn, your grace? All these strange words,
ye
for
you
and
wee
for
small,
I vow I'm in a foreign country. Do contrive to speak English, I beg of you.”

“You are in a foreign country,” Brandy said. “We speak Scottish here. Shouldn't you contrive to speak our language instead of us trying to speak yers?”

Claude, who hadn't bothered to attune himself to any unpleasant undercurrents, said with his grating cackle, “I daresay ye're quite right, Lady Felicity. For a lady such as yerself, we must all mind our speaking
and treat ye in the manner in which ye're accustomed. It's Scotland, aye, but ye're our guest.”

Felicity searched for sarcasm in this speech, found none, and decided that perhaps this one Robertson—old and toothless though he was—saw true worth when he saw it. She nodded graciously to Claude. How dared that brat accuse her of not having a brain?

Lady Adella, however, kept the pot boiling. “So ye don't like the distraction of town life, eh, Ian? I hope I can count on ye for one season to launch my Brandy into the
ton.
”

Lady Felicity said coldly, “I fear, Lady Adella, that his grace and I intend a rather extended wedding trip. Have you no suitable relatives in, say, Edinburgh? Surely, such society as Edinburgh offers would be more to her liking and more suited to her abilities.”

Giles looked sharply at Felicity, saw the mulish set of her mouth, and shrugged. He looked beneath his lids at Brandy. Surely Felicity couldn't have noticed those ridiculously huge amber eyes. At least he thought the color was amber. In this dim light they looked amber. Actually, it was a romantic light, he thought, all the shadows in the huge room soft and vague, all the harsh lines smoothed out.

No, Felicity hadn't really looked beyond Brandy's clothes to what she really was, and that was a beauty and a girl with a tongue in her mouth that wasn't as poisonous as a snake's, except when one she loved was attacked. So Felicity didn't have enough brain to hide her meanness. Brandy was right about that, at least some of the time. At other times, Giles had to admit that Felicity could charm the bagpipes off a poor musician. And that's what she managed to do—usually—to Ian.

“Nay, I won't want Edinburgh for Brandy,” Lady Adella continued serenely, seemingly oblivious of Felicity's insult. “What with Ian providing the girl with
a proper dowry, and she being, after all, part English, I wish her to find a suitable husband in London. She's an earl's granddaughter. She'll have money. She can look as high as she wishes.”

“What about me, Grandmama?” Constance said, leaning forward, looking ready to go into battle.

Claude grinned widely and poked Bertrand in the ribs. “We have other plans for ye, my lass. Ye need have no worry about yer future. Be that not right, Bertie?”

“There is a proper time and place for most things, Father,” Bertrand said, his voice as stiff as his back had just become. “I find that ye have missed on both counts. I'll thank both ye and Lady Adella to let me mind my own affairs.”

He avoided Constance's look of sheer confusion and gave his attention to his haggis, which didn't taste quite as good as it had. Connie had no idea about how he felt about her. Well, she was young. She was skittish. She was just learning how to be a female. He loved to watch her try out her tricks, except on Percy, the bloody sod. The good Lord knew too that he loved to watch her change and grow, say silly things, then look thoughtful and say something that made him very proud of her. She needed time. She didn't need any prodding from Lady Adella or his damned father, curse the two of them.

“Just see that the hair on yer head isn't gray by the time ye make up yer mind, lad,” Lady Adella said, and waved her fork at him.

Ian said in a lovely, soothing voice that spread calm on the raging waters, “I find that Bertrand always shows remarkable good sense.” The duke added quickly, seeing Cook's attempt at trifle nearing the table, “It's been an excellent dinner, but Cook outdid herself. It's my wish that we save dessert for later and adjourn to the drawing room.”

Brandy gave him a small wicked smile that curled his toes. “But, Ian, trifle is such an English dish. Are ye certain ye have no wish to try it? Didn't ye tell me how much ye loved it the other time Cook prepared it just for ye?”

His toes uncurled. He smiled, a smile that promised retribution. “I doubtless said everything you've attributed to me. Now, why don't you assist Lady Adella to the drawing room?”

“Aye, commander,” she said under her voice, but not under enough. He received unexpected assistance from Giles, who rose and began solicitous removal of Lady Adella. “Why don't we all go, Ian? The sooner we retire to the drawing room the better, old boy. I don't think the gentlemen have anything worthwhile to say by ourselves. Your cane, my lady. Now, where were we? Ah, yes . . . Dwyer. Do you remember that old curmudgeon, Viscount Dwyer, my lady?”

“Dwyer, Dwyer,” Lady Adella repeated slowly. “Can't say that I do, my boy,” she finally admitted, the furrows in her brow deepening in disappointment.

“It doesn't matter, my lady,” Giles said smoothly, “he really isn't worth the bother.” Actually, to the best of Giles's knowledge, there was no Viscount Dwyer. Ian caught his eyes, his own holding a warning, but Giles ignored him. He was having a jolly time.

“I say, my boy,” Lady Adella said, once she was settled in her chair in the drawing room, “why don't ye tell me about yer own family, and the duke's? I know my sister's daughter married a regular sawed-off little creeper, and I'd like to know how Ian gained his giant's body.”

“Mayhap your sister's daughter played the little creeper false, my lady.”

Lady Adella chortled, and Brandy was relieved that her grandmother's mouth wasn't full of food. It was a
chortle in Claude's best tradition. She turned and gave Giles a light buffet on his immaculate shoulder.

Brandy, who couldn't bear to see Ian assist Felicity into a chair—as though she were some sort of helpless baby, she thought with a silent snort—inched closer to Giles and her grandmother and asked, “Seriously, Giles, we know so little of yer family. Ian hasn't ever spoken of them—”

“What? He doesn't speak of his splendid antecedents? What gall.”

Brandy saw that his eyes were mocking, even though he was smiling widely at his cousin. “Our illustrious head of the family hasn't even bothered to tout his proud lineage a little bit? I say, Ian,” he called to his cousin, “you leave it to me to puff up your consequence. Very well, I'll do it if I must.”

“Puff away, Giles,” the duke said, “but don't bore the ladies until they fall into their teacups.”

Felicity didn't like the fact that the duke—he was a duke, for God's sake—joked about his famous family. It wasn't proper. It was nearly sacreligious. “Really, your grace, how can you make light of your noble ancestors? They fill the pages of our history books. They've won battles, they were ministers to kings, they were in politics, they bought beautiful properties and—”

“Yes, and bought boroughs too, doubtless,” Ian said. “Yes, they wouldn't flinch at buying votes for those toadies who licked their collective boots. Of course, most of them were in the House of Lords, and so they didn't have to spend any groats. They simply bored everyone to death with their speeches.”

Brandy said in the sweetest, falsest voice he'd ever heard, “Aye, Ian, to be such a vaunted peer of the realm is no mean thing. I swear I wouldn't be bored hearing a speech from one of your grand ancestors. And I'm quite ready to be suitably impressed, that is,
as soon as Giles has seen to Grandmama's creature comforts.”

Felicity snapped to like a lieutenant. “I would have you know, Miss Robertson, that the Carmichael family has a noble and proud lineage. Pure
English,
mind you, not tainted with any foreign blood.”

“How quickly you forget the Comte and Comtesse de Vaux, my dear,” Giles said in a voice of pure silk that slid over his listeners.

“Giles!” The duke was furious.

Brandy stared at him. Still, she couldn't help herself. “Who were the de Vaux, Giles?”

“I've been silenced. That's for our dear duke to answer, Brandy, not I.”

Felicity said with finality, “I for one, Giles, don't see what difference the de Vaux made. After all, they added no French blood to the Portmaine line.”

“Quite so, my dear,” Giles agreed, and withdrew his snuff box from his flora waistcoat pocket.

“Brandy,” the duke said suddenly in his commander's voice, “go and play for us. I want to hear a Scottish ballad.”

Her eyes flew to his face only to see that he was looking at Giles, and he wasn't pleased. She was too startled at this odd turn of events to refuse.

She sang a sad Robert Burns ballad, but earned at the end of her endeavors only Miss Trammerley's sniffing comment: “How difficult it is to enjoy a song when one can't understand the words.”

Brandy was thwarted in discovering more of Ian's family and the mysterious de Vaux, for Felicity rose with a delicate yawn and prettily begged the duke to escort her to her room. “The corridor is so very dark, your grace, I fear I will lose my way. I might even trip over one of those uneven boards. There are probably rusty nails sticking up. The carpet is so frayed
that a body has to be very careful. Yes, please come with me.”

“I wish she would break her ankle,” Constance whispered to Brandy with a goodly dose of malice.

“Oh, no, Connie,” Brandy whispered back. “If she broke her ankle, just think how long she'd stay. We'd probably have to wait on her.”

Claude rose painfully on his gouty foot and gallantly kissed Lady Felicity's hand.

“Don't be an old fool, Claude.” Lady Adella snorted, a low, deep sound that everyone but Giles and Felicity were used to. Both of them jumped and stared, but Lady Adella didn't notice. “Lady Felicity certainly has no wish for yer arthritic attentions.”

Lady Felicity evidently didn't agree, for she smiled as graciously as a queen whose subject had just pleased her at Claude, who then preened like a peacock. She bade vague good nights to the company in general and left, her slender white hand through Ian's arm.

The duke was annoyed. He didn't like being annoyed, and so when he spoke to Lady Felicity, he didn't soften his voice as he normally would have with her.

“As much as it must please me to see you,” he began as he escorted his betrothed up the stairs, “your manners have been sorely wanting this evening.”

Lady Felicity felt every bit as annoyed as the duke. She sucked in her breath and gritted her teeth against unladylike curses. It was hard, but she kept her tongue behind her teeth. He was in one of those moods of his.

The duke continued, “I realize all this must be very strange to you, but you must make a push to be pleasant. It won't kill you to just be nice to everyone, not to complain, not to criticize everything and everyone. You'll only be here a short time. Surely that isn't too much to ask.”

It was too much. She forgot everything her mother had taught her and screeched, “Pleasant!” She turned
on the huge, altogether too dark man who was to be her husband, and said with sarcasm dripping off her tongue, “How very
easy
it is to be pleasant in this moth-eaten household. And how very
pleasant
you make it, your grace, with your talk of populating Suffolk with a dozen brats like that hideously vulgar child Fiona. Indeed, what a
pleasant
thought it is picturing myself as some sort of breeding mare locked away in that huge mausoleum, Carmichael Hall. If you ever believe I would give up London life, you sorely mistake the matter, your grace.”

“Are you saying, Felicity, that you don't wish to bear my children?” Her eyes unconsciously flitted over him, and he sensed her distaste of him. He was a large man, but surely she must know that he wouldn't hurt her, particularly in bed. He'd been so gentle with Marianne. Surely she must know—perhaps she didn't. Perhaps she was just frightened, as a virgin should be.