The Duke (19 page)

“You've said quite a lot there,” he said, not knowing whether he wanted to throw her down the stairs or reassure her that he would go easily with her. No, he had to have an answer. “Don't you want to have my children, Felicity?”

She wasn't a fool. She splayed her hands in front of her and drew a measured breath. “What a ridiculous question. I'm overtired, yes, that's it. It was a long trip. I need a good night's sleep.”

“Yes, certainly,” he said, and opened the door to her bedchamber, calling on the same tolerance he had always given to Marianne. He'd been too harsh with her this evening, and now he regretted it. It wasn't well done of him. All that she'd said during the evening, well, it was simply that she was very tired. Surely he had to understand that. He smiled down at her, but didn't touch her.

“I will see you in the morning,” he said, and left her.

T
he nursery overlooked the front drive at Penderleigh. It was from this vantage point that Brandy watched the duke toss Felicity, dressed in an exquisite blue velvet riding habit, onto Cantor's back. She felt close to choking with jealousy, for Felicity sat tall and straight in the saddle, quite at her ease, the perfect horsewoman who would never flinch or fall off. Aye, she was very elegant and self-assured, the perfect mate for the duke, the
English
duke, not some ragtag Scottish excuse for a peer's granddaughter. She knew she had to stop this. But Felicity was riding Cantor, Brandy's horse, her precious horse that she could have been killed riding. The chapters in this book were clearly written, the last scene not to be changed. She had to give it up. Brandy turned away to resume Fiona's lessons.

This morning Brandy laid aside the ponderous tome of Brandenstone's history of Scotland and instead unearthed a crinkled map of England and set Fiona to the task of locating Suffolk. She enjoyed torturing herself. That was her only explanation.

“Suffolk,” Fiona said, rendering the word magically Scottish. “Where is Suffolk, Brandy?”

“It's a county in England, poppet, where Ian lives when he's not in London. He has a country estate
there, called Carmichael Hall. There's a lake on his land. He swims in that lake.” She pictured him coming out of that lake not wearing a stitch of clothes, wet and shaking himself, just as he'd been that evening she'd burst into his bedchamber and seen him wet and naked from his bath. Oh, dear, she had to stop this.

“Och,” Fiona said, “that's his ducal residence.” Fiona ran a stubby finger down the eastern side of England.

“Good heavens, poppet, wherever did ye hear that?”

“Grandmama,” Fiona said, her concentration still on that map of England. “Brandy,” she said, looking up. “What's a ducal?”

Brandy threw back her head and laughed aloud. “Oh, poppet,” she said merrily, “ye make it sound something like a porpoise. Or perhaps a drink Fraser would make for Bertrand or Uncle Claude.
Ducal,
my, love describes what Ian is, since he's a duke. The two words go together.” It wasn't the best definition in the world, but Fiona appeared satisfied, nodding.

Fiona finally laid her forefinger upon Suffolk, then raised her eyes to look at her sister. “When is that nasty lady going to leave?”

Brandy sighed. “I don't know, poppet. She's the lady who's going to marry Ian.”

“Why would he want to marry her? He laughs a lot now here with us, even when Percy's here. I bet he won't laugh much if he has to live with her. Maybe you can talk him out of it, Brandy.”

“I, poppet? I can't do anything. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is.”

“Why did she come here anyway? She doesn't like any of us. Why?”

“That's a good question. I don't think I have an answer to anything, Fiona.”

“Well, I hope she doesn't drag Ian away with her. Maybe if I put a toad in her bed—”

Brandy caught Fiona up in a tight hug. “I don't think so, poppet. But ye know, I'd like to see her face if ye did. One of those big toads that hop around down at the Perranporth swamp. No, we can't. Ian wouldn't approve, and she is going to be his wife. We have to be nice, although it makes my stomach hurt.” And she wondered what he was doing, what he was saying to Felicity, at that moment.

 

Ian was riding beside Felicity at an easy canter along the road that lay parallel to the cliff. It occurred to him to wonder just why he persisted in remaining at Penderleigh. Getting the Cheviot sheep settled and all the accounts straight leaped to the fore as plausible reasons, but he realized that if he said those words aloud, he just might be struck down for lying through his teeth. No, it was Brandy who held him here, and he couldn't deny it to himself any longer. Ah, but it didn't matter, dammit. He thought of how she looked up at him as though he were the only important person on the face of the earth to her.

He thought again of the hour he had spent with Brandy at the hut. Her beautiful, soft mouth and the innocent, little gasps of pleasure that she'd breathed into his mouth when he'd kissed her.

“Ian, do slow down, if you please. I have no inclination for a gallop, particularly on this rutted path. It's a good fifty feet down to that beach. There appear to be no decent roads in this accursed country.”

Ian drew in his horse as he did his breath and turned to Felicity. “Sorry, my dear. I wasn't paying attention.”

“Ian, whatever is the matter with you? You aren't behaving at all like yourself. You've changed and I can't say that I approve. It's as if you're enjoying
wallowing with these vulgar people. I'm sorry, but it's true. They're only remotely related to you. Surely you don't have to enjoy yourself with them, do you? Wouldn't you prefer to be back among your own sort?”

“Felicity,” he said, reining in Hercules beside Cantor, “why did you come to Penderleigh? I did write you explaining my delay here. As to enjoying my wallowing, why, yes, I do enjoy my kinsmen very much. They're really quite genuine, even Uncle Claude, who cackles through his remaining teeth, and Lady Adella, who's as sour as Cook's strawberry jam. Come now, why did you come to Penderleigh?”

She wasn't about to tell him that her mother had encouraged her to keep an eye on him, that her mother had been perfectly aghast when he'd upped and left England and Felicity.

“He's too far away from you, my love,” her mother had said, patting her cheek. “Men who aren't carefully watched over can get into trouble. Yes, my love, perhaps you'd best go to that wretched place and fetch him home, where he belongs. Men's characters are not steady. Better for his character to be unsteady around you than away from you.” No, Felicity wouldn't tell him that.

She gave a light laugh, charm in her voice, bloom in her cheeks. “I told you, Ian, that I missed you. Surely that is enough reason to pay my betrothed a visit.”

A black brow arched upward a good inch. “Come, Felicity, all the way to Scotland? Carmichael Hall, perhaps, I can credit.”

Felicity smoothed the wrinkles from her gloves, an activity that helped her to control her anger at him. “It would appear,” she said finally, her voice cool, cooler than it should be, but she couldn't help it, “that
you will cross-examine me. I find you changed, your grace, just as I said before.”

“Changed, my dear? It's just that you haven't seen me away from London acquaintances before. Further, I admit to being somewhat surprised that you would forgo your pleasures in the middle of the Season to come to a place that you obviously despise. Your trip was really a waste of time, you know. There was no reason for you to come, no reason at all.”

Did he believe her stupid and blind? The pot that had been boiling ever closer to the edge finally bubbled over. “Is it so unbelieveable that I wished to see you? Or perhaps it is that you are uncomfortable, your grace, that I have dared to interrupt
your
pleasures? Are you really so blindly arrogant that you didn't believe I would see clearly enough that Brandy, that wretched little slut, is trying to make you forget what you owe to your rank, what you owe to me?

“She doesn't fool me with her ridiculous dowdy clothes and those childish braids. I saw the way she looked at you, all those drippy, absurd little smiles, her attempts at banter with you that weren't at all amusing. Did you really believe that I wouldn't notice how very fondly you wrote of her in your letter? Or didn't you even care?”

He stared at her, not believing that such bile, such venom, could come out of that beautiful mouth, a mouth he'd believed was soft and gentle. He pulled back on Hercules reins and his stallion reared. He calmed his horse and that in turned helped him to calm himself. What did she want him to say? To agree with her that Brandy was a slut? She'd asked him if he'd even cared. He wondered if she wasn't right. Did he care?

He said finally, his voice low and calm, “What is it you mean to say, Felicity?” He knew he was a fool to ask for more of her fury, but for the first time since
he'd known her, he didn't understand her. He knew now, of course, that he'd never really understood her, curse Giles for being right. Curse him for not listening to his cousin. But he wanted her to finish it. He said again, “What do you really mean to say, Felicity?”

She turned her face away, forcing herself to remember that she was, after all, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Braecourt, and not some flyaway little ragamuffin in the wilds of Scotland. She shrugged. “I suppose it's quite natural for you to wish to take your pleasure, even in this hateful, uncivilized place. I understand that mistresses and whores are a common diversion among the gentlemen of our class even if they are betrothed to a lady. I would ask that you not bring your whore to London after we are married. And if you do sometime in the future bring her to London that you don't parade her under my nose and in front of all our friends.”

“Ah, so since I'm a duke, then it only stands to reason that I would have mistresses and visit whores. It stands to reason that I wouldn't understand or respect any vow of fidelity or honor?”

“That isn't the point, your grace. As I understand it, gentlemen's mistresses and whores have nothing to do with honor or vows. It is simply the way things are.”

“Things aren't like that with me. If I make a promise or a vow, I keep it. I don't care about anyone else. I daresay your brother, Lord Sayer, has told you all this, hasn't he?”

“He has told me you will probably treat me as well as you would treat your favored mistress and that you will leave me alone as soon as I've bred you an heir. He said this is the way of gentlemen. But it's not just my brother. I'm not blind, your grace. I see married couples. Perhaps they appear close for a while, but then he finds a mistress and she finds a lover.”

“It's a depressing truth,” the duke said, “but again I will tell you I'm not like that. Many gentlemen of my acquaintance are happily married and faithful to their wives. I might add that their wives are also faithful to them. But to get back to the point of all this. You traveled all the way to Penderleigh—because I wrote of Brandy and you, Felicity, you assumed that she must be my mistress? I think that I begin to understand you.”

And perhaps he did. All of it was pique and jealousy of her position, or rather of what her position would be when she became duchess of Portmaine.

“I trust that you do, Ian. You will not then bring her to London? You won't shame me in front of all our friends? You will wait until after we're married and then be discreet about it?”

“I will never bring Brandy to London to be my mistress, married or not. Brandy refuses to come to London, though, of course, it is my wish that she do so. I wish her to have a Season, to enjoy herself, to meet a gentleman she might come to admire, a gentleman she might wish to wed. But as I said, she refuses to come.”

He said abruptly before she could comment on that, “I asked you last night, Felicity, if you wished to bear my children. Now, I believe, I must require an answer from you.”

S
he lowered her eyes, the picture of the shy maiden, but she couldn't keep her voice quite level. “I will, of course, do my duty.”

“Your duty,” he repeated, his voice as level as the beach below them. Jesus, how could he have been so blind? So utterly unknowing of who and what she was?

“You must have an heir. Even my mother agrees with that. Every lord must have a son to carry on his name and title. There is Giles, your nominal heir, but since he's only two years younger than you are, it isn't likely that he would be alive to step into your title. Doubt me not, your grace. I will do what is expected of me.”

“Do you love me, Felicity?”

She was so surprised that she jerked too sharply on her horse's reins and it took an unmeasured step off the narrow cliff path. Ian quickly drew him back. She laughed. She settled herself again in the saddle and fanned her lovely gloved hands. “How perfectly quaint, your grace. My dear duke, I begin to believe that your wits have become muddled in this backward country. I certainly have a great
regard
for you and your family, as I trust you would expect in the future Duchess of Portmaine. Surely you haven't succumbed
to notions suitable for the lower classes and silly females who read novels filled with romantic drivel.”

“A duke and duchess are so different from everyone else, then?”

She gave him a strange look that he realized held tolerance and a dollop of contempt. “A duke and duchess should set the example for those of lesser birth. Maudlin sentiment, of a certainty, has no place in circles such as ours. I can't imagine that you would want the Duchess of Portmaine to enact ill-bred clinging scenes, fit only for the stage. It isn't the way I was raised. I would never do something so tasteless.”

He gazed at her, saddened. Perhaps he'd agreed with her at one time. But not now. He realized now that she was right—he had somehow changed, had become a man he wasn't certain that he understood anymore. Maybe he'd always been that man and been blind to himself. He just didn't know. He sighed. Even if he was not a duke, he was still a gentleman, and a gentleman did not break an engagement formally announced, though the good Lord knew he couldn't begin to see himself spending the rest of his life with this woman. Well, it was his own fault. He'd seen in her what he'd wanted to see. He'd made his own decisions. Now he'd pay for those decisions, dearly. She was what she was, and there would be no changing her. Quite simply, there was nothing more to say.

“I think it's time we returned to Penderleigh,” he said shortly, and wheeled Hercules about.

Felicity smiled and gave him a gracious nod, and followed his lead.

 

Percy's arrival later in the day did little to lift Ian's mood. He was surprised, however, to see the armor of cynicism that Percy habitually draped over himself replaced by open cheerfulness. He was smiling. He appeared happy.

It would take some getting used to. Percy announced that he was now a true Robertson and no longer a bastard, the Scottish court, under obdurate pressure from MacPherson, having legitimized him the afternoon before in Edinburgh.

Ian saw Bertrand pale visibly at the news. As for Claude, he snorted angrily, fastening his rheumy eyes upon Lady Adella. She appeared vastly amused and clapped Percy smartly on the back before turning to Claude. “Yer turn will come, don't fret yerself,” she said, her voice snide. “What's another week—or month, for that matter? One thing at a time, old MacPherson's not capable of more.”

But it was Felicity's reaction to Percy that surprised Ian the most. He had fully expected that she would elevate her patrician nose, repulsed at being in the same house with a bastard, a
former
bastard. He was wrong, quite wrong. Percy possessed himself of one of her small hands, whispered some doubtlessly flattering words, and planted a light kiss upon her wrist. She blushed faintly. Ian couldn't believe it. He'd always been so circumspect with her, so careful not to abuse her innocence in any way or shock her, but Percy, it appeared, could have kissed her on the mouth and she would have kissed him back, and thanked him.

Giles, as was his way, accepted Percy's acquaintance with his usual urbanity, and remarked to Ian in pensive undertones that regardless of the fellow's antecedents, he was possessed of a rare way with the ladies.

With the exception of one lady, Ian thought, looking at Brandy.

At dinner that evening, Percy recounted with relish his brief visit after his legitimization with Joanna's father, Conan MacDonald. “Ye should have seen the look on the old codger's face when I told him I'd kept to his wishes and not returned until my name was fixed up right and tight. He turned positively purple,
but he knew he couldn't turn me away from that pug-faced daughter of his. I'm a true Robertson, and that name goes a long way.”

“Why, sir,” Felicity said in her most charming voice, “do you court a lady you don't admire?”

“I would venture to say,” Giles remarked, a knowing gleam in his eyes, “that our mistress Joanna is an heiress.”

“Indeed,” Percy agreed with a satisfied laugh. “And a plump little pigeon who believes the world revolves around me. Of course, for all his wealth, Conan MacDonald still carries the smell of the shop, but I think I can easily bear the odor.”

“And the adoration,” Giles said.

“For a while, at least,” Percy agreed.

How odd, Ian thought, that Felicity didn't have any problem at all understanding Percy's thick Scottish brogue. He was still smarting from how blind he'd been to her, how completely and utterly blind. He'd been a fool. He forked down a bite of haggis. It sat well on his belly now.

“MacDonald will have ye, then, my boy?” Lady Adella asked.

“Can ye doubt it, lady? Old Angus, may he rot in hell, still exercises a powerful influence amongst the Scottish gentry. Ye may well guess too that I wasn't at all backward in extolling the rank and virtue of our current earl of Penderleigh. The old man's mean eyes bulged but good when I made it known that it is an English duke who now holds the title.”

Lady Adella waggled an arthritic finger at him. “Ye didn't tell MacDonald that ye were the duke's heir, did ye, ye rascal?”

That was it, Ian thought, nearly crushing his wineglass before he set it down. “The duke's heir is yet to be born. I trust that he will make his appearance in the next year or so.”

Giles murmured close to Felicity, “Ah, you'll be well occupied, my dear. The master has given his orders. A brood mare. Well, you'll make a lovely one, for a while at least.”

Brandy heard his soft words and wanted to howl at the moon, only there was only just a sliver of a moon this night.

“Hold your tongue, Giles,” Ian said, and there was cold anger in his voice.

But Giles just gave the duke a crooked grin. He raised his wineglass. “I propose a toast, Ian. May you have better luck this time.”

Brandy's head jerked up. Ian had paled beneath his tan. Whatever did Giles mean, “this time”?

Constance, to this point seated very quietly beside her, suddenly tossed her napkin unceremoniously on the table and rushed from the dining room.

“Whatever ails the chit?” Lady Adella demanded of no one in particular. “Damned girls. They can cry one minute and laugh the next. It's vexing on my nerves. Surely I never did that when I was her age.”

“No one would remember,” Claude said and chuckled. “It was so many decades in the past.”

“I'll take care of her,” Bertrand said, and left the room.

He was drawn by the sound of angry hiccuping sobs coming from a small parlor just beyond the drawing room. The door stood ajar and he drew up, seeing Constance flung facedown upon a sofa, sobbing wildly.

She looked so lovely with her black hair streaming over her bare shoulders that he wanted more than anything to gather her up in his arms and kiss her until she was no longer crying but kissing him back. Instead he sat down beside her and said softly, “Nay, lass, don't cry. There's no reason for ye to cry.”

“It's ye, Bertrand,” she said without enthusiasm, and wiped her hand across her eyes.

“Aye, it's I,” he said, wishing she could see him differently, wishing she could see him like he saw her.

“Did Grandmama or Uncle Claude send ye after me?” She hiccupped and he smiled.

“Nay, I came because I'm concerned about ye.” He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “Here, Connie, dry your eyes and tell me what troubles ye.”

She dabbed her eyes and cheeks and looked away from him, twisting the handkerchief between her fingers.

“Come, lassie, ye know ye can trust me. Haven't I always been yer friend?” Aye, he thought, always her damned friend.

Constance saw no disapproval in his eyes, only kindness. She blurted out, “Percy will wed that dreadful Joanna, he now makes no bones about it. Ye know he doesn't love her, it's only her money he wants. He's despicable. I can't believe I admired him, wanted him.”

Bertrand blessed Percy silently. “Perhaps, Connie, but ye surely must understand Percy's position. He loves his gay life in Edinburgh. Without the money to maintain his pleasures, he would assuredly be miserable. He has chosen what he wants, and if it must needs be a marriage to a lady he doesn't cherish, then, in a way, I can only pity him.”

“But I thought him more noble,” she said, and hiccuped again. “And ye, Bertrand, ye defend him. Ye've never defended him before. You've always said he was no good and not worthy of anyone's notice.”

That was true enough, but now he could afford to be fair about Percy, even to try a mite of generosity. “Nay, lass, ye must know that I could never approve of what he does. It's just that I understand his motives. Ye must forget him, Connie, he has never been worthy of yer affection.”

She was silent a moment. Was Percy now out of the picture? He surely hoped so.

“It's still not fair,” she said.

“Life does not always bring us what we think to be just. Ye know that well enough. Ye've lived here all yer sixteen years. All of us had a devil of a time living with Angus. Perhaps it's not much better now with Lady Adella, just different.”

“But, Brandy, why should she go to London while I have never even been to Edinburgh?”

He didn't blame her in the least for this grievance. It was a valid one. “Brandy is the eldest, Connie, although,” he added with what could be a dash of brilliant insight, “some think her less the woman than ye are.”

“Aye, that's true enough.”

“I don't think, though, that she will go to London. It is the duke who desires it, not Brandy. Can ye believe that Lady Felicity would wish either of ye in her home after she's married to the duke?”

“No, it's not very likely. She's a witch, Bertrand. Poor Ian. Why is he marrying her? He certainly doesn't need any money. Why?”

“I don't know. Maybe all the ladies in London are like her and she was the best of the lot. I can't see ye having much enjoyment in her company. Edinburgh, though, is quite another matter. It's a beautiful city, Connie, and before long I am certain ye will pay a long visit there. Ian told me that London boasts no finer shops and attractions than our own Scottish capital.”

She didn't appear entirely convinced of this, but she didn't say anything more. She rose and straightened her gown. “Ye're kind, Bertie.” She lifted her face to his. “Can ye see that I've been crying?”

He took the handkerchief from her hand and rubbed away the tears from those luscious soft cheeks
of hers. “Nay, ye're as lovely as ever. If anyone asks, we shall simply say that ye had the headache.”

“Thank ye, Bertie.”

When they returned to the dining room, no one made comment about Constance's sudden flight, though Ian saw Lady Adella give a sly wink to Claude.

Brandy looked at her sister, knowing that Percy was responsible. At last, she hoped, she'd seen him for what he really was. She looked lovely and very calm. What had Bertrand said to her?

After dinner, Brandy managed to work up the courage to speak to Giles. Her opportunity came when Felicity, prettily entreated by Percy, sat down at the pianoforte and played a Mozart sonata with a good deal of skill. Brandy's question made Giles shake his head. “My poor Brandy, you didn't know about Marianne?”

“Nay.”

“When I wished Ian better luck this time, I referred to his first wife. She died under the guillotine, you know. He couldn't save her, and he tried.”

“Marianne was French—a de Vaux?”

“You've an excellent memory, my dear. Yes, she was a lovely, fragile little creature, utterly adored by her parents and by her husband, Ian.”

“I see.”

Giles gave a start at the misery he read in those beautiful eyes of hers. Damn, it appeared that Ian had unleashed a woman's emotions in the girl's breast. He shrugged rather philosophically. She was young, and young hearts didn't break, they only bruised a bit.