by Eliza Knight
“How have ye been?” Jaime asked, smoothing down her own skirts to occupy her hands.
“Oh, the usual.” Giselle waved her hand in the air with an eye roll. “Mother is disappointed I’ve no’ yet found a wealthy lord to wed. But who can blame me with the choices we’ve got?”
“Fair enough. And does your mother know ye’re here?”
Giselle’s eyes widened slightly. “No.”
So the countess still looked down her nose at Jaime. “She will now.”
“And my ears will blister from her ranting, no doubt.” Giselle shifted in her seat, opened her mouth and closed it again. It was clear she had a question that she was not asking, and Jaime had a good idea what it was.
“Ye came here to ask me about the Duke of Sutherland.” It was a statement rather than a query, and the way Giselle blinked rapidly, Jaime knew she’d been right. She let out a long sigh. She wasn’t surprised and shouldn’t be disappointed. But she was.
“I’m sorry, Jaime. I know ye’ve likely been hounded by everyone else.”
“I have.” As well as the rumors in the papers.
“I was worried about ye. I remember what happened with Shanna, and well, are ye all right?”
Jaime was taken aback. She’d not expected that Giselle’s concern would be for her rather than what was happening.
“I’m fine. How do ye mean?”
Giselle had stopped the rapid blinking, the smile gone from her face, and she appeared to be concerned and interested. But not for gossip—as a friend. “Well, I know it must have been a surprise and brought up a lot of things I’m certain ye would have much rather kept buried.”
Like the duke himself. Her pride was still smarting from the way he’d set her out on his stoop and then slammed the door in her face. There’d been a crowd of people outside his gates, pretending they weren’t there on purpose to see what happened. Walking down the path to her carriage had felt like a walk of shame, with every pair of eyes on hers, trying to figure out exactly what had happened. They were left to their conclusions, which undoubtedly painted her in a most unflattering light. She could see the scandal sheets now: cartoons of her painted on her arse, skirts billowing up around her head outside the duke’s residence.
“Well, yes. But I will no’ blame the duke for not remaining dead.” Jaime said it as a jest, but it came out sounding a lot more bitter than she had planned.
Giselle’s smile faltered, and her expression of concern deepened. “Does Shanna know he’s back?”
“I’m no’ certain. She’s at Dunrobin.” Or that was where Jaime hoped she was. According to Lorne, her sister had not been there, and her messenger had yet to return. Where are ye, Shanna? “If she does no’ yet know, she will soon.” The emotion in her voice betrayed the stoic appearance she was trying to portray.
“Oh, Jaime. I’m so sorry. What a mess.”
Rather than comforting her, the pity in her friend’s voice made Jaime angry. She didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. Not now. Not ever. It only reminded her of the various ways the duke had humiliated her and her entire family. And when she’d thought him, and the disgrace he brought, finally buried—now everything was rising from the grave to swirl around her in a choking cloud of ash.
“Is that all, then?” Jaime said, finding some of the hardness that had cracked a moment ago and pasting it back in place. “I do no’ have time for frivolous visits. I’ve a company to run.”
Giselle appeared taken aback and hurt, and Jaime was instantly full of regret, but she couldn’t stop the deluge she’d started. So, she stood, just as MacInnes brought in their tea.
Her old friend, however, remained seated and offered the older butler a gentle smile. “Thank ye, MacInnes. I hope ye’ve been well.”
“Verra well, my lady.” MacInnes set the tea service down on the carved mahogany table and bowed. Cook’s currant scones looked decadent and smelled heavenly. Oh, she’d lied to Lorne about not wanting scones. She loved them.
When MacInnes left, Giselle turned her unwavering gaze on Jaime. “I know we’ve grown apart these past few years, but no’ for my lack of trying. Why do ye keep shutting me out?”
“Me, shut ye out?” Jaime didn’t try to hide her exasperation. “Your mother made it plain that we were no longer to be friends, and ye did no’ argue.”
Giselle stiffened and reached forward, pouring out the tea when Jaime failed to do so. She placed in the milk and sugar, remembering exactly how Jaime liked it. How could her friend act so calm in the face of Jaime’s discomfort?
“I take your silence as agreement.”
Giselle carefully stirred her tea and then lifted the cup to sip. “My mother is…difficult. And I did argue. Quite a lot. I even sent ye letters. But ye did no’ reply. And I took it upon myself this time to show up. My mother will have my head over it later. Enough people are milling about outside taking notes, it will likely be in the evening paper.”
“I never got any letters.” Jaime narrowed her eyes. “Ye need no’ lie.”
“I’m no’ lying. I sent dozens.” Giselle’s face flamed with color, and she set her cup down. “My God, do ye think my mother could have stolen my letters?”
Jaime shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“And all this time, I thought ye were shutting me out.”
“I’d never shut out a friend, Giselle.” Jaime sipped her tea to keep herself from groaning. “And now that we’ve reconnected, your mother will be certain to keep ye under lock and key.”
“No doubt.”
“I wish they would leave me alone. Ye might have gotten away with coming if they weren’t obsessed over me.”
“This will pass when the next bit of scandal sweeps the ton by storm.”
Jaime was skeptical. With the duke in town and their issues unresolved, it seemed as if it would be quite some time before anyone had their fill of the Andrewson and Sutherland drama. “Ye risk much by coming here. What about your prospects? Will they back away?”
Giselle waved away the warning. “I’ll wed when I find a man who is worthy of my attention. Thus far, they’ve all been sadly lacking.”
“Are ye no’ worried your mother will force the issue?” Especially now.
Giselle smiled ruefully. “The countess is no’ the only stubborn woman in the Hepburn household. Enough about me, Jaime. I came to talk about ye.”
And back to this again. Jaime set down her tea, stood and went to the window. “Looks as though the street is clearing out.” It wasn’t. But she was ready to be finished talking about herself.
“Please, do no’ shut me out. I’m worried.”
Jaime let out a long sigh and turned back to where Giselle perched on the settee. She’d so missed having a friend to confide in, and here was one right in front of her. A dear one who used to hold all her secrets. Perhaps now was a good time to open herself up and let her worries out. She had to talk to someone. Her insides were so coiled into knots, she was afraid she’d wake up twisted. “I am too. I have no’ heard from Shanna, and she’s about to become destitute again.”
“Is that why ye went to see the duke and he ye?” Giselle edged cautiously to stand beside Jaime.
“Partly, aye. He also wants his castle back.”
“That was quite a coup.” Giselle grinned, obviously having taken pleasure in reading about the sale.
Jaime frowned. “An illegal one, it would seem.”
Giselle peeked out the window. “What really happened all those years ago—between the duke and your sister?”
Jaime had only been sixteen when her sister was defiled and betrayed by the duke, and Giselle only thirteen, understanding even less. Their parents hadn’t shared much, and as young lasses do when denied the confidences of older debutantes and society ladies, they made up whatever came to mind from the bits and pieces they’d heard. The stories Jaime had heard, repeated by Giselle, were outrageous, and if she’d been in a better mood, quite hilarious. One such rumor had been that t
he duke had decided to run off with a traveling circus, and another that Shanna had discovered him in flagrante delicto with not one but three ladies from the theater. Of course, none of these came close to the truth.
“Plain and simple. They were engaged to wed, and he convinced her that his promise of marriage alone was enough for them to consummate their union. But as soon as she was with child, he left her. End of story.”
Giselle wrinkled her brow. “That is odd, is it no’?”
“It is the worst kind of betrayal.”
“But do ye no’ think it strange? Why would he propose to her, spoil her and dump her? He’s a duke, after all, and a member of Parliament. A war hero. Why would he risk so much of his reputation to get into her skirts when he could have had any woman in Scotland and England—or in the rest of the world, for that matter?”
Jaime pursed her lips. No one had ever put so succinctly into words the very thought she’d had more than once.
But she came back to the same conclusion each time. “I have to trust my sister’s word.”
Giselle nodded. “Aye, for why would she lie?”
Another question Jaime had asked herself and come up empty. “There is no doubt that she had a child. Gordie is proof of that. And I think he looks the spitting image of the duke.”
“Oh, my. Then he is most certainly the father.”
“Aye.” There was no doubting it. Yet, the prickling questions that had been gnawing at Jaime for years never seemed to rest.
They returned to the couch, each of them picking up a scone to nibble.
“Have ye ever thought—never mind.” Giselle gave a little laugh, putting a spot of clotted cream on her scone.
“Thought what?”
“I was going to suggest asking the duke for his version, but it would be quite improper. Or perhaps ye already have.”
“No, I have no’, but I’ve thought about it. And it’s as improper as me showing up on his doorstep.” Lot of good that had done her. It seemed when the two of them were together, all they did was split hairs, rather than move forward with what either of them wanted accomplished.
“I had heard about that. And given he tossed ye out for all to see, perhaps he owes it to ye to answer your questions.”
“The man does no’ believe he owes me anything. He is demanding I return the deed to the castle and has yet to reimburse me for the sale.”
“That’s odd. Does he truly want it back?”
“I have no doubt.” Jaime lifted the teapot to refill their cups.
“Hmm.” Giselle sipped from her replenished cup. “Men are so strange.”
“They truly are.” And maddeningly insufferable, especially the Duke of Sutherland. She glanced toward the door of the drawing room, half-expecting to see him barrel through it with more of his nonsense. Lord, she wouldn’t mind if he did, so she could give him another piece of her mind.
“Another reason I’m willing to put off another season without an engagement. Much to Mama’s disappointment.”
“I never want to marry,” Jaime agreed. Her stomach tightened at the thought, and she decided to change the subject. “Do tell me who made your dress. It is divine.”
Giselle smoothed a hand over the silken frock. “Oh, aye, Madame Yolande. She’s newly come to Edinburgh from Paris.”
“I will have to set up an appointment with her.”
“Ye should, and soon. She is filling up fast.”
The conversation moved through various fashions and other town gossip, with Jaime certain not to mention the duke again, even if he were all she could think about. The man was consuming her every waking contemplation, taking up residence in her head where he didn’t belong and was certainly not welcome.
7
He’d been avoiding her for days now. Consumed with the search for his brother, his accounts, regaining his strength, and of course, the simple act of avoiding her because she drove him mad. Even as maddening as she was, he would choose the torment of her brooding stare and cantankerous tongue over being imprisoned. Hell, he’d bear it for a lifetime.
That was something one learned when they’d been in hell, that there were monsters a lot darker, and troubles a lot harsher, complications grimmer. And so, that was how when he woke up each morning since returning from the continent—he was a survivor and would keep on keeping on.
Over breakfast, he’d sifted through the stack of newspapers and broadsheets brought in by Mungo. He ignored the cartoons of him and Jaime yanking back and forth a small castle that he supposed was Dunrobin. Rubbish. The papers had been filled with rumors about his return and their subsequent visits. Even going so far as to suggest that perhaps he’d come back to ravish Jaime in the same way her sister had accused him of nearly a decade before.
It was all drivel, of course. A bunch of nonsense from writers who couldn’t find a fact beyond the tip of their nose and likely didn’t get that much right.
However, upon entering his club to locate Malcolm and inquire if anything had been found about Gille, his eye was drawn to five men hunched over a betting book. They were talking rather rambunctiously and laughing, and Lorne could swear he heard them say “Andrewson.”
What the devil?
He wedged his way between the men, none of them yet noticing that it was him seeing what was written in the book: Bets on Duke Seducing Another Andrewson.
Lorne could not believe what he was seeing—and then the words blurred, and all he saw was red. Men were betting on how long it would take before he ruined Jaime? The bloody bastards.
“Who created this ridiculous shite?” he demanded, letting his anger show.
The men leapt back, the book dropping as no one wanted to claim ownership. He might have been gone from Scotland for a long time, but they all knew he would beat them bloody in a fight, and Lord, was he wishing one of them would instigate it.
But no one answered. Lorne lifted the book from the floor, turning to the page and reading a few of the names aloud. “MacIntyre, Ross, Blair. The lot of ye bastards.”
He ripped the pages from the book and tossed the rest of it at a club footman, who was all too happy grasp the scraps.
“Ye’re all a bunch of bloody fools. Return the bets placed. This is a dead gamble.” He stormed out of the club, angry that men he’d thought friends were betting behind his back. And grateful at the same time that he’d not seen his dearest mates on the list.
He hopped atop his mount and took off through the streets, narrowly avoiding a cart full of cabbage. Shortly, he found himself near the docks in Leith, watching Jaime talk with her men. Obscured by the dockhands busily working, he was content to watch and learn.
She was so lovely and serious. What he wouldn’t give to see a crack in that stony exterior, to see her smile. The lass was so different from her sister. Shanna had been all laughs and gossip. He’d found her irritating, but the match had been good, and her dowry had included a parcel of land in Ireland that he knew would work very well for sheep farming. At the time, he’d been of the mind to ignore the parts of her that irked him, only because brides were meant to carry on a man’s legacy. To produce heirs. Once they had the requisite heir and a spare, he’d leave her to her frivolous tendencies, and he could move on with his life. They need not be friends. That was what his mates were for.
The moment she’d betrayed him with the one thing he’d desired out of a marriage—heirs—he’d ended things. In that heated moment, he’d also decided he wasn’t going even to attempt to find another bride—that he’d let the title and lands fall to his brother. Soon after, he’d been called to the front lines. And all he’d longed for while fighting a battle, and lying awake in a cold cell, had been to wish that someone back home were praying for him, thinking of him. That there would be a pair of warm arms to welcome him home.
And all this time, they’d thought him dead.
But—there had been at least one person thinking of him. Jaime. Even if her thoughts had veered toward revenge and hatred.
Much as she wished him dead now, he’d still take it. Better to be thought of in that light than forgotten altogether.
Lorne approached her as she turned away from one of her men and sauntered head down back toward her office with a ledger book.
“Miss Andrewson.”
She jerked her gaze up, faltering in her steps, obviously surprised to see him. Quick to recover her footing, she demanded, “What are ye doing here?” She slammed her ledger book shut and stopped her forward progression.
“Thought ye’d gotten rid of me?” Lorne dismounted and looped his horse’s reins around the horse-tie pillar.
With whitened knuckles, she clutched the ledger to her chest like a shield. “Well, when ye put me out on your stoop, it was quite clear ye were rid of me.”
“True. And I apologize for such a rude gesture. I was…frustrated.” He offered her a smile that she did not return.
Jaime’s brows narrowed, and if possible, her knuckles grew whiter. If she clutched that ledger book any harder, she’d shred it. “Did ye just apologize, Your Grace?”
A tingle rose along the back of Lorne’s neck, the same one he got when ready to box or fence—the sign of an imminent challenge. And there were no immediate indications of danger; it was merely his instinctual reaction to the firebrand before him. “Aye.”
“And so easily.” Oh, he was in trouble, for her voice had taken on the smooth, silken tones of a viper about to strike.
Lorne’s smile faltered. “What are ye getting at?”
Jaime shrugged and seemed to file away whatever information she’d gleaned from his reaction. “Nothing. What do ye want?”
Lorne studied her, taking in the splotch of ink on her forehead—a smear really, no doubt from rubbing her brow with a stained finger. Without hesitation, and perhaps hoping to shock her, he tugged his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to her skin, wiping away the smudge.
She gasped, jumping out of reach, and then touched her forehead, bestowing upon herself another ink splotch. “What are ye doing?”
