Undone By The Duke

by Willingham Michelle

  “One day, you’ll have a son like him,” Beatrice promised. “But only if you find a husband first.” She smiled warmly and held out her hand. “Perhaps you’ll meet someone while we’re here in London.”

  “Perhaps.” When her daughter rose from the floor, her eyes were reddened as if she’d been crying. It startled Beatrice to see her tears, for she couldn’t guess what had upset her.

  “What is it, darling?” Beatrice asked. “Are you not well?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Juliette sniffled, wiping at her eyes. Nodding toward the window, she shrugged. “I made the mistake of touching my eyes after I petted the cat. It’s nothing to worry about.” She dabbed them with a handkerchief, but her gaze lingered upon the boy as she rose.

  “We’re attending a dinner party tonight,” Beatrice said. “It will be your first chance to meet some of the men Charlotte has selected. Promise me you’ll give them a chance.” She smoothed back Juliette’s light brown hair, pinning a wayward lock back into the updo.

  The enigmatic look on her daughter’s face revealed none of her thoughts. “I won’t embarrass you, Mother.”

  When Beatrice took her hand, Juliette asked, “There’s something I’ve been wondering. Has the… Earl of Strathland been troubling you about the house at all?”

  She shrugged. “He still wants me to sell it, but you know I can’t. Not without your father’s approval. Besides, Victoria would never leave.” A frisson of dismay rose up inside her at the thought.

  “I wouldn’t mind leaving Scotland,” Juliette admitted. “It’s so isolated and I don’t like what’s been happening with the crofters. I’m worried about Victoria being there.”

  Beatrice’s smile faltered, for she worried about Victoria as well. She hadn’t wanted to leave until she was certain their cousin Pauline could come and stay, but her daughter had been adamant.

  “It’s only for a few weeks,” she reassured Juliette. “And in the meantime, if you find a man to marry tomorrow night, then you can leave Scotland,” Beatrice informed her. Pasting on her smile again, she tried to bring their conversation back to happier thoughts. “Shall we go and have you measured for some new gowns?”

  Juliette’s expression grew uncertain. “The money Margaret brought back… you aren’t using that to buy gowns for us, are you? Not when there are debts to be paid.”

  “The new gowns are a gift from Charlotte,” Beatrice admitted, unable to hide the flush that came over her. It was wrong to accept so much from her sister, but she saw no alternative. “You needn’t worry. Our debts will all be paid, in due time.”

  “If Victoria continues to sew,” her daughter pointed out. “Have you gone to speak with Mr. Gilderness?”

  “Of course,” Beatrice lied. She hadn’t met with the solicitor at all, not wanting to spoil Christmas with more bad news. “Everything is in order. You’ve nothing to worry about.” Putting on a bright smile, she took Juliette’s hand in hers. “What color do you think you’ll choose?”

  “Spend the money on Margaret,” the young woman advised. “She’s the best hope any of us could have of getting married.”

  “You have the same chance as your sister,” Beatrice chided. “You’re nineteen years old, and you have your entire life ahead of you.” Glancing back at Charlotte’s infant son, she added, “Before you know it, you could have a child like this one.”

  Juliette’s face softened. “I hope so.” As the baby’s nursemaid came to take him, she blew him a kiss and he gurgled at her.

  Beatrice guided her daughter away. “We’ll measure all three of you for new gowns and if you would rather stay behind when I return to Scotland, perhaps Charlotte wouldn’t mind.”

  Juliette gave a nod. “I would prefer to stay here.”

  They were joined by Amelia and Margaret while Charlotte sent for their carriage. Beatrice gripped her reticule, trying to decide what to do about the money the girls had earned. It shamed her to think that they had taken it upon themselves to try and solve the financial difficulties… but by the same token, they needed a new wardrobe. She ought to gather up her courage and write to Henry, asking him for advice. Yet the idea of admitting her failure was even more humiliating.

  No, it was better to solve their financial problems on her own. She would arrange a meeting with the solicitor in two days, and find a way to make everything right.

  One week later

  The last crofter had gone, and Victoria breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a grueling seven days, with her hours spent tending the wounded crofters, as well as Mr. Smith. In so many ways, the time she’d spent in the man’s company had been a welcome respite from the injured people in the dining room. She’d shied away from the strangers, though she’d allowed Dr. Fraser anything he needed to treat his patients.

  The doctor had arranged for one of the MacKinlochs to build a set of crutches for Mr. Smith, and he’d begun using them a day ago. Though his leg had improved, he could not yet walk unaided.

  “The patients are gone, I see,” he remarked, leaning against the crutches. “You must be glad to have your house back again.”

  “Yes. I won’t deny that. And I’m happy that most of the men have healed.” She clasped her hands together, eyeing the dining room table that had been put back in place. The table was set for one, but the sight of the lonely plate deflated her spirits. She didn’t want to sit in the empty room, missing her mother and sisters when there was an alternative.

  “I’d rather not eat my meal alone,” she blurted out. “Would you care to… join me?”

  As soon as she voiced the request, she saw his expression grow guarded. “It depends on your reasons for wanting my company, Miss Andrews.”

  She didn’t understand what he meant by that. “It’s just a meal.”

  “Alone with me,” he added. He moved a little closer, remaining at the entrance to the dining room. “I’ve already done a great deal of damage to your reputation, simply by being here.”

  “You were recovering from a bullet wound,” she pointed out. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “So far,” he admitted, using the crutches to draw nearer. From the darker timbre of his voice, she wondered what he meant by that. “But the longer I stay here, the greater the risk to you.”

  “I don’t care what people say about me,” she insisted. It was the truth. She never left the house, so even if others did talk, she would not hear it spoken to her face.

  “I wasn’t talking about the risk of idle gossip.” Mr. Smith stood directly in front of her, and his proximity made her skin warm with apprehension. “I was talking about this.”

  He smoothed a strand of hair off her nape, and a thousand warnings roared through her mind. But she didn’t move away. His warm hand drew down her spine, pulling her closer while his deep green eyes held her captive. She was nearly in his arms before his hands moved up to frame her face. The forbidden pull tempted her with the promise of something more.

  He’ll leave you, her head warned, even as her heart whispered, I don’t care.

  He’d been the answer to her loneliness, and God help her, she didn’t want him to go. The hunger for companionship had been awakened, and she’d grown accustomed to seeing his face each day. She’d spent every moment at his side, moments that she wanted to hold on to, no matter what else happened. She’d seen him awaken each morning, learned that he preferred his toast with jam but no butter, and had talked with him until she fell asleep in her chair, late at night.

  “Nothing will happen between us,” she lied, pulling out of his grasp.

  Mr. Smith glanced over at the table and added, “Then we shall eat and continue this pretense. I’d rather dine here than alone in the parlor.” He adjusted the crutches, following her into the smaller room. When they reached the table, he pulled out her chair for her.

  “I should be the one doing that for you,” she said, feeling ashamed that she’d forgotten to offer. “Especially with your wound.” But she took her seat and scooted forwa
rd, waiting for him to join her. He sat at the head of the table, to her left.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t hurt as badly as it did. But it will be a few months before I’m able to dance again.” His mouth tilted with mockery.

  “I can’t imagine a man like you dancing,” she confessed.

  “I’m quite good at it. Or was, before my leg was nearly blown off.” He eyed her. “I’ll wager you’ve never danced before.”

  “I learned how, but it’s not something I’ve done often. I can safely name myself the Queen of Wallflowers.”

  He reached for a pitcher and poured her a mug of ale. She was startled to see him take a sip from it, before passing it over. Then again, he had no mug of his own.

  “You might be a wallflower,” he agreed, “but there’s more to you, isn’t there?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “In my experience, the quietest women tend to be the most adventurous. There’s a wildness that they let no one see.”

  “I’m not at all wild.” But she worried that he’d glimpsed the black corset she’d been sewing. When she’d fitted it to her body, the contrast between her skin and the dark color was vivid in a way she’d never expected. She’d cut it a little too low, and although she’d covered the silk with lace, it revealed the curve of her breasts.

  Hastily, she took a sip of the ale. It wasn’t her favorite beverage, but it was readily available in the Highlands. He reached for her mug, turning it so that his mouth touched the place where her lips had been.

  He covered her hand with his and guided the mug to her lips in a silent invitation. Sharing the beverage had become intimate, and as she tasted the ale, she imagined the touch of his lips upon hers.

  The soft candlelight cast a glow between them, and he remarked, “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

  “So are you,” she reminded him. “I still don’t know who you are. You never once gave your true name.”

  Victoria hadn’t pursued it because it had seemed far more important to save his life. But now, she wanted to know who he was and why he was reluctant to share more about himself.

  “I gave you my first name,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  She shook her head. “You know it isn’t.” Passing him the ale, she tilted her head to the side. “I believe you’re wealthy, but I doubt you’re titled,” she predicted. “Perhaps a baronet, at best.”

  “I could be a prince, for all you know.”

  “Heaven save us, no. Thank goodness for that.” She studied him, trying to determine who he really was. “A knight?”

  “Wrong again,” he told her. “I’m far more important than that. All the society matrons would cast themselves in front of charging horses if I would spare their daughters a look.”

  She shook her head at his teasing. “I don’t believe that.” Eyeing him closer, she offered, “But you don’t seem eager to return to London.”

  “Or perhaps I have a reason to stay.”

  The words softened her heart, but she couldn’t bring herself to face him. He wasn’t going to stay. These were just words, nothing more.

  Now, she realized that it was probably best if she never knew who he was or why he’d been so secretive. None of it mattered. It would simply tear her feelings apart, leaving a ragged hole in her heart.

  “Are you disappointed that I’m not a prince?” he asked.

  “Relieved, actually.” But then, if he were someone important, he wouldn’t have wasted time speaking to someone like her.

  Abruptly, he remarked, “Money isn’t important to you, is it? I could be a penniless beggar and you’d treat me the same as a duke.”

  “It doesn’t matter how much money a man has. It’s what’s here that matters.” Gently, she reached out to touch his heart. But he didn’t take her hand this time. Instead, he stared at her, as if making a decision.

  Had she said too much? He was still a stranger to her, regardless that she’d taken care of him this past week the way a wife might have done.

  In the end, it was nothing but a daydream, one that would fade away as soon as he walked out the door. He would return to his mysterious life, and she’d be left locked away in a house she was growing to hate. For it would be empty without him there.

  “Nottoway,” he said at last. “Jonathan Nottoway is my name.” He stared back at her, and she realized it was the truth. For a time, he waited, as if he expected her to recognize it.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  His green eyes held wariness, but he didn’t press any further. At that moment, Mrs. Larson entered and brought a bowl of soup, setting it before Victoria. “I thought he would be in the parlor.”

  “He is going to eat in the dining room, like a civilized person,” Mr. Nottoway countered. “And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I would like silverware and dishes of my own. Unless you believe I should share utensils with Miss Andrews.” He said nothing of the cup they’d already shared.

  “Insolent rogue,” came Mrs. Larson’s muttered retort. At Victoria’s silent reprimand, she corrected in a louder tone, “Yes, sir. That is, if Miss Andrews would desire your company.”

  “He is here at my invitation, Mrs. Larson,” she remarked. When the housekeeper had gone, she apologized, “Don’t be offended by her. She has a harsh tongue but a gentle heart.”

  He shrugged and stole another sip from her mug of ale. “How long has she been in the service of your household?”

  “Five years. We lived in London with my uncle before this.” Though she tried to keep her tone even, Victoria pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  “I’m surprised you stayed that long. Scotland’s an unforgiving sort of land.”

  “It’s harsh, but beautiful.” She glanced outside at the falling snow. Though it was dark already, the candles in the room illuminated the dusted windowpanes. “Sometimes I’ll sit in my room and look out at the mountains.”

  “And do you go walking in the summertime?” he asked.

  She gave no answer to that but stared back at the table. Though she ought to nod or lie about it, she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Every time she imagined walking through the meadows, she remembered being lost in the forests and the glens. She’d been unable to find the main road, and after a day without food, she’d grown even more disoriented. The grassy hills had become a desert, the endless glens a labyrinth that were too vast for a seventeen-year-old girl to navigate.

  He was still waiting for an answer, so she changed the direction of their conversation. “I know you’ll be leaving. But… will you visit your house on Eiloch Hill, from time to time?” She tried to keep her words casual, as if they meant nothing.

  Will I ever see you again?

  He shook his head. “I never stay in one place for very long. I’m hiring a land steward to oversee Eiloch Hill.”

  She veiled her dismay, but at least he’d been honest with her. It was strange to think that he would enjoy moving from place to place so often. The very thought made her shudder. “I would hate traveling. I much prefer to remain at home.”

  “You would enjoy some of the places I’ve visited. The Amalfi Coast of Italy is lovely. The sun is warm, and the water is so blue it almost hurts your eyes.” He continued describing it, and in his voice, she heard the longing. Although she could not imagine walking upon a sandy shore alone, with him it was a different image. She had no desire to explore foreign lands or leave her safe haven… but if Mr. Smith—no, Mr. Nottoway—wanted to show her the world, she would try it for his sake.

  While he spoke, she found herself studying his features, as if she could forever capture them in her mind. His sun-darkened hair was cut short in a careless manner, and she’d watched his green eyes flash with anger and soften with intensity. Right now, he was looking at her as if awaiting a reply.

  “Was that your favorite place?” she asked, passing the s
oup and spoon over to him.

  “One of them.” He tasted a spoonful of the soup and passed it back. His knee bumped hers beneath the table, and at his close proximity, goose bumps raised upon her skin.

  Mrs. Larson returned with a second bowl of mock turtle soup and a spoon for Mr. Nottoway. Although the food was a distraction, she was intensely aware of his eyes upon her. They ate in silence for a time, before he ventured, “I haven’t seen you working on the black gown. Did you finish it?”

  She didn’t correct him, but nodded. “I’ll begin sewing another design soon.”

  “How do you get your materials? They must be scarce this far north.”

  “I’ve used older materials,” she explained. “Sometimes Mr. Sinclair brings me fabric from London, though.”

  “You really do love the work, don’t you?”

  She brightened at the thought. “There’s a sense of power in it… to make something beautiful out of something no one else wanted.”

  His gaze turned discerning, as if she were speaking of more than the fabric. “Indeed.”

  She fell silent for a time while Mrs. Larson cleared away the soup dishes and returned with a freshly baked cod pie. Steam rose from the crust as she cut into it, serving each of them a slice. Mr. Nottoway waited until the housekeeper had gone before he said, “You’ve helped me heal from this wound and given me your hospitality. I mean to repay you for it. Name your reward.”

  “Why would I need a reward for saving a man’s life?” Victoria countered, startled by his offer. “Isn’t the fact that you’re breathing reward enough? And that you still have your leg?”

  From the enigmatic look on his face, she wondered if she’d offended him. Shyness caught her, but she forced the words out. “I-I’ve enjoyed spending these past few days with you. Your companionship has been gift enough.” Her face warmed with embarrassment, especially when his green eyes stared into hers, as if trying to read beneath her words.