by Julia London
“Miss Mackenzie.”
He suspected correctly. No one else would dare come so close to Blackthorn Hall. “You saw her where?”
Eula suddenly gasped. “She was wearing breeches!” she said with delight, as if she’d discovered a new litter of puppies.
“Was she indeed,” Hamlin drawled,
“I believe they are called trews, your grace,” Aubin reported in his thick accent. “She wore them beneath her mantua gown in place of a petticoat.”
Hamlin stared at Aubin as he tried to picture it. Was that...acceptable?
“She wears them for riding,” Eula patiently explained. “She said a lady canna ride properly if she sits on only half her bum—”
“Pardon?” Hamlin asked.
“She says that if you mean to ride, you must ride properly, and ride astride.”
“She said all that, did she?” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“She rides verra well, Montrose. You should see her.”
“Sir,” he corrected her.
“Sir,” she obediently repeated. “I want to ride like her. May I?”
“No.” He looked at Aubin. “Where did this happen, then?”
“At the river, your grace. Miss Guinne and I had stopped to water our mounts, and she came galloping across the meadow, riding so recklessly I thought certainly she was being chased by highwaymen. She is indeed a fine rider. She might, perhaps, have a point.”
“Perhaps, but that is no’ the way of things at Blackthorn Hall, aye?” Hamlin said, and picked up the reins of the pony and handed them to Aubin. “Come, then, Eula.” He put his hand on her back and ushered her forward, toward the back terrace.
“She wore her hair down, and it fell all the way down her back, just like the tail on Mr. Aubin’s horse when he brushes it,” Eula said, her small hands fluttering to demonstrate just how long this tail of hair was. “She said lassies ought to learn how to ride and shoot and fish for themselves, because sometimes there are no men to do it for them and sometimes a lassie doesna want a man to do it for her.”
Good Lord, had they taken tea? Whiled away the morning? “It would seem the lady is full of opinions,” he muttered.
“May I please ride astride?” Eula asked, turning her face up to his. “Please? She’s verra good, and I’m no’.”
“You may no’. It is no’ considered ladylike to ride in that fashion, Eula.”
“But she rides that way.”
Yes, but she was a different sort of lady. One whose accomplishments ran to the masculine—oh, yes, he recalled that bold, inexplicable claim. “What the lady does is her affair—no’ yours.”
“It’s no’ fair,” Eula complained. “I quite like her. She’s bonny. Do you think she’s bonny? I like the way she laughs. She laughs a lot.”
“I’ve noticed, aye.” He had a sudden image of Eula, several years in the future, wearing trews and leading rebels to some hideout in the Highlands and laughing as she went. Good God. “For now, you will put aside your desire to ride like a highwayman and have your bath, aye?”
“Aye,” she said, clearly disappointed when he sent her on to her room and Mrs. Weaver. He remained at the open French doors, staring out into the gardens of Blackthorn Hall. He did not want to think about Miss Mackenzie in her trews. He had trained himself to suppress any thoughts of women. Of their innate beauty. Of sex. After the tragedy of his marriage, Hamlin was persuaded he would never know happiness. No matter that he was a duke, he was damaged, a social leper, and would never know the sort of intimacy he craved. Better not to think of it at all.
And yet, he was thinking of the hoyden with the golden hair and the gray-blue eyes, sparkling as if she believed the entire world existed for her amusement. She was a traveler, passing through life and enjoying the sights, the tastes, the scent of it all. And putting ideas in young girls’ heads about riding astride as she went.
Putting ideas in a grown man’s head about riding astride, as well.
He could picture her riding a horse like a man. Vividly. Too vividly.
He suddenly felt the need to hammer something. He needed to hammer for a good hour, something hard and unbendable so that he might expend the unwanted vigor that had suddenly invaded his body.
The stable. Surely something needed hammering there.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, Hamlin rode into the small village of Aberfoyle to meet with his solicitor. It was a short meeting; his solicitor, like so many others, obviously did not care for Hamlin, what with all the rumors. But he did not despise Hamlin so much that he was willing to part with the compensation he received for handling ducal affairs. If Hamlin had had another choice in this part of Scotland, he gladly would have taken it. It was his misfortune that the surly Mr. Peterboro was the only decent solicitor for miles.
When he quit that office and walked outside, he struck out across the village green toward the stables to fetch his mount. He didn’t look right or left—what was the point? He would not be acknowledged—had not been acknowledged in months, even by those who might still call him friend. Better to pretend not to see the ignominious duke than shock anyone by greeting him. The people of this region had loved Glenna. She had a way of ingratiating herself into one’s good graces by showering them with the affection only a duchess could afford. She bestowed gifts in the way of large purchases from the shopkeepers, favors of employment or benevolence to the less fortunate, trinkets of value to her friends. And he was the man whom they believed had removed that angel from their midst in a most nefarious manner. None of them would say that to his face, fearing the power he wielded, which, as Bain had once pointed out to him, was considerable. Because he was a duke, an accusation of murder would have to be brought to Parliament. The lords would not entertain it. “It strikes too close to home, as it were,” he’d said casually.
It hardly mattered to Hamlin if they accused him—what mattered was that they believed it of him.
Aye, Hamlin was very well aware how his presence was received in the village, and, no, he did not look about for a friendly face that afternoon.
So it was to his great surprise that he heard his name called out as he reached the far side of the green. He paused and curiously turned about to see Miss Mackenzie hurrying across the green to him, her reticule bouncing merrily against her hip. “Madainn mhath!” she called cheerfully from a distance twenty or so feet away, as if she couldn’t bear to wait the few steps to greet him.
Hamlin glanced around, expecting the full Dungotty entourage to appear, a host of Englishmen who cared nothing about what was said about the Duke of Montrose, but that they might boast about their titled “friend” when they returned home.
Yet no one else appeared but the Mackenzie lass, reaching him with cheeks pinkened from her near sprint, wisps of her hair curling around her face beneath the wide brim of her hat. And her eyes, shining with mirth, always full of vitality and happiness. How in blazes was she so happy? How was anyone so bloody happy?
“Madainn mhath!” she said again. “I greet you in Gaelic.”
“I gathered.”
She clasped her hands before her and smiled expectantly, presumably thinking he might offer his own greeting. When he did not, as he did not trust her intentions, she was not the least deterred. “What brings you to the village this bonny morning, then?” She glanced skyward as if he might not have noticed the bright sun overhead, the azure-blue skies.
He wondered if she didn’t know or perhaps didn’t care that it was ill-mannered to inquire after a gentleman’s business. He found himself glancing at the petticoat of her gown, also wondering if she wore trews beneath it and having a sudden and ferocious urge to see her legs in trews. So ferocious, in fact, that his heart began to pound with curiosity.
“Where is your ward?” she asked when he didn’t speak. “Has she come with you?”
> Now she would ask after Eula? Hamlin didn’t know what to do with this bonny woman. He didn’t trust her interest in him, and yet he couldn’t help but feel drawn to her. “Perhaps I’ve been misinformed, but I thought it was no’ done for a passing acquaintance to make such a personal inquiry.”
“A passing acquaintance!” She laughed. “Have you forgotten that we’ve dined together? That makes us practically friends! I should go so far as to say we are friends. You should agree to this, as I have heard it from your ward’s own lips that you donna have many.”
“She said that, did she?”
“Without any misgivings.” She smiled. “My sincere apology if I’ve managed to offend you, your grace, but I happened upon Miss Guinne earlier in the week and thought to ask after her. She’s a bonny lass, and I like her verra much.”
“Aye, she is,” he agreed, but he was looking at her when he said it, and for a sliver of a moment, he was confused as to who was the bonny one. “By the bye, she mentioned your bit of advice to her.”
“What advice was that?” Miss Mackenzie asked. “That she should aspire to a meaningful life? That is no’ a bit of advice, but rather important. I think you must mean my advice on how to properly sit a horse,” she said cheekily. “I wasna wrong in that. How can anyone believe a woman might handle something as big as a horse perched so precariously on its back? I dare say you couldna ride in that manner, either. Have you tried it?”
“Of course no’,” he said.
“Of course no’,” she mimicked him, making her voice deep and her brows furrow.
“I amuse you,” he said.
“You do amuse me,” she admitted. “And you intrigue me. I find it curious that a duke has no friends at all. One would think your title and your verra big house would bring you scores and scores of dear, close friends.” Her smile broadened.
Hamlin was aware of his heartbeat again. It wasn’t racing per se, but reminding him that it was very much present and willing to work in any manner necessary in the presence of this woman.
“You’re no’ in a talkative mood, are you? Verra well, then, I’ll leave you to your stomping about the green and all the mysterious reasons you’ve come to Aberfoyle,” she said, and touched two fingers to the brim of her hat. “I’ll no’ wonder long, for I’m certain the reasons will be known far and wide across the Trossachs before the day is through. I have discovered that I’m no’ the only one who is intrigued with you, aye?” A devilish little smile of amusement twinkled in her eye.
He didn’t smile outwardly, but he could feel a smile inside of him. “I warned you against paying any heed to the latest gossip, did I no’?”
“Gossip! I donna listen to gossip, your grace. I meant only that you’re a verra important duke.”
His gaze narrowed on her smiling face. “You didna mean that at all, Miss Mackenzie. What is your business here, then?”
“Why, I am delighted to tell you.” She leaned forward as if she meant to share a secret. He leaned closer to hear it. She whispered, “If you look very closely over my shoulder, I’m sure you’ll spot Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe. I left her cowering near the millinery, for she was quite reluctant to approach you without invitation or chaperone.”
He forced himself to look away from Miss Mackenzie’s very kissable lips and over her shoulder. He could see the young woman clutching her reticule and watching them on the green. “She’s been properly brought up, then.”
“Oh, aye, she has indeed. So have I, in truth, but as the years have flitted by, I have found less and less use for rules. Now, here is my true confession,” she said, and leaned even closer to him to whisper, “I have come to Aberfoyle to seek diversion from the tedium at Dungotty.” As soon as she said it, she covered her mouth with her gloved hand, and her eyes crinkled with laughter above it. She swayed back and dropped her hand. “I hail from Balhaire. Do you know it, then? It’s a great fortress in the Highlands, and my family has ruled from there for centuries. There is quite a lot to do there on any given day.”
“Such as hiding rebels?”
She laughed. “Mi Diah, you surely donna believe we hide our rebels every day, your grace! Generally, we hide them only on Fridays. Sometimes on Saturdays, but on Saturdays, we prefer to drink our wretched whisky and dance our rowdy reels and plot against the throne.” She winked.
Her grin was infectious, and damn it if Hamlin didn’t feel a tiny bit of it spreading to his own lips. He clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “As today is Wednesday I may rest assured I will no’ encounter any rebels on my return to Blackthorn Hall, then.”
“I should think no’ today,” she agreed. “Good day, your grace! Please give my regards to Miss Eula, will you?”
“I will think on it,” he said, and bowed. He walked away, the sound of her giggling trailing behind him like the vapor of a dream slipping away with the morning sun.
When he reached the stables, he glanced back. She had crossed the green to the Wilke-Smythe lass, and their heads were bowed together, their tongues most certainly wagging. What did she say of him? What had she proved with such a display?
He would rather not know, he decided. His curiosity about such things had been beaten down by the untoward things said about him. And he would prefer to hold the cheerful Miss Mackenzie in a box all to herself.
He thought about her cheekiness all the way to Blackthorn Hall. Rebels on Friday, indeed.
By the time he reached Blackthorn, her infectious smile had invaded all of his lips. He could feel his smile cracking the planes of his cheeks.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CATRIONA RATHER LIKED Chasity Wilke-Smythe, but the young woman’s habit of announcing far and wide every wee thing Catriona had said was beginning to wear thin.
When they returned to Dungotty, Chasity threw open the doors of the green salon and said dramatically to the women gathered there, “Miss Mackenzie intercepted the Duke of Montrose on the street of Aberfoyle! The street! And then she inquired as to his reason for being there!”
“Did he give you a satisfactory answer or did you receive only his dark look?” the countess asked idly from her chair near the window.
Catriona tossed her hat onto the settee. “He spoke. But he’d no’ reveal why he’d come to the village, and reminded me it was impolite to ask.”
Mrs. Wilke-Smythe dropped her sewing with a gasp. Chasity giggled with delight. She giggled now, but she’d been so overwrought when she and Catriona had spotted the duke in the village, and Catriona had announced her intention to speak to him, that the skin of her chest had turned to rash. The moment Catriona had left the duke and returned to Chasity’s side, Chasity had practically beat the news from Catriona with the kid gloves she’d held in her hand. She’d hung on every last word.
“Surely you didn’t ask him why he’d come to the village!” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe’s shock and disapproval was loudly evident.
“Aye, I did,” Catriona said pertly. “Everyone avoids his gaze, they do, and I wanted verra much to wish him a good day. Unfortunately, one can only remark on the weather so many times before one is judged to be a dullard.”
Chasity colored a bit, as if she feared she’d remarked on the weather too many times. “You are incorrigible, Catriona,” she said with a twinge of admiration. “I’ve never known such an audacious woman as you, on my word!”
“Thank heavens for that,” her mother muttered.
Catriona went to the sideboard and poured a glass of water. That moment in the village when she’d returned to Chasity, she’d happened to glance back at the duke. He was so quick to his horse that he was already riding out of the village. But he’d turned his head, and Catriona would swear that he was looking back at her, too. She was certain of it—she swore she could feel his gaze boring through her from even that great distance.
“Perhaps he’d gone to the village to find a la
dy’s maid,” Mrs. Templeton drawled from her seat at the writing table.
“Why do you say so?” Chasity asked.
“Norwood and I called on the MacLarens earlier today, and she informed me that his man had come to inquire if she might know someone up to the task. I would guess that he has a lady at Blackthorn who is in need of the services of a maid.”
“A lady,” Chasity said, as if she were unfamiliar with the word. She slowly sank onto a seat next to her mother. “What sort of lady?”
“Well now, there you have me. One can only imagine, can’t one? Would you not agree, Miss Mackenzie?”
Catriona ignored her.
Mrs. Wilke-Smythe picked up her needlework with a snort. “No one will send their daughter or sister to him, not with what has been said of him.”
“I agree,” the countess chimed in. “There is something quite unsettling about that house.”
“’Tis for his ward,” Catriona said.
She suddenly had the attention of the room. “His what?” Mrs. Templeton asked.
“His ward. The lass who resides with him.”
“How do you know this?” Mrs. Templeton demanded, tossing down her quill pen to better study Catriona.
“My uncle and I have made her acquaintance.”
“Were I you, Miss Mackenzie, I should cut a wide berth around Blackthorn Hall. No good can come of calling there.”
“So I should no’ plan to wed him, after all?” Catriona asked, and smiled irreverently at the woman.
Mrs. Templeton grumbled something under her breath.
It was entirely possible that Mrs. Templeton had a point. But Catriona was far too intrigued by the black duke to even consider it. “His crime is inquiring after a maid,” she said. “That doesna seem sinister to me.”
Mrs. Templeton eyed her over the rims of her spectacles. “Then by all means, help the poor gentleman find a lady’s maid for his mysterious ward.”
“Who has said his ward is mysterious? She’s bonny, she is. Has anyone seen my uncle, then?”
