The Texan Duke

by Karen Ranney

  Addy turned her head and smiled, indicating that she’d known full well when Elsbeth had entered the kitchen.

  She was never hungry first thing in the morning and always delayed eating until nearly noon. The smell of raisin scones, honey icing, and oatmeal perfumed the air, reminding her, however, that she hadn’t eaten last night.

  She poured a little cream into her black tea and sat at the long rectangular table. The other two women remained staring out the window.

  The room was so warm from the oven that the snow had melted on the other side of the glass, granting them an unobscured view of the man surveying his domain.

  After a few days, their fascination with the new duke would certainly ease. But she could understand how they might be taken with him. He was exotic and fascinating in his Texas hat and coat. He was large and solid and taller than their most gangly footman.

  He had an air about him, one of . . . Her thoughts faltered for a moment until she found the right word. Certainty, that was it. She had a feeling that he knew exactly who he was and how he fit into life. Qualities that had been present before he’d ever known he was the 14th Duke of Lothian.

  What had given him that quality? He’d evidently been raised to believe in himself, to have a certain confidence. The duchess had that same attitude. Anise had it as well. Rhona was the Duchess of Lothian and Anise was beautiful. One had position and the other appearance.

  Had Connor McCraight been told from an early age that he might one day be duke? Or had he simply been feted from birth? Was he an only child? Did his parents dote on him?

  More questions. Each time she thought about the man she only ended up with more questions and none of them appropriate. She didn’t need to know anything about him beyond what he wished for his meals and if he liked starch in his shirts.

  Suddenly, both women dispersed, Betty darting across the kitchen as if she had fire on her heels. Addy went to the oven and removed another pan of scones.

  The kitchen door abruptly opened and the duke stood there. He stopped on the threshold, stomped on the mat to rid his boots of snow, and removed his hat, threading his fingers through his thick mane of brown hair.

  Elsbeth stood. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said, grateful that her voice sounded calm and resolute. He wouldn’t know that her heart was beating wildly or that she was having thoughts that had nothing to do with acting as Bealadair’s housekeeper.

  The cold had made his cheeks ruddy and his brown eyes sparkle. He was entirely too handsome a man to have remained single. Perhaps he’d just left his wife in Texas.

  She must do something about this curiosity of hers.

  “Will you allow me to show you the family dining room?”

  To her absolute horror, he shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “And it’s Connor. Not this Your Grace business.”

  As she stared at him, he approached her, and then took a chair next to her at the long rectangular table.

  Addy turned to look at him and Betty peered around the corner.

  “You can’t sit here, Your Grace,” she said, startled.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the kitchen.”

  He looked around him before his gaze returned to her. “You’re right,” he said. “It is the kitchen.”

  Addy was frozen in front of the stove. Betty smiled, evidently delighted to be able to tell the rest of the staff what happened this morning at dawn.

  “You can’t sit here, Your Grace,” Elsbeth repeated.

  “This is Bealadair, is it not?”

  She nodded.

  “According to Mr. Glassey, I’m the owner of Bealadair, am I not?”

  She nodded once more.

  “Then I can sit anywhere I wish, including the kitchen.”

  “It’s never been done, Your Grace.”

  He ignored her, turned and smiled at Addy and said, “Those smell wonderful. May I have one?”

  Addy nodded, finding her voice a moment later. “Of course, Your Grace. They’re my raisin scones with honey icing.”

  She served him a plate of three scones and added a cup of tea.

  “Have you any coffee?” he asked, staring down into the cup.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Addy said, picking up the cup and replacing it a moment later with coffee.

  The duke sent the same disgusted look at the coffee. Had they done something wrong?

  He frowned, took a sip of coffee, then placed the cup back on the saucer.

  The duchess was not going to be happy. Rhona was a stickler when it came to etiquette, and there was nothing in the rules that said a duke could take breakfast with the staff.

  She would have to take the brunt of the blame in order to spare Addy and Betty. Of course, the three of them could always remain silent about the occasion. If they could hurry the duke out of the kitchen before members of the staff wandered in.

  Everyone began their duties with a briefing and a cup of tea. She, herself, had begun the habit when she’d taken over Mrs. Ferguson’s duties. The staff’s hours were staggered, the better to ensure that the family’s requirements were met at any time.

  The footmen who were on duty at night would not report again for work until the late afternoon. The kitchen staff under Addy was always up at dawn, but they didn’t work past supper. The maids assigned to clean the public rooms began their tasks earlier than those designated to service the family’s quarters.

  How could she get the duke out of the kitchen before more of the staff arrived?

  He seemed to be savoring his scones and said so in more than one comment to Addy. The cook preened, her cheeks deepening in color.

  Some people thought that the mark of a good cook was someone who sampled their own wares excessively. If that were true, then Addy was not a good advertisement for her own skills. She was stork thin with a narrow face and long neck. Although she was taller than most of the females on staff, her shoulders were continually slumped, giving her a shorter appearance.

  “You disappeared last night,” the duke said, glancing at her.

  Elsbeth looked at him, startled. He’d actually noted her absence. What did she say to that?

  “You were my uncle’s ward?”

  She nodded.

  “No one introduced us.”

  No, they hadn’t.

  “I’m Elsbeth Carew, Your Grace.”

  He startled her by extending his hand. “I’m Connor McCraight, Miss Carew.”

  She didn’t know what to do so she took his hand, finding it large and warm. They shook hands, the first time she’d ever done so. She removed her hand, placed it on her lap, and stared down at her tea.

  He really needed to leave the kitchen.

  Chapter 6

  “What do you think of Bealadair, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “I’m used to more room,” he said.

  “You don’t think the Duke’s Suite is spacious enough?” she asked, slightly offended.

  The suite was a beautiful set of rooms. She had helped the girls tidy it up herself. In addition to a sitting room with a view of the river, there was a magnificent bedroom with en suite attached. The 13th duke had even, in his later years, transformed one of the adjoining bedrooms into a small library for his use on days when he didn’t feel like going downstairs.

  Were four rooms not enough for this American duke?

  “Your home in America must be monstrous,” she said.

  He glanced over at her. “I think you could probably put my house in a quarter of Bealadair,” he said.

  “Yet you don’t think it’s spacious enough.”

  He frowned at her for a moment before he sat back and chuckled.

  “I wasn’t talking about the house, Elsbeth,” he said. “But the land. I’m not used to the hills and the trees. Or even the river.”

  The land? “You don’t have hills and trees and rivers in America?”

  “We’ve got all of that and more,” he said, still smiling at her. “It
’s just that they’re not all crammed together like they are here.”

  Was he intimating that Scotland was so much smaller than his country? Of course, that was undeniably true, but must he be so arrogant about the fact?

  “Have I offended you, Elsbeth?”

  He really shouldn’t continue calling her Elsbeth. Still, at the same time, she didn’t feel that it would be entirely proper for her to correct a duke, even one so contemptuous of his dukedom.

  She glanced at Addy who was making another batch of coffee. Betty wandered in from the scullery, looking as if she were engrossed in the pots and pans she carried. Elsbeth knew they were both listening intently to her conversation with the duke.

  Even worse, the kitchen would soon be filled with other members of the staff.

  She really did need to insist that he retire to the family dining room. When she whispered as much to him, he responded with another smile.

  “Only if you’ll accompany me, Elsbeth,” he said. “After all, you’re family, aren’t you? Aren’t you considered that, being a ward of my uncle?”

  She abruptly stood, glanced at Addy, and said, “We’ll finish our breakfast there, Addy. Thank you.”

  She glanced at the duke. “Would you come with me, Your Grace?”

  Frankly, she didn’t know what she was going to do if he said no, but to her relief he followed her through the labyrinth of corridors. She stopped beside the door to the family dining room.

  The family didn’t actually rise until midmorning, at least. Later, if the night’s entertainments had been lengthy.

  “It’s quite a ways from the kitchen, isn’t it?” he said. “Is that entirely practical?”

  No, it wasn’t, but she was surprised that he had deduced that. It had been her experience that most men did not pay any attention to domestic affairs.

  She shook her head, gestured with her hand that he was to precede her. He didn’t. Instead, he folded his arms, shook his head and pointed his chin inside the room.

  How odd, to have a battle about who would enter the room first. Of course, she should if their ranks were equal. But he was the Duke of Lothian and she was along the lines of a poor relation.

  “Your Grace,” she said inclining her head.

  “Elsbeth,” he responded. “I am more than willing to stand here all day, if that’s what you wish.”

  She had a feeling he would, too. What on earth would Rhona say to see them staring at each other across an open doorway?

  After a last glance at him, she entered the room. She didn’t wait for him to pull out a chair, but sat herself, smiling as he frowned at her. Truly, she didn’t want to battle the man, but it wouldn’t do to allow him to win without some token show of resistance.

  “You mustn’t call me Elsbeth,” she said, daring to correct him. “It’s so much more proper to address me as Miss Carew.”

  “While you call me Your Grace, is that it?”

  She nodded.

  “I think I’m going to continue to call you Elsbeth. And I insist that you call me Connor.”

  She folded her arms and allowed herself to reveal a little of her irritation. “Your Grace, I’m afraid that wouldn’t be acceptable. We may be in the Highlands, true, but you are the Duke of Lothian. The title has always garnered respect. You are expected to be the epitome of all that’s right and proper about Scottish heritage.”

  “I’m an American,” he said. “Even more important, I’m a Texan. If I’m the epitome of anything, Elsbeth, it’s the XIV Ranch and Longhorn cattle.”

  She sat back and stared at him, more than a little concerned.

  “But this is Scotland. You need to learn more about the country. And adapt to your new role.”

  She felt a little strange telling him what he should do. However, he didn’t appear irritated by her words. If anything, they seemed to amuse him.

  “I have no intention of adapting, Elsbeth. Scotland isn’t my country. Besides, I won’t be here long enough for that.”

  She had the most peculiar feeling right then. She didn’t know whether she was disappointed or elated. On one hand, she truly didn’t wish to see him leave. Not so soon. He was an anomaly and inspired her curiosity. However, if he did leave, that meant everything might return to normal or as normal as they could be without the duke in residence.

  “You want to go home,” she said.

  “I do.”

  At that moment, one of the serving maids entered, bearing a tray filled with scones and the duke’s coffee.

  “Is there anything you wish prepared for your breakfast in the future?” Elsbeth asked. “Or any other meal? Is there anything you would like to ensure isn’t on the menu?”

  He looked at her strangely, as if the question she’d just asked was very odd.

  “Do you like fish? We have a wonderful selection of salmon available to us. And venison if you like that as well.”

  “I’m partial to chili,” he said. “But I don’t suppose you have that here.”

  “I don’t even know what it is,” she admitted.

  “Maybe I’ll make some for you,” he said. “I brought some peppers along, just in case.”

  She didn’t have the slightest idea what to say to that. Saddles and peppers—what else had the man brought from Texas?

  “So you’re responsible for statues that fall from the roof. And my meals. What else are you responsible for? Do you do laundry, too?”

  She shook her head. “No, Your Grace. We have a laundress and a full staff to do that. Is there something you would like washed?”

  Please, don’t let him mention his small clothes. She didn’t know what she’d do if he talked about his unmentionables. Did they discuss that sort of thing in mixed company in America?

  “What are your responsibilities?”

  She had the sudden thought that she’d offended him somehow. He was going to punish her by taking her job away. What had she done? As she looked at him, her mind traced back to that moment he’d walked into the kitchen. Had she stared at him too long? Had she allowed him to see that he fascinated her? Had she been too transparent?

  “What are my responsibilities?”

  “What do you do here, Elsbeth?”

  Please don’t let him take her job away. It gave her great pleasure to make things work correctly. She liked order. She craved organization. She liked soothing ruffled feathers and keeping everything working just as it should from the hinges on the front door to the number of chickens in the roosts.

  “I’ve taken on the duties of the housekeeper,” she said. “No one has objected until now, Your Grace.”

  “Are you paid for your work?” he asked.

  She really wished he wouldn’t frown so. He was quite stern looking when he frowned. You could forget how handsome he was when he looked at you with such a direct stare.

  “Am I paid?”

  “Yes, Elsbeth, are you paid?”

  “Not in the way that you mean, no. I inherited some funds from my parents, plus there was a bequest from the duke. But I don’t receive an annual salary, no.”

  “Who the hell decided on that?”

  She didn’t know what was more offensive, the fact that he had sworn in front of her or his anger. Why was he angry?

  There were certain jobs that people took on, that they did for the sheer joy of it. She didn’t require a salary. What she did she did for Bealadair, the duke, and to assist Mrs. Ferguson.

  She didn’t get a chance to explain any of that to him. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a notebook and pencil and began to write. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but when he was finished, he frowned at her once more.

  “We’re going to change that, Elsbeth. If you insist on acting as the housekeeper, you’ll be paid a salary.”

  “That’s not necessary, Your Grace,” she said.

  “Then I’ll have to hire a new housekeeper. Someone who will be paid.”

  “We already have a housekeeper.”

  The
minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. He would, no doubt, fire the poor woman, and then what would happen?

  “Mrs. Ferguson’s been poorly for a while,” she said. “She has terrible arthritis, and this winter has been very difficult on her. But I beg you, Your Grace, please do not dismiss her. She’s been with Bealadair for two decades. It would be like tossing her into a snowdrift. You can’t do it.”

  “Connor,” he said with not a single bit of amusement on his face.

  “What?”

  “I won’t toss her into a snowdrift, Elsbeth, if you’ll dispense with Your Grace and call me Connor.”

  She blinked at him, not one word coming to her rescue.

  For years and years upon years she’d been lectured on proper behavior by the duchess, as if the woman was afraid that Elsbeth might shame the family somehow by saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment or by not being conversant with the rules of polite behavior. She’d done her utmost to learn.

  Not one person in the whole of Scotland could ever say that she’d done anything to bring an iota of shame to the McCraights. From the moment she rose at dawn until she went to bed, she considered every single action, every word. Now, just like that, the new Duke of Lothian was demanding—commanding—that she break the habits of a lifetime.

  “I couldn’t possibly,” she said, wishing he would understand. What he asked for was impossible.

  “I take it Mrs. Ferguson lives here at Bealadair?”

  She frowned at him. “What you are suggesting is improper,” she said.

  “Why? It’s my name.”

  She could just imagine what Rhona would do the first time she heard Elsbeth calling the duke by his first name.

  “It’s not done, Your Grace.”

  “Where do you think I can acquire a new housekeeper?”

  “That’s extortion, Your Grace.”

  The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips.

  “Are you always so proper, Elsbeth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, why?”

  She stared at him. The fact that her heart was beating too fast was only one warning sign. She wanted, strangely, to smile at him, to prop her chin in her hand and stare at him for an hour or two, admiring everything about him.