The Texan Duke

by Karen Ranney

  Maybe that’s why he’d come to Scotland, to give himself a change of scenery. Or maybe it had simply been curiosity that brought him here, wanting to know about the young man his father had been. Only to be given a story that was the antithesis of the man he’d come to know.

  In the past decade, he’d been away from his family more than with them, but he missed them all now. The way his mother could take one look at his face and decipher what he was feeling. How his sisters would arrive, one by one, to check on him and offer some older sister advice even if he didn’t solicit it. Especially if he didn’t solicit it.

  What would they think of Scotland? Or of the Scottish McCraights? Dorothy, the most blunt spoken of his sisters, would have planted her fists on her hips, tilted her head a little, and announced her opinion of the duchess: She’s a priss, isn’t she, Connor?

  Alison, the oldest, would have made a face and whispered that she mustn’t say things like that. Eustace, the sister closest in age to him, would have simply smiled and shaken her head. Barbara would have reported Dorothy to their mother as if they weren’t all grown women, mothers of his six nieces and nephews. Constance, heavy with child and due to give birth any day now, would have ignored all of them, waddled to a chair, and demanded to know when he was going to get married.

  What would she have thought of Elsbeth? She might have admired her industriousness, the fact that she had seen a need and fulfilled it. He suspected that Bealadair ran smoothly all because of her.

  His mother would have wanted to know about Elsbeth’s family. Her real family, not the group of people with whom she lived. It disturbed him that his cousins and aunts weren’t kinder. Perhaps he misjudged them. Were they simply more formal in his presence because he was a stranger? Or did they treat Elsbeth like a servant?

  He needed to meet with the real housekeeper. Was Mrs. Ferguson genuinely unable to work? Or was she just taking advantage of Elsbeth’s kindness?

  If he was going to leave as quickly as he’d come, he had a great deal to accomplish in a very little time. He’d set himself the goal of going home in a month. That would give Glassey time enough to find a buyer for the house. Perhaps even one of the wealthy New Yorkers he and Sam had met on the ship would be interested. They could brag that they’d purchased a duke’s home in Scotland.

  Today he would have to speak to his aunt. What he’d seen of her made him suspect that she was one of those people who only saw things from the outside of a person. What they wore, how they spoke, how much prosperity their appearance revealed. She would probably overlook someone she considered beneath her, never figuring out that the outside can always be changed, but it was the inside that truly mattered.

  Were his cousins from the same cloth? Only Muira had struck him as the type of person he’d like to get to know.

  And Elsbeth, of course. The beautiful housekeeper whose smile lit something up inside him.

  Of all the people at Bealadair, he wanted to get to know her the best.

  Elsbeth had cared for Mr. Glassey like any guest who arrived at Bealadair. She had seen to his dietary restrictions, ensured that the laundress had instructions as to his clothing, had made notice of his tastes in wine and food, including his dislike of any kind of fish. She always made sure that the same room was kept ready for him when he visited them from Inverness.

  Mr. Glassey, in turn, had always greeted her by name. Their relationship was, if she had to define it for anyone, that of cordial strangers.

  This afternoon, however, she was going against the rules. She waited until lunch was finished and Mr. Glassey made his appearance outside the dining room. Since it wouldn’t be proper to knock on his door, she was going to waylay him, take him into the anteroom set aside for the servants, and ask him if what she’d been told was the truth.

  Everything went according to her plan. The surprised man allowed her to grip his elbow and guide him into the small space.

  “I apologize, Mr. Glassey,” she said to the solicitor. “But His Grace has just told me something disturbing. Is it true that he plans to sell Bealadair?”

  Before the solicitor could speak, she added, “He cannot sell Bealadair, can he? It’s entailed, isn’t it? It must pass to the next heir.”

  “I wasn’t aware that His Grace had made his plans known,” Mr. Glassey said, his voice icy. “I wish he’d informed me first.”

  “The duchess doesn’t know yet,” she said. “I haven’t told her, Mr. Glassey, and I don’t think the duke has, either.”

  Mr. Glassey nodded, his expression easing.

  “I’m relieved, Miss Carew. That will give me time to prepare Her Grace.”

  “Then he can do it,” she said, feeling her stomach drop.

  Was this what fainting felt like? She was not going to do something so out of character now, but she did wish there was a chair nearby.

  Mr. Glassey nodded. “Technically, the only entailed property is the old castle,” he said. “And a few acres surrounding it. His Grace, however, was ever mindful of his brother and their estrangement. He saw fit to give Bealadair and the land to him. No one knew, of course, that Graham had already died by the time His Grace passed.”

  “Has the new duke always planned to sell Bealadair? From the very beginning?”

  The solicitor shook his head. “I have no idea, Miss Carew. The duke does not confide in me. I can tell you this. He was none too happy to learn about his ascension to the title. That surprised me originally, but it shouldn’t have. As I have come to know His Grace, he has no love for what he calls airs. He honestly believes that becoming the 14th Duke of Lothian is an impediment rather than an honor.”

  From what she’d learned of Connor, she couldn’t help but agree.

  What a fool she was for feeling anything like disappointment. She hadn’t known Connor McCraight a few days earlier. His absence wouldn’t affect her life. He would simply be a fascinating man she’d once met, a Texan who’d carried his saddle halfway around the world, but that was all. Nothing more.

  “Will you be telling her soon?” she asked.

  It wouldn’t do for someone else to tell the duchess of Connor’s plans.

  “I am thinking that it should be very soon,” Mr. Glassey said.

  They shared a glance. She knew exactly what the reluctance in his gaze meant and commiserated with the man. He didn’t want to have to tell the Duchess of Lothian that she and her family were about to be evicted from Bealadair.

  “That aunt of yours, she’s something,” Sam said, entering the small library. He hadn’t knocked, but Connor wasn’t surprised. Sam sometimes treated him as if he were the youngest puppy in a litter and he were the older, wiser dog.

  “She gets you with that way of hers.”

  “What way is that?” Connor asked, leaning back in his chair.

  Sam shook his head. “Could be her smile. She’s got the prettiest mouth. Or her eyes. Beautiful brown eyes, all big and warm.”

  Connor studied the other man. Sam had a knack of singling out a female wherever he was. You could almost see him throw a rope over her head and cull her from the herd.

  “She doesn’t seem your type,” Connor said.

  Sam arranged himself on the corner of the desk, folded his arms, and stared out the window behind Connor.

  “I wasn’t aware that I had a type,” Sam said.

  That was different. Whenever he’d commented on one of Sam’s women in the past, he’d been met with amusement, not a tight-lipped response.

  Was it because his aunt was a duchess? He never thought that Sam would give a flying flip for a title.

  “She just doesn’t seem like someone who would tolerate a backward American,” Connor said.

  “Who are you calling backward, boy?” Sam asked with a smile. “I can wine and dine with the best of them. I have lots of charm when I need to use it.”

  “Did you know?” he asked, turning the conversation away from Sam’s attraction to his aunt. “About my father being a twin?”
/>   Sam’s gaze moved from the view to Connor’s face.

  “He might have mentioned it once or twice.”

  “Why didn’t he mention it to me?”

  “Don’t think it was important to him.”

  “Or the reason he left Scotland? Did he tell you that?”

  “By the time I met your father he’d already been in America a few years. I wasn’t interested in his past. Neither was he. Why are you?”

  “The past is reaching out and biting me, Sam, and has been since I set foot in this place. I’d think you’d be smart enough to figure that out.”

  Sam didn’t say anything else, but then Connor didn’t expect him to. Sam was one of those men who didn’t care what other people thought of him. If they liked him, he was fine with that. If they despised him, he was fine with that, too. He rarely explained himself—the only occasion Connor could remember was when Sam and his father had been late getting home from Austin and had to face his mother’s anxiety and ultimate irritation. The fact that his father stood by his horse for several minutes, his head resting on the saddle, was a dead giveaway. Graham McCraight was, on the only occasion Connor could remember, stinking drunk.

  “We just got a little carried away, Linda,” Sam had said. “He’s fine.”

  “And why did you get a little carried away, Sam Kirby?”

  Connor had recognized that tone in his mother’s voice and wanted to warn Sam that he was in deep trouble. Sam evidently knew it, too, because he bowed his head, staring at his hat in his hands and uttered the closest Connor had ever heard to an apology from the man.

  “My fault, Linda. All my fault.”

  His mother had eventually forgiven Sam, especially since the man had done everything he could to ease her burden after Graham died.

  “I think what you want to know is if he regretted his decisions,” Sam said. “Did he want to redo any of it?”

  Connor didn’t answer, but maybe Sam was right.

  “He didn’t,” Sam said. “He was damn happy with his life, with Linda, with you and the girls. He was proud that he was giving you something that would live on.” He looked around the room. “Maybe like this place.”

  “Then why’d he kill himself, Sam?”

  Sam didn’t say anything, maybe to give himself time for the shock to wear off. He looked away, focusing on the view once more, probably visually trailing the footprints of the fox Connor had seen earlier.

  “Did you think I couldn’t figure it out?” Connor asked. “My father taught me everything he knew about guns, Sam, and that was plenty. I knew from the story you told that it couldn’t have been an accident. It had to have been deliberate.”

  “You weren’t there. You were off playing soldier.”

  He didn’t say a word, merely continued to look at Sam.

  According to the story he’d learned on coming home, the two men had spent the night in one of the line shacks along the northern property. The night had been a cold one, the small building erected for times like that. Why they’d been riding the line, he didn’t know.

  Graham had been sitting at the table, cleaning his pistol, an action that wouldn’t have been necessary unless he’d shot it during the day. Sam had gone outside to use the necessary, heard the gunshot, and returned to find Graham dead.

  The facts hadn’t added up.

  “Why didn’t you say something before now?” Sam said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to believe that it was an accident. Maybe I didn’t want to accept the truth.”

  “I don’t know what happened for sure,” Sam said, leaving the desk to go and stand in front of the window. “What I told you was the truth.” A moment later, he added, “I had my suspicions, but that’s all they were. I didn’t think it would help your mother or your sisters any to tell them what I thought.”

  Connor let the silence stretch between them.

  “Why?” he finally asked. “There must have been a reason.”

  “All I know is that one day he visited his doctor in Austin,” Sam said. “He got some bad news.” Sam turned his head, his gaze meeting Connor’s. “If I took a guess I’d say he chose his own death. He didn’t want to be a burden to your mother.”

  “That wasn’t his choice.”

  “Hell it wasn’t. He made his own way through life, Connor, and so do you. The two of you create your own path. God help anyone who stands between you and what you want.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Sam turned back to the window. “Your father was also difficult to get to know. He didn’t let many people get close to him.”

  That wasn’t, as Connor saw it, a bad trait to have.

  “You don’t think he would have wanted me to come to Scotland, do you?” he asked.

  “Hell, yes, he would have wanted you to come,” Sam said, coming back to the desk. “I think he would have wanted to know what you thought of the place.”

  Connor smiled. “I think he’d have been more interested in what you thought of my aunt.”

  Sam’s answer was a grin.

  “Does my mother know?”

  Sam turned his head slowly and looked at him. He got the impression that the older man was stalling for time again.

  “About what?” Sam finally asked.

  “About the reason he left Scotland. And don’t tell me you weren’t interested in his past. That tale might satisfy some people, but I know you, Sam.”

  The man could be damned nosy. Sam had been adopted by the American McCraights and acted the part of doting uncle. He’d interrogated Connor’s younger sisters about the suitors who’d arrived to call on them, gave marital advice to the older girls and, when he was at the ranch, inserted himself into any problems arising between the men.

  Sam didn’t say anything for a minute. He perched himself on the corner of the desk again and stared out at the view.

  “She does,” he said. “But it never mattered to her. Any more than her first love mattered to your father.”

  That was a surprise.

  Sam glanced at him and smiled. “Most people think that everyone’s life begins when they’re born. They never look back or around them. Your mother had a sweetheart before she met your father, but the man died of influenza before they could be married. When Linda met Graham, it was like the two of them found each other. They were friends who fell in love, Connor. If they thought of the past it was with kindness, not longing.”

  Connor nodded, grateful that he only had to keep one secret from his mother. Or perhaps she already knew the truth about his father’s death. He wouldn’t be surprised. Linda McCraight was one of the smartest women he knew.

  “Better get a move on,” Sam said, standing and moving toward the door. “You’ll be late for dinner.”

  He left the library, no doubt in a hurry to see the duchess again.

  That was a development Connor hadn’t anticipated. He couldn’t help but wonder what his mother would have thought about Rhona. He had a feeling she would have had no time for Rhona, but would probably like Elsbeth.

  The thought of seeing Elsbeth again propelled him out of his chair to prepare for dinner.

  Chapter 13

  Elsbeth was late for dinner, but it couldn’t be helped. There had been a near disaster in the laundry, and she’d assisted the head laundress in repairing the lace on the duchess’s favorite blouse.

  Normally, her maid would have overseen Rhona’s wardrobe, but Adelaide had been suffering from a vile cold in the past week. Rhona disliked illness of any sort and had banished the woman to her room on the third floor until she was well. At least Adelaide was able to rest and the family was spared Her Grace’s complaints about servants who were inconsiderate enough to be sick around her.

  Thankfully, Mr. Barton had recovered from his gout and was able to carry on his duties.

  Unfortunately, however, Adelaide’s temporary replacement was a girl who had no training as a lady’s maid. Consequently, Elsbeth was called in almost d
aily to soothe the girl’s fears and tears.

  While the family dining room was small, almost intimate, the same could not be said for the Black Dining Room, named for its most distinctive feature: a black-and-gold silk wall covering that made the room feel like a black box to Elsbeth.

  It was, indeed, a striking chamber, but one so overpowering that she always took a deep breath before entering. Giant gold emblems she suspected were of French design were stamped on the black silk every few feet or so. The floor-to-ceiling curtains were also black, blending in so well that you didn’t even see the windows at the far end of the rectangular room.

  Bealadair’s public rooms were oversized, almost as if they had been designed for the entire clan and this room was no exception. The dining room was probably twice the size it needed to be and sufficiently far away from the kitchen that the servants nearly had to race through the corridors in order to deliver the food before it got cold.

  A dark mahogany-and-brass inlaid neoclassical table stretched the length of the room and was surrounded by twenty-four thickly padded chairs upholstered in black and gold. The three brass chandeliers were lit but couldn’t offset the effect of all that black. The light seemed to be swallowed up and to disappear.

  Tonight, in honor of the duke’s first official dinner at Bealadair, the duchess had requested a number of dishes that were not normally served. At least a dozen brass chafing dishes sat on one of the sideboards, the smells emerging from them making her stomach growl. Curry, that was one of the odors. Venison as well.

  The rest of the family was already seated, and her late arrival earned her a frown from the duchess and a smile from Connor. He was seated in the position of honor, Gavin’s place at the head of the table.

  How odd to see someone there when it had been kept vacant for months. Felix had sat there once, but the glance the duchess had given him had been enough to singe his ears. He’d never made that mistake again.