“Douglas Randolph, you cease this...this childish temper!” Grandmama left her post and paced before him. “You have complaints about your childhood, very well. You are entitled to your resentment. However,” she spun to face him and rested her hands on her hips, “your attitude affects the lives of hundreds. Do you know how many estates you now own?”
Of course, he did. He may have spent some years of his life on the street after his mother died, but while she lived, she had educated him and taught him about his possible inheritance. The family seat was in Inverness. They held estates in Perth and Dumfries, as well as small holdings in Cumberland, Shropshire, and Berkshire in England. Additionally, he owned houses in Edinburgh, London, and Brighton. The estates were entailed, and he could not sell them all, though they needed funds. His predecessors had taken to ignoring tenant complaints and releasing servants. Earlier this week, Douglas had sent inquiries to his solicitor about the houses. He had seen enough of big cities.
“Yes,” Douglas answered through gritted teeth. He had far passed the age of brow beating from a woman.
“And do you know how many men have recently warmed the chair you now sit in? You know that their errors have cost the estate. You have seen the records. I will not let you be another weak link in our legacy.”
Douglas lowered his head and touched his hand to his brow. He could not bear this any longer. He had attempted to play the Duke, and he could not manage one day without his grandmother telling him he was making a mess of it. What did she desire of him?
“What can you expect from me?” he asked and glanced up. “I was not raised with all this importance on Society and frivolousness.” He waved his hand over the stack of letters of response to his ball invitation. “I cannot succeed when I have never been trained.”
Unexpectedly, Douglas saw shame fill his grandmother’s eyes.
“Can’t you see? You are in the very position to flourish because you were not brought up in the lap of luxury. All of this,” she motioned around the room full of antique furnishings and tapestries, “means nothing to you. You can see what must be done far clearer than your uncle or brother could.”
Grandmama briefly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I will bear their mistakes at my feet. I did not argue for their education as I should have. However, I will fight for you.” She approached Douglas’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I will fight for you to know your worth and your ability.”
Douglas peered up at her. This was the woman who expelled his mother from the house upon the demise of his father? This was the woman who had hated their union? She, who spent years constructing falsehoods about his whereabouts, would now be his champion? If he had heard such a speech from her a week ago, he would have shrugged her affection off and laughed in her face. Instead, Marigold’s words of a few days ago echoed in his mind. He did not need to think his grandmother kind or deserving for him to do the right thing by so many others. Regardless of her past mistakes or her reasoning now, everything she had stated was right.
“I appreciate your concern,” he said.
Grandmama frowned, perhaps displeased he had not been more moved by her words, and removed her hand. “You will come this evening?”
Douglas stood, shaking his head. “Tomorrow.”
Without a word of explanation, he left the room and called for his coat and horse.
***
Marigold lingered in the kitchen after the other servants had gone upstairs. Her family had finished their supper and retired to their rooms. Nicholas remained in an angry mood. His wife and daughters scarcely less so. Marigold knew it was all because of her.
Why had she been invited to a ball? Who cared about her and if she appeared in Society? The world had forgotten her. No one questioned where Laird and Lady Kincaid’s cousin was when they visited. Marigold wondered when, in the last twenty years, she had become invisible.
A slow smile formed on her lips. No, she was not entirely invisible. Not to the person who mattered to her.
Doors closed upstairs. Marigold judged that her fellow servants had finished their nightly tasks and were going to sleep. She retrieved her books.
Caressing the beautiful leather binding, she thought of the man who had provided them. Mr. Randolph was nothing like she had first assumed. She had thought he would forget about her as quickly as he had seemed to forget Becky. He hadn’t, and had even taken care to ask her about books. Feeling her heart pound in her chest, Marigold shook her head.
“You barely know him,” she muttered.
She had assumed he must work for the Duke, but in what capacity? He had played cards with her cousin. Unless it had been the Duke who played, and Randolph was merely saving face for him. What an embarrassment it would be for a man to refuse to pay a duke. On the other hand, the way he spoke about the money being his could not be misunderstood. He also spent time in book stores and had the income to purchase two books for her.
Taking her lamp nearer the window so the moon could aid her reading, she saw a shadow in the garden. Heart racing, she stilled. Had he seen her? Who was it and what should she do? She could hardly fight an intruder. Marigold held her breath as she heard steps approach the door, and then a light knocking.
Panicking, she extinguished her lamp and grabbed a heavy skillet. Hiding in a corner, she raised her weapon high.
The door inched open. “Marigold?”
She sagged in relief to see Randolph’s familiar hair peeking through the gap. He whispered her name again.
“I am here,” she called.
The door opened wider and he quietly entered, silently shutting it behind him. He found her in the dark corner. His size seemed to impossibly fill the space.
He smiled, eyes darting to the books and back to her. Then, his gaze traveled to her hand still clutching the skillet and he chuckled.
“Were you going to beat me?” he asked.
“I should, for giving me such a fright,” she said with a smile.
An awkward silence descended between them, full of unasked questions. Before Marigold found her courage, Randolph said, “You did get the books then.” He nodded toward them.
“Yes. I surmise, they are from you?” She picked them up and held them out to him. “They are lovely, but it is too much. Please, return them. Or if you cannot, perhaps you may sell them and make your money back.”
“You do not want them?”
Randolph’s tone held hurt. In the dim light, she made out his furrowed brow as he looked at her hand. He expression suggested that she had killed his beloved pet.
“No. I mean, y-yes,” Marigold stammered. “I do want them, that is. I only feel that the gift is extravagant.”
“Then please”—he wrapped his hand around hers—“keep them. I do not think you receive many gifts, and it is such a pleasure to give.”
Marigold’s heart had pounded merely thinking about him. It nearly seized when she believed an intruder in the garden. Now, it raced at frightening speed as his touch burned her flesh through his gloves. Fleetingly, she wondered if she needed to worry about her heart. So many fluctuations in a short span could hardly be healthy.
“Thank you,” she murmured and inhaled when he stepped closer. The night was cold, but his body radiated heat. The air between them seemed as charged as the sky during a lightning storm.
Marigold looked up at Randolph and licked her lips. His eyes darted to her tongue and the tension built. Hardly managing to breathe, she forced herself to speak. “Why are you here?”
“I needed to see you,” he whispered, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His hand trailed down her cheek, and she leaned into the caress.
“Why was that?”
Something was happening between them, and she had no idea what. She ought to be terrified of this encounter. Her cousins could find them. In her heart of hearts, though, Marigold knew she could trust this man. While his nearness and masculinity set her pulse racing, the claim that he needed her, re
lied on her in some way, overwhelmed her. She had never been necessary to another person. No one had touched her with affection. As a child, she had longed for even an embrace. Her tears threatened to overspill.
He must have read the emotion in her eyes, because he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. Resting her ear against his chest, she listened to his heart skip frantically.
“Matthews said you were crying. I thought my gift displeased you.”
Marigold slightly shook her head. “No, it was not that,” her voice was muffled against his coat. “It is the strangest thing. I have been invited to the Duke of Inverness’s ball. He insists I come with my family.” Lifting her head to look into his eyes, she added, “Do you know anything about that?”
“Yes,” he drew the word out as though uncertain of what to say. “Why did that upset you?”
Marigold buried her face in his chest again.
He pressed her back by the shoulders. “You can tell me.”
She shook her head and stared at her feet.
Randolph lifted her face by placing a finger under her chin.
Peering into his eyes, she saw his concern. He did not intend to mock or judge her. She wanted to cry in relief at having someone who supported her. “My cousin was furious. I do not know what His Grace said to him. I do not even know how he knows of me.” Marigold shrugged. “I do not know how to dance, how to walk, how to talk, how to dress. I will embarrass the family.”
“Is that all you worry about?”
Randolph’s hands pressed her shoulders. His touch lent her courage. “I will embarrass myself…the scullery maid who thought she was above her position.”
Finished with her confession, she pressed her face against his chest and his arms closed around her.
“Marigold, you were never destined to be a scullery maid. You have every right to attend this ball.” He paused for a moment, seemingly gathering more words. “Will you not think of it as an adventure?” he whispered in her ear.
She had not considered that possibility. Her very own adventure, and without having to leave Inverness. Grinning, she pulled back her head and looked at him. As her smile grew, so did his. She sighed upon seeing his dimples and reached up to touch one.
“What is that sigh for?”
“Because you are so kind to me and because you are so lovely.” Heat flooded her cheeks and she removed her hand from his face. He captured it and pressed a kiss to her palm.
“I am lovely?”
Blushing even more, she nodded.
“I think you’re lovely too,” he whispered as his face neared hers.
The air around them charged again. Marigold’s heart pounded in her ears, but her mind panicked. Where was she supposed to look? Where should her hands go? He was so tall. Would she need to rise on tiptoe to reach him? How did one kiss?
“Like this,” Randolph said with a chuckle.
Had she asked that aloud? Thought left her as sensation filled her.
The first kiss was feather light, and so sweet it made her smile. Randolph’s arms tightened around her as his kisses became more insistent. His kisses were sunshine bursting through clouds, rays warming her skin and her soul, nourishing the plants in their soil. Grinning and laughing in delight, his tongue slipped inside her mouth. He took his time, showing her how to respond in kind. Catching on quickly, the friction between their dueling tongues sent liquid between her thighs. Kissing was sunshine and rain at once, and Marigold never wanted the experience to end. Excitement built in her like a sunflower reaching the sky.
A moan escaped her, and Randolph tore his lips away. Resting his forehead against hers, he allowed their breathing to calm. Marigold grinned to see him as affected as she. The clock in the kitchen struck twelve and Marigold knew they would need to part.
Questions, she reminded herself. She had questions. Suddenly, so many of them were unimportant. “Why did you come here?” she asked again.
“I told you,” he said and pulled her closer. “I needed to see you.”
“But not about the books,” she pressed. “Something else bothered you.”
She waited until Randolph felt willing to answer. Instinctively, she knew he needed space to process his thoughts.
“I know you have been greatly wronged, and yet I have heard you speak about your cousins with compassion. I would wish to learn from your example.”
“You need compassion for my cousin?”
“No,” he shook his head as he drew her cheek to his chest. “It is not that. Something else. Something from my past.”
“I do not know what I could teach you,” Marigold said. “Your kindness already awes me.”
“You deserve every kindness.” He kissed the top of her head. “My situation involves people who deserve nothing from me.”
“Could it be that they have suffered unbeknownst to you? Some people mask their pain.” She pulled back to look into his eyes. “Kindness should be extended to everyone, but the chance to offer compassion is a gift.” Glancing at her books, she added, “You did say you love giving gifts.”
“How did you know exactly what to say?” he asked and pecked her lips.
She blushed at the praise. “I do not think I said anything profound.”
“Oh, but you did. And you did it kindly instead of telling me I have been a self-centered fool.”
“I would never think that of you,” she whispered.
“Do not make me some saint,” Randolph cautioned. “I have made mistakes. I have done wrong. More than an innocent woman like you could know. You would beat me with that skillet, if you knew.”
He tried to jest, but Marigold saw a lingering pain behind his eyes. One day, she hoped he would share his burdens with her. “Will I see you at the ball?”
“Would I want to miss a chance to see you dance?”
“I do not know how.” Nor would her cousin allow her.
“That has not stopped you before.” He smiled. “You had not encountered a thief or an intruder before, yet you improvised.”
“True.” Marigold smiled. “I suppose one must when on an adventure.”
“Absolutely.” He grinned and gathered her hands, then bowed over them.
“Good night, Mr. Randolph,” she said shyly.
“Call me Douglas.” He placed a kiss on the back of each hand.
Marigold blushed red. “Good night, Douglas.”
He turned her hands over to kiss each palm before releasing them. Just before leaving, he looked back at her with a smile.
It took hours for her heart and mind to calm after their encounter. Somewhere in the early morning hours, she wondered how he had known her true name and that the Kincaids were her relations. She supposed the Duke had told him.
Chapter Six
For the next few days, Marigold worked doubly hard in the house. Her female cousins had not taken kindly to her being invited to the ball. The logic, she surmised, was that if she did not complete her tasks, she could not attend. At night, she worked on refashioning one of her mother’s gowns she found in an old trunk in the attic.
The day before the ball, Priscilla and Edith drove into town for more ribbon. Augusta pleaded a headache and stayed at home. In the kitchen, Marigold brewed lavender tea for her cousin. Carrying a tray with biscuits as well as tea things, Marigold almost dropped them when the kitchen door swung open just as she approached.
“Pardon me!” Marigold was quick to exclaim.
“It was my fault entirely.” Augusta laughed.
Awkwardness fell between them, and Marigold shifted the weight of the tray. Her cousin’s eyes finally landed on the items.
“Is that for me?”
Marigold shyly nodded.
“You are always so kind,” Augusta said. She took the tray and set it on the kitchen table. “Come with me.” She grabbed Marigold’s hand.
They arrived in the back parlor, and Augusta shut the door. “Papa has left on an errand, and we have some time before Mama returns
.”
“To do what?” Marigold asked.
A very long time ago, she and Augusta had played together. When Priscilla realized the governess taught all her charges together—including one destined to be a servant—she had them separated.
Augusta blushed and looked at her feet. “I thought I would give you a dancing lesson.”
“Oh!” Excitement filled Marigold. “But you had better not. I do not wish for you to get in trouble, and Priscilla says I will not dance anyway.”
“If you had rather not…” Augusta wiped at her eyes. “Yes, I can understand you would not accept anything from me. How you must hate me.”
Marigold claimed her cousin’s hands. “I would love a lesson,” she hastened to say. “And I do not hate you.”
“I never liked how we were told to treat you,” Augusta said in a quiet voice. “But it is so hard…”
Nodding, Marigold squeezed her hands again. “I understand. It is not easy to stand up against a loved one.”
“Yes,” the word whooshed from Augusta as though she had been holding her breath.
“Perhaps if we make it quick,” Marigold said.
“Tomorrow, if a gentleman asks you to dance, I do not think Mama can say no for you. It would look too peculiar to bring a lady who refuses to dance.”
Tingles spread over Marigold’s body. Would she dance with Douglas? She did not know that a servant would be in the ballroom, but perhaps they might find a secluded corner to talk, if not dance.
“You are blushing,” Augusta said with a grin. “Is there a young man you are sweet on?”
Marigold shook her head, but her cheeks flushed even more. “It is nothing.”
“I won’t press for your confidence,” she said. “Let us waste no more time.”
Augusta began humming a tune and directed Marigold how to stand and step. They stopped the lesson when neither one could proceed without a fit of giggles. When they recovered, Augusta explained she would now teach a waltz.
Marigold blushed furiously to consider herself in a man’s arms the way Augusta poised them. You did not think twice being held by Douglas. That was...different, she told herself. It felt like she should have always been in his arms. Even now, she longed for his embrace.
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