Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1)

by Collette Cameron

  He had a hunch the duke cheated during the game with Father, though it would be deucedly thorny to prove. Flynn needed a witness or the cards themselves.

  Yancy sat at the same table and hadn’t noticed anything amiss. And he possessed a keen ear and sharp eye. His position as War Secretary made those skills essential.

  Nonetheless, Flynn remained convinced the sequence of events leading to Waterford’s magnanimous offer stank of subterfuge and were altogether too convenient for the situation to be happenstance.

  Flynn wanted to feel nothing except antipathy for Mrs. Thorne, but his conscience railed against him. The god-awful wounded expression in her eyes pricked something deep within. One didn’t pretend that kind of suffering. His tortured soul recognized another tormented spirit, and her anguish called to him on a level he didn’t fully understand.

  Remorse plagued him for his harsh treatment yesterday. His ugly accusations kept him awake until dawn’s timid glow ventured into his chamber. For reasons he didn’t want to examine, he needed to know the truth about her and her pregnancy.

  She didn’t seem the duplicitous sort, nor did she appear promiscuous. It churned his stomach to think she’d been set upon unwillingly. How did she find herself in this most difficult of situations?

  That enigma had compelled him to invite her and the Waterfords to tea, when fifteen minutes prior, he never wanted to lay eyes on her uncle again.

  Given the lethal glowers Mrs. Thorne speared Flynn after awakening from her faint, he’d wager his cattle she regarded him just as unfavorably. It further convinced him she had no part in her uncle’s plotting. She hadn’t feigned her outrage and fury toward Flynn.

  He resisted the urge to peek at the hands of his timepiece again. Instead, he found himself checking the mahogany longcase clock ticking beside the door.

  Blister it.

  He’d no hope of winning Mrs. Thorne’s favor if she refused to be in the same room as him. Their mutual adversity made her a kindred spirit, not just an easy solution for Father’s gambling debt.

  What other reason explained the baffling connection he sensed with her?

  “Flynn, do stop pacing. You’re giving my neck a crick.” Franny touched her chin and gave him a wide-eyed stare. “One might think you nervous—”

  “Her Grace, the Duchess of Waterford, and Mrs. Thorne,” Chatterton announced.

  “I told you they’d come.” Grandmamma’s eyes contained a mischievous twinkle as well as her approval. “Wise move that, leaving the duke at home.”

  A trifling reprieve, for which Flynn admitted eternal gratitude.

  Unable to think of a plausible explanation for the Waterfords coming to call after years without contact, Flynn had confided in Grandmamma. The duke’s desire for a match between Mrs. Thorne and him earned a raised eyebrow but no more. If Grandmamma suspected he withheld the entire truth about their visit, she kept her thoughts to herself.

  “Do forgive us our tardiness.” Breathless, Her Grace bustled into the drawing room. “Angelina lost a slipper.”

  She sent her niece an affectionate gaze.

  A reluctant, albeit exquisite, Mrs. Thorne trailed her aunt into the room. Her ebony gown emphasized the reddish highlights in her golden hair. More color shone in her face today, and her delicate jaw contained a determined set which hadn’t been there yesterday.

  She wasn’t happy to be here. How had her aunt coaxed her to come?

  “Waterford sends his regrets, my lord. Something unexpected arose.” The duchess’s artificial smile revealed what she couldn’t.

  Likely, he’s foxed.

  Far more probable, their lateness could be attributed to the duke than a misplaced shoe.

  Flynn ceased pacing and snapped his pocket watch closed. Tucking the fob into his waistcoat, he skirted the sofa. He waited until both women were well into the room before he bowed. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming, ladies.”

  “My lord.” Mrs. Thorne curtsied without meeting his eyes. In fact, she gazed everywhere except at him—rather discomfiting.

  He took the duchess’s arm and guided her farther into the drawing room. “Your Grace, you’re acquainted with my grandmother, the Dowager Marchionness Bretheridge, and my sister, Lady Francesca.”

  “Indeed, though it’s been many years.” The duchess didn’t hesitate to buss the other women’s cheeks. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again. Lady Francesca, you have grown into a comely young woman.”

  Franny inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The duchess sat on the couch opposite Grandmamma and eagerly eyed the assortment of pastries displayed.

  “It’s lovely to see you as well.” Grandmamma extended a cup and saucer to the duchess.

  Flynn indicated Mrs. Thorne with a wave of his hand. “Grandmamma, Francesca, may I introduce Mrs. Thorne to you?”

  Mrs. Thorne’s pretty mouth curved as she took a seat beside her aunt. “Lord Bretheridge has spoken of you.”

  Barely.

  “It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance.” Eyes sparkling warmly, Grandmamma turned her attention to pouring more tea.

  “Delighted, Mrs. Thorne.” Francesca caught Flynn’s eye and winked while Mrs. Thorne arranged her skirts.

  Once settled, she sent another friendly smile to his grandmother and sister.

  And ignored him.

  He might have been a picture on the wall or a flower on the carpet for all the attention she paid him. Clearly the floor held more interest than he did, for her gaze remained focused there.

  Flynn sat on the sofa, positioning himself directly opposite her. Now let her avoid him. “Mother is recuperating and won’t be joining us. I’m sure you understand.”

  “But of course.” The duchess selected a pastry and glanced about the room. “How is your mother’s health?”

  “She’s improving daily, for which we’re very grateful.” Flynn accepted the cup his grandmother extended. “Thank you.”

  “My lord, are these some of your blossoms?” Her Grace waved at the flower vases positioned throughout the room. “I’ve heard of your successful venture into breeding these beauties.”

  That caught Mrs. Thorne’s attention. Her jewel-green eyes swept the roses. A line formed between her brows, and she mashed her lips together, lowering her gaze to her cup. She took a dainty sip of tea.

  Didn’t she care for roses? Or perhaps the tea displeased her. Dolt. He ought to have had coffee served as well, since she preferred the beverage.

  “Oh, indeed they are.” Pride rang in Grandmamma’s voice. “See those stunning blooms on the mantle? Have you ever seen roses that particular shade of pink? Why, they appear almost lavender. Makes me think of fresh highland heather on the Scottish moors. And Flynn has a rose that is almost black.”

  “Mrs. Thorne, don’t you like roses?” Franny also noticed Mrs. Thorne’s expression.

  The Duchess chuckled indulgently. “With a name like Angelina-Rose, of course she does. Tell them of your gardens in Salem. Your mother wrote of your fascination with the flower.”

  A becoming flush pinkened Mrs. Thorne’s high cheekbones.

  So, she entertained a penchant for roses after all. Precisely the excuse he needed to invite her to tour his conservatories and spirit her away from the watchful eye of the duchess. Franny could accompany them and act as chaperone.

  Flynn controlled the satisfied grin threatening to twist his lips. “Did you know the great bard, Shakespeare, professed a fondness for them? He proclaimed, ‘Of all the flowers, methinks the rose is best.’”

  Mrs. Thorne nodded, her interest fixed on a painted porcelain vase poised on a side table. “I’m partial to them myself, though I cannot claim such a complicated endeavor as breeding them. I simply tended a few humble plants in our gard
ens. I don’t believe they numbered in excess of ten in all.”

  “Flynn, you must take Mrs. Thorne to see your blooms.” Franny leaned forward in her chair. “Would that be acceptable, Grandmamma?”

  Franny’s intense perusal switched from their grandmother to the duchess. “Your Grace? I don’t wish to seem rude.”

  “What a splendid idea.” Grandmamma, a calculating gleam in her eyes, shifted her pale gaze to the duchess.

  “What say you, Your Grace? We can have a nice coze. I’d so like to hear the latest on dit from London.”

  She fluttered a hand toward Flynn and Franny. “And these young people can enjoy the outdoors. The rose gardens and conservatories smell heavenly this time of day, after the sun has heated the blossoms and they release their perfume.”

  The duchess set her cup in its saucer. “I don’t mind in the least. I would, however, beg a bouquet to take home.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Flynn stood. “Mrs. Thorne?”

  From the daggers she sent him from beneath her lashes, she realized she was good and snared. She turned to her aunt.

  “Aunt Camille, are you certain you don’t mind? I’m loath to desert you.”

  “Not at all, my dear. Go along, and enjoy yourself.” She patted Mrs. Thorne’s hand and gave Flynn a lengthy, candid stare.

  “See that my niece enjoys herself, won’t you, your lordship?”

  Her meaning was clear as ice on a pond.

  Watch your step.

  “Of course. I should like nothing more.” He bowed his head and gripped the handles of Franny’s invalid carriage.

  “Franny, do you wish me to push you, or should we ring for Penny?”

  “Penny, please, Flynn.”

  She gazed up at him, her lips twitching. “I don’t tolerate the heat well. I’ll likely take only one turn about the closest garden. I shouldn’t want to cut short Mrs. Thorne’s enjoyment.”

  Her eyes sparkled, and she grinned. “They are spectacular, Mrs. Thorne. He has hundreds and hundreds of bushes.”

  Franny’s enthusiasm seemed contagious, for Mrs. Thorne grinned in return. “Well then, lead on, oh-mistress-of-the-gardens.”

  Franny chuckled and winked at him. “I like her, Flynn.”

  “I do too.” He bent and kissed the crown of her head.

  “We can all hear you.” Grandmamma’s mirth-filled eyes glittered.

  Helping herself to a Naples biscuit, Her Grace chuckled. “I do believe that’s the idea.”

  Did approval glimmer in her eyes?

  Flynn shifted to find Mrs. Thorne staring at him, a perplexed expression on her face.

  Far better than anger.

  He’d see what might be done in the next hour to turn her puzzlement to some sort of a betrothal agreement.

  Careful to keep her parasol between her face and the sun, Angelina bent to sniff an enormous blood-red bloom. Lady Francesca hadn’t exaggerated. The gardens were outstanding. Row upon row of flowers, as well as arbors, trellises, and raised beds boasted roses of every conceivable size and color.

  What a glorious, fragrant rainbow anchored to the earth by roots and soil.

  “That one doesn’t have much scent. Smell this flower.” Lady Francesca indicated a delicate yellow and orange rose beside her.

  Angelina obediently lowered her head to inhale. “Lovely. The size of the blossom doesn’t indicate the strength of its perfume, does it?”

  She traced the petals with her forefinger. “I love these multi-colored blossoms.”

  Two spaniels and a Dalmatian darted amongst the manicured rows, then trotted to sit panting at his lordship’s feet. Tongues lolling and tails thumping, they gaped at him, adoration in their round, coffee-colored eyes.

  “Mrs. Thorne, I’ve several other specimens in the conservatories. A favorite of mine is a deep pink and white rose.” Lord Bretheridge, standing a few feet away, waved toward two buildings on the other side of the green. “Would you like to see them?”

  Did she dare? No doubt she would come to regret the impulse. She searched his face for a brief moment. Nothing except kindness showed in his eyes today.

  Her lips swept upward. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

  Angelina adored flowers. She discovered several shades of roses in the past few minutes she didn’t know existed. What harm was there in observing the other blossoms? A few minutes more and she would return to the house and claim a headache.

  It wouldn’t be a lie. One had niggled since speaking with Uncle Ambrose this morning.

  A headache signaled Aunt Camille that Angelina wanted to leave. Her uncle might be determined to shackle her to the marquis, but her aunt was just as adamant Angelina wouldn’t be forced into marriage.

  Aunt Camille displayed much more gumption than Angelina had credited her. Though not outwardly contentious, her aunt exhibited the same firm resolve Mama did. Behind closed doors, her aunt wasn’t as biddable as she appeared in public.

  Although the day was warm, Angelina shivered, remembering the unpleasant conversation with Uncle Ambrose this morning. He’d flatly disregarded Angelina’s refusal to marry Lord Bretheridge.

  Uncle Ambrose dared to seize her arms and shake her while snarling he’d send her back to Salem if she didn’t comply. Afterward, he’d stormed into his study where Aunt Camille found him, hours later, in a drunken stupor.

  His actions confirmed Angelina’s suspicion.

  He wasn’t above physical violence.

  She had the bruises to prove his brutality. Imagine what her aunt and the children had suffered at his hands. And the servants too, she ventured to guess.

  Thank God, he wasn’t her guardian.

  In a matter of days she’d be of age. She’d sell her jewelry and make arrangements to live somewhere else as soon as possible. If she became desperate, the distant clan members in Scotland remained a possibility.

  Uncle Ambrose’s obsession with her situation perplexed Angelina. She wasn’t his daughter, for pity’s sake.

  She breathed out a silent sigh. As to that, she had best write Mama and tell her she was going to be a grandmother. A bittersweet announcement, to be sure.

  “Franny, will you join us?”

  Lord Bretheridge’s question reined in Angelina’s unpleasant musings. Of course Lady Francesca must. For Angelina to venture into the conservatory alone with him would be most unwise.

  “No.” Lady Francesca gave him an innocent look. “I’ll wait beneath the magnolia for a spell. Take your time. Should I become too warm or tired, I’ll have Penny take me indoors.”

  Angelina already adored the young woman. A beauty, greatly resembling Lord Bretheridge, from her emerald eyes to her dark chestnut hair, she owned a ready smile and a quick wit.

  What most impressed Angelina, however, was Lady Francesca’s sweet spirit and the complete lack of self-pity the young woman exhibited for her thorny situation. She’d graciously accepted her limitation.

  Where others might have become depressed or bitter, Lady Francesca exuded peace, and professed a charm like that which Angelina first thought his lordship possessed.

  “Are you positive you don’t want to come along?” Angelina fingered a velvety petal.

  Lady Francesca grinned impishly. “As I’m sure we’ll become great friends, please call me Franny, but no.” She sent her brother a sideways peek. “I know my brother wants a few moments alone with you.”

  Angelina pretended absorption in the rose she touched. She most definitely didn’t want to be alone with the marquis. Had he mentioned something to his family about her? Them? She swore she detected a speculative gleam in his sister’s eyes.

  “Mrs. Thorne? The conservatory, if you please?” His lordship waited patiently, hands clasped behind his back and a toleran
t turn to his lovely mouth. When he spoke, the dogs’ tails renewed their swishing.

  A man’s mouth shouldn’t be beautiful. Was that on her list already?

  Drat.

  Adjusting her parasol, Angelina smiled at Lady Francesca. “We’ll only be a few minutes, I promise.”

  Hesitation in her step, Angelina made her way to Lord Bretheridge’s side. She did want to see more of his roses. Along with peonies, they were her favorite flowers.