by Nichole Van
“That simply isn’t done—”
Lady Jane huffed. “Precisely, Peter will not—”
“Leave it be! Both of you,” Peter said to his mother and sister, shifting in his chair. “Let me think upon it myself.”
That’s it, lad. Speak up.
The women fell silent.
“Allow me tae be completely clear.” Andrew paused until they met his gaze. “This all stops now.” He motioned a hand, indicating the four of them.
Lady Hadley sniffed, plucking at her lace again. “I cannot fathom to what you are referring—”
“Yer endless wee abuses and insults. Ye think me too stupid to understand what yer about.” He waited until all three of them met his gaze. “But I ken. Dinnae push me. Dinnae think that I dinnae hear yous talking about my mother or my father—”
Peter harrumphed, his knee bouncing restlessly. “Perhaps you should leave off eavesdropping then—”
“Enough.” Andrew fixed his heir with a steely look. “Yer life will be a lot easier, Peter, if ye learn tae cooperate with me. We could be friends, no’ enemies.”
Peter ground his teeth and averted his eyes, jaw tense.
“As for you, Lady Hadley, may I suggest doing what my mother always told me, ‘If ye cannae say something polite, dinnae say anything at all.’”
“My lord, I cannot—”
“Ye need tae just walk away, Lady Hadley. If ye cannae stand me, simply get up and leave the room. I willnae think ill of yous for it. But I will not tolerate being abused by you, either in private or tae my face. Have I made myself clear?”
Silence.
Andrew continued, “I anticipate staying for several weeks, sorting through affairs of the estate. Let’s all try tae bump along with each other while I’m here. Once I leave, yous can all go back tae pretending I dinnae exist.”
Lady Jane exchanged a glance with her brother, something passing between them.
“Of course, my lord,” Lady Hadley replied, voice stiff and unyielding.
Andrew nodded, acknowledging her grudging acquiescence.
Peter stood up, hands clasped behind his back. He looked at Lady Jane before taking his eyes back to Andrew.
Andrew motioned toward his heir. “Peter, I’ll give you a week tae think over my offer. Ye are my heir, and ye ought to learn how this estate functions if, heaven forbid, ye should be called upon to manage it. If ye decide not tae help, I willnae cut ye off entirely, but if ye wish a substantial enough income to someday marry, ye’ll need tae assist me in running the affairs of the earldom.”
Peter set his jaw, eyes snapping before jerking his gaze away. He made no reply.
Andrew responded with a curt dip of his head before looking down to the papers on his desk. But as his head moved, he snagged Lady Jane’s gaze.
A glimmer of that fire simmered there, banked and tamped down, but not entirely snuffed out.
She met his eyes fearlessly, pressing her lips into a straight line, challenging him to take her to task, too.
He nearly smiled.
He had far too much on his plate to deal with a spoiled English lass, no matter how pretty.
He was quite sure Lady Jane would sort herself out.
9
Jane woke to the sound of damned souls screeching in agony.
The searing noise blasted through her slumber, post-slumber malaise, bed lying about, and sent her straight to rising in a gasping burst.
And as Jane was a woman who greatly valued her sleep, that was the greatest horror of all.
She swayed on her feet, grasping the frame of her poster bed to steady herself, shaking sleep from her foggy head.
Another moment passed. The ungodly noise continued, wafting in through the bedroom shutters.
It was ghastly—loud and shrill.
Jane decided then and there that whoever was making that noise would wish they were a damned soul by the time she was done with them.
Stomping across the room, she rang for her maid before crawling back into bed, pulling the counterpane over her head in an attempt to muffle the sound.
The noise outside was only the last in a string of indignities.
The horror of Lord Hadley’s arrival—both her official and unofficial introductions to him. The Scot hadn’t said anything yet about finding her rumpled and muddy in the stream, but she feared he was only biding his time.
Lord Hadley, after all, displayed a shocking lack of propriety and truly atrocious manners.
Dinner the previous evening had been nothing short of a disaster. Lord Hadley had chomped and snorted his way through the meal, making one vulgar comment after another.
As a woman who had spent the entirety of her adult life stifling her baser self, Jane knew well how difficult it could be to navigate the labyrinth of aristocratic etiquette.
Lord Hadley, however, blithely did not care to exert himself. He sniffed and behaved abominably without a moment’s self-consciousness.
Jane witnessed it with half-admiring outrage. It took a certain amount of verve to so thoroughly disregard decorum. It was as if she were viewing her own baser self without any restraint.
Of course, the entire experience underscored precisely why English manners were born in the first place.
That Jane found Hadley attractive even in the midst of it all had only heightened her irritation.
Jane, Peter, and their mother had all retired after dessert, leaving Hadley and Master MacTavish to their port.
Honestly, Jane would almost believe his behavior a farce, if she could think of a reason why he would be behaving so. How could anyone truly be so unabashedly Scottish? The man was a caricature of his race.
Her sense of fairness had to allow that Hadley was attempting, at least, to assume the mantle of earl. He had met with his steward and seemed to take an interest in the estate himself. Jane was relieved he had agreed to allow her to stay at Hadley Park.
As for her brother, Jane had slept restlessly, her mind occupied with Peter.
Naturally, Peter fumed over the thought of assisting to manage the estate. He had raged about it in the library the afternoon before, pacing back and forth in front of Jane for nearly an hour, going on and on about Hadley’s presumption. Jane had rarely seen Peter so overset. A fact that had probably contributed to her restless sleep.
Though Jane understood her brother’s point—he shouldn’t be forced to work for his allowance—there was a secret, tiny sliver of her mind which recognized that having a purpose and focus could be helpful for Peter. He had always been somewhat aimless and drifting.
The old earl hadn’t wanted his son to seek employment in the few respectable fields open to him—military officer or man of the cloth—and so Peter had floundered for years, lazing about with no direction. Jane knew Peter had attempted to help with affairs once the old earl’s health had declined. But even that had ceased once their mother got wind of it; her biting commentary on work and Peter’s station had eroded her brother’s confidence.
Perhaps with Hadley here, Peter would try anew. Jane desperately wished for her brother to find lasting happiness, but before happiness, he needed to acquire a purpose in life—
Another blast of noise intruded nearly rattling the windowpanes.
Jane groaned and pulled the counterpane higher.
Her bedroom door snicked open.
Jane rolled over in bed, pushing back the covers. Her maid, Mary, stepped inside, bobbing a curtsy.
“Who is making that infernal racket outside?” Jane demanded.
Mary paused, eyes widening. “Erhm . . . it’s his lordship, my lady.”
“His lordship?”
“Lord Hadley, my lady. He’s playing the pipes.”
Dead silence.
Lord Hadley’s piping gleefully filled the empty space with screeching sound.
“The pipes?” Jane repeated, voice flat.
“Bagpipes, my lady.” Mary flinched at a particularly loud wail.
Jane had not ne
eded the point clarified.
More importantly, none of the staff could tell their master to cease the racket. Her mother certainly wouldn’t deign to do it.
That left Jane.
Her mother would not approve of Jane interfering.
But . . .
Grating noise sailed through the window.
“I see.” Jane’s tone was clipped. “Fetch some water, Mary. I must dress.”
This ridiculousness ended right now.
“Yer no’ doing it right, yer lordship,” Kieran said, wincing as Andrew blew a particular harsh noise through the bagpipes.
“Och, I’ve been trying to learn the pipes for years.” Andrew wrenched another horrific wail from the instrument. “I dinnae ken why I cannae make the sound run true.”
The Scottish gardener, Tam MacDonald, to whom the pipes belonged, grimaced.
They were standing on the lawn to the south of the house, enjoying the noon-time sun. Sheep baaed and bleated across the grass, voicing their own opinions of Andrew’s playing.
“Aye, milord. It does a body proud tae feel proper Scottish—” Tam’s tone was strained. “—but mayhap I could help ye with it?”
“I dinnae know if I can be helped, tae be honest. The pipes escape me.” Sighing, Andrew handed the beleaguered bagpipes over to the older man. “I’m pleased tae see a fellow Scot among ma staff here.”
“Aye, there be a few of us, milord. Do ye mind if I play a wee song or two?”
“I dinnae mind at all.”
Tam began tuning the pipes, adjusting the sound until it all came into harmony. Andrew shook his head. Tam made it appear so simple.
Tam began playing “Johnnie Cope,” an old Jacobite tune.
The April sun peeked out from high overhead, bathing the lawn in warm light. Andrew and Kieran were wearing their great kilts again today. Andrew figured he would be wearing a kilt for the foreseeable future.
He didn’t object.
He sat down on the grass, legs stretched out in front of him. Kieran laid down, hands crossed behind his head, eyes closed.
Tam finished playing “Johnnie Cope,” the final notes drifting across the lawn.
“Can ye play ‘Highland Laddie’?” Kieran asked, squinting up at Tam.
“’Heilan’ Laddie’?” Tam repeated. “Aye.”
“It soothes ma sailor’s soul.” Kieran closed his eyes. Scottish sailors sang the tune as a call-and-answer while hoisting sails or raising anchor.
Tam launched into the first bars.
“Speaking of ships on the horizon,” Andrew muttered.
It seemed the enemy was incoming. A ship-of-the-line, if he wasn’t mistaken. Lady Jane sailed across the lawn toward them, expression thunderous under her wide-brimmed bonnet, skirts fluttering in her wake. She appeared ready to deliver a solid broadside of cannon fire, determined to shred them with her sharp tongue and scathing condescension.
Hah!
Though he hadn’t intended to draw her out with the bagpipes, he also couldn’t feel sorry that he had. Anticipation coiled inside Andrew, sending quicksilver through his veins.
Part of him delighted in seeing the animated version of Lady Jane again. She had been nearly an automaton of a person over the last two days—expressionless and tightly coiled. Prim Jane, no trace of Fiery Jane.
Andrew slowly rose to his feet. The gentleman in him could not remain lounging on the ground in front of a lady, no matter the situation. Kieran joined him.
Lady Jane stopped in front of them, fixing Tam with a baleful look.
Andrew motioned for the gardener to cease his piping. The bagpipe sang one last mournful note and then went silent.
“I assume you have work to do, Mr. MacDonald?” Lady Jane addressed Tam, haughty anger in her tone.
Tam shot a furtive look at Andrew.
As Lord Hadley, Andrew was Tam’s employer, not Lady Jane. She had no right to dismiss the gardener, particularly in front of Andrew.
It was a shocking breach of etiquette.
Clearly, Lady Jane wished to have a word with Andrew and did not want a servant to witness it. But she had no right to dismiss the man. She should have simply asked to speak with Andrew in private.
He let the silence linger, becoming more and more damning with each second.
A slow flush burned up Lady Jane’s neck. Whether from mortification at her lack of proper protocol or virulent frustration with Andrew’s continued presence in her life, he couldn’t say.
Finally, Andrew nodded at Tam. “Thank ye for the use of your pipes, Tam.”
“Milord.” Tam sketched a bow. “Ma lady.” He touched his forelock and then strode off across the grass, pipes cradled in his arm.
Andrew faced Lady Jane, keeping a pleasant expression on his face. Mostly because he intuitively knew that remaining cheerful would annoy her. Why he enjoyed needling her so much, he chose not to examine too closely.
Her blush deepened, eyes narrowing and flashing fire.
There you are, he thought. I knew you were not as proper as you seemed.
“Lady Jane.” Andrew bowed.
“Lord Hadley. Master MacTavish.” To her credit, Lady Jane greeted them both with exquisite propriety.
“Now that ye’ve run off ma gardener, how may I assist ye?” Andrew smiled, making sure to show lots of teeth. “Are ye looking fer more people tae command about? Order away from streams and fields and the like?”
It was his first oblique reference to their initial meeting by the river.
Given the flare of her nostrils, she did not miss his meaning.
Lady Jane, however, was made of stern stuff. She swatted away his implied criticism with practiced ease.
“I am sure you are well aware that the racket you call music—” She motioned toward the retreating Tam MacDonald with his bagpipes. “—has roused the entire estate.”
“Roused the entire estate?” Andrew glanced upward, lifting a palm to shade his eyes from the sun shining high in the sky. “The servants and ma staff were up hours and hours ago. The sound didnae do anything more than provide accompaniment for their chores.” He clasped his hands behind him, rocking back on his heels.
Lady Jane nearly huffed in frustration.
Andrew kept a ridiculous grin on his face.
“You know perfectly well that I was not referring to the servants.” She said ‘servants’ with a hefty dose of contempt. “Even one such as yourself cannot be quite such a simpleton.”
Unbidden, Andrew felt his own temper rising.
“One such as myself? Ma staff work hard day-and-night, like yon Tam MacDonald—” He nodded in the direction of Tam’s retreating figure. “I wouldnae dream of interrupting their rest. But if anyone were still asleep at this hour, the pipes would simply encourage them to no’ be a laze-a-bed.”
Lady Jane said nothing in reply. But she did glare at him, bosom heaving.
Andrew kept his expression cheeky, despite the roil of emotion in his own chest. “Ye know I’m a ‘rag-mannered idiot’.” He leaned toward her. “I wouldnae ken anything of it were a ‘bloody hell’ or ‘deuce take ye’ to escape yer mouth.”
It was a second, not-so-vague reference to their initial meeting.
“Oh!” Jane huffed.
Andrew was quite sure she stamped a foot, but the motion was so small, it was hard to be certain.
He pretended to survey her, eyes dragging up and down. He tapped his chin, as if thinking.
“Does she look familiar to ye, Kieran?” he asked his friend.
Kieran, ever quick, scratched his head. “I cannae say. If she does, she’s cleaner than I remember.”
Andrew folded his arms across his chest, mouth perplexed. “Aye. The lack of mud does make a difference.”
“An’ polite language.”
“Verra true.” Andrew nodded his head. “Mayhap she only curses when there’s no other gentry aboot.”
Jane was quite sure if she were a teakettle, steam would be pouring from her ear
s.
Lord Hadley was unbearably obnoxious.
First his implication that she was indolent because she enjoyed sleeping late occasionally . . .
. . . ehr, often . . .
. . . perhaps, frequently . . .
Oh, bother—she mentally threw up her hands in frustration—so she disliked rising before the sun was high in the sky? What did it signify? She was the daughter of a duke, for heaven’s sake. She had every right to sleep as long and late as she wished.
His lordship roused the entire county with his caterwauling racket. He was the problem here. Not her.
Furthermore, she greatly resented that she had to tilt her head upwards and shield her gaze from the sun in order to look him in the eye. She could practically feel the freckles surfacing from the brief exposure to sunlight.
If Hadley had to be insufferable, did he have to be so loomingly large about it?
She was a tall woman in her own right. She never had to look up to a man, and yet Hadley made her feel positively dainty in comparison.
Hadley was swaddled in that enormous kilt again. He had worn it the previous day, but he had either been seated behind his desk or a dinner table, and so she had not quite appreciated the full effect of it.
The kilt should have made him appear feminine or ridiculous.
It was neither of those things.
The fabric wrapped across his broad chest, emphasizing the width of his shoulders. Worse, his folded arms bunched the muscles in his upper arms, making him appear that much larger. A sheathed knife sticking out of the top of his gartered stockings completed the ruthless image.
His face was all angles and planes, a jaw like cut granite. An errant breeze unhelpfully ruffled his light brown hair, lending his stern manliness a tousled, boyish edge that threatened to weaken Jane’s knees.
Though she may have simply had knees on her mind.
As she had approached, Jane had noticed a distressingly bare strip of skin between the bottom of Hadley’s kilt and the top of his stockings.
She could see his knees.
His bare knees.
His bare, hairy knees.
