Suffering The Scot (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 1)

by Nichole Van

  “I see.”

  Silence hung between them.

  “Will ye please show me your collection, Lady Jane?” His eyes met hers again. “I would very much like tae understand it better. It seems like it might be full of surprises.”

  And suddenly he wasn’t just talking about a mineral collection.

  I want to understand you better, his look seemed to say.

  Jane nodded, a small bob of her head, that same tightness having returned to clog her throat.

  When had anyone ever said that to her?

  She was so used to be known as the daughter of one duke and the sister of another . . . the breadth of her life easily encompassed within the identity of her male relatives.

  No one looked beyond that. No one felt the need.

  Until Hadley.

  Why would it be him? she wondered. Why would he be the one to want to see past my facade?

  Was it because he understood facades so thoroughly himself?

  “Why have you changed?” she asked, unable to stop the question before it tumbled out her.

  She had a habit of tumbling in front of him, it seemed—into streams and words and her innermost self.

  He blinked at the non-sequitur. But—and this was perhaps what she found most troubling of all—he instantly understood what she meant.

  Why are you not the uncouth Scot you were a week ago?

  He glanced down at his superfine coat over an elegant satin waistcoat before clasping his hands behind his back.

  “None of us are what we seem, Lady Jane,” came his reply, still low and gruff. “I think ye ken that better than most.”

  Their eyes locked.

  That breathless fluttering feeling returned, bringing a flock of friends with it, fluffing and growing until it pressed against her chest in a nearly painful ache.

  Jane wasn’t prepared for this. Not this sense of kinship. Not with him.

  Swallowing, she turned away, plucking a cushion from beside the window and placing it in an uncluttered space within the stones.

  “What is your interest in minerals, my lord?” she asked as she sank down onto the cushion, arranging her skirts carefully.

  For his part, Hadley sat opposite her, lounging casually, an arm draped over his raised knee.

  “It was my course of study at St. Andrews,” he replied, picking up a small piece of pyrite from a collection of minerals she had purchased from a dealer in Plymouth several years before.

  “Your course of study? Truly?”

  “Aye. Mineralogy and natural sciences. As I have mentioned, Rafe and I met at St. Andrews. Our specialties are in mineralogy for myself and biology for him, but both areas fall under the natural sciences. We studied together at United College, which houses all scientific and medical studies at St. Andrews—”

  “Did you study with Mr. James Hutton?” Jane had to know. Mr. Hutton was a celebrated Scottish geologist and had formulated many of the current theories about rock formation.

  “Unfortunately, no.” Hadley shook his head. “Mr. Hutton passed away a few years back, so I never had the honor of meeting him. But several of my professors at university were avid supporters of Mr. Hutton’s writing.”

  Jane longed to bounce with excitement. “I would love nothing more than to attend university and examine minerals all day.”

  He lifted his head, studying her. She appreciated that he didn’t flinch or blink at her outlandish statement.

  “What about minerals fascinates ye?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “They’re timeless; they don’t change. They can be studied endlessly, as new ideas surface in modern journals. I find myself constantly rethinking how I have categorized them.”

  He picked up a chunk of sparkling, pink quartz. “I would have thought ye liked rocks because they’re sparkly and pretty.”

  She laughed. “That, too.”

  Silence hung for a moment. Jane plucked at a lovely piece of red agate.

  “The truth is perhaps even simpler. When you can control so very little about your life, you take your victories where you can. Rocks never change. They are always the same. And there is a comfort in knowing that something in this world is ever-constant.”

  Lady Jane’s words hit Andrew with brutal force.

  When you can control so very little about your life . . .

  Even the daughter of a duke did not have the power to direct her own destiny.

  She flushed and refused to meet his eye, her shoulders tensing for what she was sure would be his teasing reply.

  Guilt laced through him. He hated that he had put that unease there.

  Even seeing glimpses of Fiery Jane had not prepared him for the revelations of the last hour.

  “I don’t suppose I have ever thought of minerals as being advocates for constancy, but I suppose that is the case,” he said, laying his words carefully, desperate to not upset the tentative truce between them. “So often we define ourselves not as we are, but what we are in relation to something else. So ye are not Lady Jane Everard in her own right. But instead, ye are Lady Jane, sister of His Grace, the Duke of Montacute. Or Lady Jane, step-daughter of the former Earl of Hadley. Everyone wants to define ye in relation tae someone else.”

  Lady Jane gasped, eyes still downcast. His words had struck true.

  Andrew found himself staring at the side of her neck and the fine down hair which curled there, sworls of wispy copper . . . achingly vulnerable.

  She abruptly appeared viscerally alone and lonely. A commodity to be purchased or admired or used. But did no one ever see her as a person?

  I see you. He longed to say.

  Or, perhaps more accurately, I want to see you. Show me your truest self. Trust me with your inner being.

  But her words from earlier intruded: Why have you changed?

  How could he expect her to reveal herself when he had kept himself hidden for most of their acquaintanceship?

  And yet, he had to ask it: “What is it you want, Lady Jane?”

  She kept her eyes downcast, his Jane.

  And suddenly she was no longer Lady Jane in his eyes. Not Prim Jane nor Fiery Jane.

  She was simply Jane.

  Plain Jane.

  He mentally smiled at the words. There was nothing plain about her. The window light raked her face from left to right, tangling in her hair and highlighting the slash of her aristocratic cheekbones.

  She shook her head, the smallest movement. And he hoped that she would give him another truth, another small piece of herself.

  But . . .

  Noise intruded.

  Lady Hadley’s voice sounded in the entrance hall, her words drifting through the open library door. Someone answered.

  The interruption had nothing to do with them, but Jane reacted nonetheless.

  Andrew could practically see her rebuilding mental walls, shutting him out, retreating back inside Prim Jane.

  Finally, she lifted her gaze, expression politely restrained.

  “I have everything that I want or need,” she said. The tightness around her eyes belied her words.

  “You know that’s not true, Lady Jane. Everyone wants something.”

  “Not everyone, my lord. My wise nanny once told me that unhappiness can be measured by the distance between reality and our expectations of reality.”

  Andrew drew in a hissing breath. It was a harsh assessment of life.

  Jane’s answering wan smile said she understood his reaction for what it was.

  “Life is easier when your expectations of others are small,” she said. “Particularly when their expectations of you are so very large.”

  He nearly winced.

  Ah, Jane.

  It all came together in a blinding flash.

  She did not dream because her life was not her own. Her mother and Montacute made decisions for her. They had hopes and prospects for her that were already too ambitious. Suddenly, all the wee comments Lady Hadley had dropped over past weeks came into crystal-clear
focus.

  Jane mustn’t forget her parasol. She freckles far too easily, and no gentleman would wish to marry a freckle-faced lady.

  Jane, modulate your tones to be more dulcet. The daughter of a duke should always sound mellifluous. I should hate to bring up that incident with Lord Eastman . . .

  For Jane to add her own desires into the mix . . .

  Ah, Jane. Sweet Jane.

  You deserve freedom.

  Her smile remained strained.

  He would get nothing more from her on the topic. Not today.

  “Well, tell me about your minerals then, Lady Jane. And do not think ye will pull one over me. I know my agates from my schist. So take that as fair warning.”

  The tension in Jane’s eyes eased and a real grin appeared.

  The morning flew by. Jane did not disappoint.

  It didn’t take more than five minutes for Andrew to realize she had a thorough understanding of mineralogy.

  Ten minutes after that, Andrew was learning new things.

  Fifteen minutes after that, they were arguing over which was superior—hard rocks (like granite, schist, and gneiss) or soft rocks (like fossils, sandstone, and limestones).

  “Soft rocks will always be more interesting,” Jane insisted. “They hold endless surprises, like fossils—”

  “Och, ye cannot be serious, Lady Jane? A stone’s worth doesn’t reside in its interestingness. It’s how a rock can be used that makes it worthwhile. Granite, as a building material, is much hardier than sandstone—”

  “Yes, but no one wants to spend hours staring at granite. However, one can study an ammonite fossil for days . . .”

  They continued to argue back and forth, moving from stone to stone, Andrew helping to reorder everything.

  Hours passed.

  Andrew could not remember when he had enjoyed anyone’s company quite as much as Lady Jane’s. Talking with her was supposed to ease his fascination, not throw whisky on the flames.

  The more he spoke with her, the more he understood, the more he wanted to know. He wanted to learn her, bit-by-bit, and be learned and understood in return.

  Rafe had been right.

  He was utterly smitten.

  He was halfway through telling a story of wading a river to collect a lovely piece of gneiss before he realized how much time had passed.

  “And there I was, standing in my bare feet, breeches soaking wet, trying tae scramble on my tiptoes to reach the thing,” he chuckled.

  Jane laughed. A tinkling, fey sound. Her eyes crinkled and her cheeks plumped and Andrew was quite sure he had never seen anything so lovely.

  Still smiling, he continued. “I would have been all right, but then a wee sheep startled off the riverbank and plowed into my—”

  “Heaven’s, Jane. Such a racket you are making,” a cool, aristocratic voice cut through the room.

  Jane’s peal of laughter instantly died.

  Andrew turned to see Lady Hadley push through the open door, eyes snapping with displeasure. She surveyed her daughter, lounging on the floor with a Scottish ‘rag-mannered idiot,’ rocks and stones scattered around them.

  Andrew scrambled to his feet and then offered a hand down to Lady Jane, pulling her up beside him.

  Lady Hadley observed it all with icy hostility. “I have need of you, Jane,” she said, eyes still trained on him.

  Jane said nothing. Every last ounce of her vitality drained away, leaving an empty shell of a person behind.

  Jane curtsied to him and then brushed past her mother without another word.

  Lady Hadley surveyed Andrew from head to foot. Not a word of censure passed her lips, but he felt it all the same.

  Bloody English with their bloody aristocratic manners.

  He could not let this slide without comment. “I appreciate Lady Jane taking the time tae show me her impressive collection of minerals.” He kept his expression mild but something hot roiled in his chest.

  Lady Hadley gave the faintest of smiles. “Yes, well, I suppose minerals hold some interest when there is little else to occupy the mind.” Her tone dripped censure. “I shall leave you to them, Lord Hadley.”

  Lady Hadley nodded her head and swept from the room, leaving only a chilling silence behind.

  16

  Jane knew she was going to get an earful. There was no escaping it.

  Being found lounging on the floor (!), laughing loudly (!!), with a man and a low-born Scot at that (!!!). In all honesty, she would be lucky to escape with only a scolding.

  Would her mother turn her over to Montacute? Had her untamed impulses finally brought about her doom?

  How could Jane have forgotten herself so? How could she have behaved so abominably?

  Her mother started as soon as Jane reached her bedroom.

  “I would have a word, if I may, Jane.” Lady Hadley didn’t wait for Jane to reply. She simply latched the bedroom door with a loud snick.

  Jane turned, throwing her shoulders back, face impassive. Lady Hadley surveyed her, surely noting her wrinkled skirts and slightly untidy hair.

  “You are nearly five and twenty, Jane. I cannot believe that we are, yet again, having this conversation. Your behavior with Hadley . . . ” Her mother tsked.

  Jane knew better than to reply. She clasped her hands in front of her.

  She didn’t point out that the library door had been open, and she and Hadley had been observing all rules of propriety.

  She also didn’t reiterate that they were guests in Hadley’s house now, not the other way around. So when he invited her to do something, it would be impolite to decline.

  Of a surety, Jane didn’t say that she found herself thoroughly liking Hadley with his easy-going charm and kind eyes and quick intelligence.

  Saying such things would only prolong her chastisement.

  Her mother did love her, in her way. Lady Hadley’s overarching goal in life was to maintain her social position within society. Staying in Montacute’s good graces assured this. Being self-absorbed, Lady Hadley assumed that Jane wished for these things, too, and therefore constantly strove to correct Jane’s wayward behavior.

  “I do not believe I need to go into the minutiae of why your behavior with Hadley is unseemly,” her mother continued. “Yes, Hadley is the paterfamilias now, and we must pay him some attention. But to spend time with him in such a state, laughing and carrying on . . .” Her mother shook her head. “Your matrimonial prospects are hardly so dire yet.”

  Jane’s head jolted upward at her mother’s words.

  Matrimonial prospects? Did her mother honestly put Hadley into that category?

  Abruptly, Jane realized she had been striving not to see Lord Hadley in such a light.

  But as the man was always underfoot and so absurdly attractive . . .

  She swallowed.

  What if she considered him?

  A life with Hadley flashed through her mind’s eye. Hadley grinning and endlessly teasing, his broad accent loud and unabashed. Hadley laughing with his children, chasing them across the grass. Hadley chucking her under the chin when something went south, telling her to ‘not ken’ what others might say about her. Hadley leaning down, his blue eyes going unfocused, warm breath brushing her mouth—

  Oh!

  Was she now truly pondering this?

  But . . . why not Hadley?

  “Why do you discount Hadley as a suitor, Mother?” she had to ask. “If I were to marry him, it would remove us both from Montacute’s influence—”

  “Oh, Jane.” Lady Hadley gave a condescending smile that said Jane, despite her age, knew so little of the world. “Hadley is penniless and so is the estate. He must marry an heiress, which you are, and likely explains his interest in you. He would not be the first lord to assume that your dowry was easy pickings.”

  Jane flinched at that brisk dowsing of cold reality—

  Her mother assumed Hadley was courting her. But only because he needed her dowry. Did that truly explain his behavio
r then?

  Lady Hadley continued to press her point. “It is obvious that Lord Hadley has requested Lord Rafe’s assistance to lure you and try to win your dowry. Hadley’s change in manners and dress cannot be explained any other way. The man intends to court you in earnest, I suppose.”

  Did he though? Hadley had all but admitted to Jane earlier that his excessive Scottishness had been an act.

  None of us are what we seem, Lady Jane, he had said. I think ye ken that better than most.

  Where did the truth lie? With Hadley’s explanation? Or her mother’s?

  “Hadley is doomed to fail, of course.” Her mother wasn’t done speaking. “Montacute will never countenance you marrying Hadley. Of that I am sure. Your brother would find Hadley abhorrent and would never accept him as a brother-in-law. And if you marry outside Montacute’s wishes, he will not release your dowry, so Hadley’s suit is doomed to fail.”

  Is this truly Hadley’s aim? Jane wondered. Why must I question and challenge every person’s motives?

  Her mother folded her hands, eyes serious and pity-laden. “You are young yet, Jane, and understand so little of the world. Hadley might be an earl, but he will never be good ton. If and when he is accepted into Lords, you may be sure he will not be well-received by Polite Society. Montacute will likely see to that, if nothing else. You know as well as I that not all aristocrats are created equal. Hadley has little more than his title to recommend him. He is impoverished, ill-mannered, and a Scot, for heaven’s sake. He will need to look outside the peerage to find an heiress to repair the family finances. Your task, Jane, is to marry well before Hadley runs out of funds to support us.”

  Jane pursed her lips. By us, her mother meant herself. Jane needed to marry well in order to ensure her mother had supplementary funds to maintain her current lifestyle.

  Jane had always known her mother was self-absorbed. But every time she thought that maybe a glimmer of maternal instinct yet survived, her mother disabused her of the notion.

  Jane was nothing more than a means to an end.

  Her mother was still beautiful, despite her years. Her blond hair curled and tumbled around her face, the bit of gray she did have blending smoothly with the rest, giving her hair an attractive silvery-pale appearance. Would Lady Hadley marry again after she finished her mourning for the old earl, if only to get out from under Hadley’s thumb and Montacute’s constant demands? And if that were the case, why did Jane need to marry anyway?