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

by Nichole Van

  Jane shivered.

  “This isnae a proposal of marriage, Jane. I want tae make that verra clear.” His breath tickled her ear.

  “It s-sounds v-very marriage-ish,” she whispered.

  “Nae. It’s yer poor English hearing that’s thinking that.”

  “Andrew!” she laughed helplessly, tightening her grip around his neck until he squeaked.

  “I mean it, Jane.” His tone turned serious. “I may be a wee bit love-sick for ye, but I willnae allow this situation with Montacute tae hurry things along. We both deserve better than that. If and when we decide tae be together, I want us tae both know that it was only for love.”

  This dear, sweet impossible man.

  How had she ever thought him anything but absolutely perfect for her?

  He nuzzled her neck more insistently.

  “We havenae spoken about that night after the ball,” he murmured, brogue rumbling in her ear.

  “No,” she whispered. “We haven’t. I wasn’t sure you even remembered.”

  He laughed, husky and low. “A man always remembers when he kisses a beautiful lass, particularly one as sweet as you, Jane.”

  Oh, heavens.

  “I thought you literally just said that we were not going to court each other until after we resolved Montacute’s threats,” she chuckled.

  “Nae, I said we were no’ going to affiance ourselves. As for the courting, that I have no intention of ceasing.”

  He kissed her jawline, likely wishing to prove his point.

  Her knees sagged. Andrew easily bore her weight, holding her upright.

  He snagged her hand at his neck, his larger one dwarfing hers. The press of his calloused fingers sent chills skittering down her arms.

  He looked at her palm, noting the half-moons from her nails.

  “Ah, Jane,” he tsked. “You’ve made moons for me.”

  “It’s a terrible habit.” She flushed and tried to pull her hand away. But his firm grasp held her fast.

  “No, ye cannae go. Not until I’ve soothed this away.”

  He flashed an impudent grin and then pressed a slow, bone-melting kiss into the palm of her hand. Jane’s fingers curved inward, reflexively cupping his face as he pressed another kiss and then another.

  Dropping her hand, he bent down, his nose dragging across her cheek, his destination obvious.

  Jane turned her head and met him halfway.

  His lips were as soft and delicious as she remembered. The heady give and take of his mouth.

  He was utterly addicting.

  Prim, proper, ever-restrained Lady Jane Everard had fallen for a scandalous, uncouth Scotsman.

  And yet . . .

  Scandalous, well . . . she supposed he might be that.

  But uncouth? No.

  And as for the Scottish bit, she was quite certain she had fallen in love with Scotland, too.

  Heaven help her.

  She did not expect Montacute to accept Andrew as a suitor, earl or no. Her brother had his sights set on Wanleigh as her husband, and she knew from bitter experience that Montacute would be unmovable once he had decided on a course.

  Would Andrew be strong enough to withstand Montacute?

  Jane didn’t know.

  The thought made her want to weep.

  She kissed her Scottish earl instead.

  Jane woke the next day to her maid opening the bedroom shutters and placing a tray of hot chocolate and warm scones on the bedside table. Sun streamed through the window, promising another golden day. The girl bobbed a curtsy and exited.

  Today was the day, then.

  Montacute would arrive just after luncheon.

  Drawing in a steadying breath, Jane sat up.

  Yesterday with Andrew . . .

  If and when we decide tae be together, I want us tae both know that it was only for love.

  His words would not leave her.

  She wanted that for him. She wanted that for her.

  How had he become so wise?

  Not that she would tell him as much. His confident Scottish head did not need to be inflated further. She smiled at the thought.

  Sitting up, she finally noticed the small, velvet pouch resting beside her scone on the tray. Curious, she pulled it open. A note tumbled out, along with a heavy bracelet that gleamed red and black.

  I cannot bear to see moon prints marking your fair skin. You merit more than a wee imprint of heaven. I would give you entire universes, but until then, please accept this as a paltry substitute.

  —A

  Her giggling laughter surprised even herself. Whatever had Andrew done?

  She picked up the bracelet, examining it.

  Polished black beads shimmered, alternating with ruby garnets set in gleaming silver. The garnets were beautiful, but the black stone beads puzzled her for a moment. The opalescence trapped in the black flickered as she rotated the bracelet in the light.

  Oh!

  The stones were meteorite, pieces of the moon tumbled to earth.

  He had literally given her a ‘bit of heaven,’ as he said. Tangible, perfectly-round little moons to dot her wrist.

  Jane was quite sure her heart would burst.

  But, of course, such good bonhomie could not last. Jane descended the grand staircase of Hadley Park, the bracelet upon her wrist, eager to find Andrew.

  She was met, instead, by her mother walking quickly away from the housekeeper.

  Lady Hadley’s eyes had gained a mercenary, flinty edge as she scanned Jane up and down. Such a look never boded well.

  “We have much to do today, Jane. Montacute arrives soon. Wanleigh and Lord and Lady Whitcomb have been invited to dinner.” Her mother raised her chin. “You should prepare yourself to act as your brother expects the daughter of the Duke of Montacute to behave.”

  Normally, such an announcement would send panic flooding her limbs, but not today. With Andrew’s promises from yesterday yet ringing in her ears and his bit of heaven around her wrist, Jane was able to merely nod at her mother’s words.

  She and Andrew would face Montacute together.

  26

  The Duke of Montacute was an unbearable ass.

  Andrew did not describe a man thus lightly. But there was no other word that so perfectly encompassed the sheer pompous self-importance that clung to Jane’s older half-brother.

  The first indication of Montacute’s asinine-ness—asinanity? asinancity?—was the brief missive awaiting Andrew when he returned to Hadley Park after visiting Rosehearth.

  I will be arriving tomorrow afternoon. Please see that all is in order for my arrival.

  Montacute

  That was it. No salutation. No question if the duke would be welcomed or inconveniencing Andrew’s staff or himself. Worse, no indication of how long he would be staying.

  Nothing more.

  It was unbearably rude. The haughty decree of a man who had never heard the word, No.

  Andrew struggled to focus in the hours leading up to Montacute’s arrival.

  So many concerns crowded his mind.

  Not unsurprisingly, Jane loomed largest. Andrew had declared himself, and Jane had been gratifyingly receptive.

  But he also meant what he said.

  Andrew refused to allow the situation to hasten his own attachment to Jane, and hers to him. They both deserved to know that their affection for each other was genuine and not born of convenience, or worse, desperation. He hoped that his promises gave Jane something to hold to as they faced down Montacute together.

  But other thoughts lingered, as well.

  His grandfather had been the owner of those outstanding shares. Ironically, that meant Andrew owned them now.

  He struggled to reconcile that the man who had watched him grow from infancy, seemingly interested in the minutest details of his life, had also wanted him dead. That his grandfather had set in motion plans to have Andrew killed. Had the old man’s stroke addled his thinking?

  Andrew’s problems wi
th the Committee on Privilege and Chancery were still ongoing. How long before Lords agreed to allow him his seat? And given that Andrew would likely make an enemy of Montacute once this business with Jane concluded, how much more difficult would the process become?

  Montacute arrived in splendor, his carriage suitably gilded and polished as befitted a duke.

  Their greeting in the entrance hall was tense as Jane introduced Andrew to her half-brother.

  “Hadley,” Montacute acknowledged Andrew with the barest dip of his head before giving a similarly arctic nod to Lady Hadley and Peter.

  He then turned his attention to his sister. He greeted Jane with similar reserve, replying with one-word answers to her polite questions.

  Yes, his journey had been uneventful.

  Yes, he was in good health.

  No, he did not find the country air particularly refreshing.

  Jane had not overstated her half-brother’s arrogant, petty nature.

  But Andrew had not anticipated the familial resemblance between them. Though Montacute was dark-haired, he and Jane shared the same gray eyes and lean height. They were clearly siblings, despite Montacute being nearly twenty years Jane’s senior.

  After a minute of conversation with Jane, Montacute flicked his gaze over Andrew and stated, “You may go, Hadley. Your presence is not needed here. Jane and I have family matters to discuss.”

  Andrew felt palpable shock at Montacute’s unbearable rudeness. To be so dismissed? And in his own home?

  Jane maintained a polite expression on her face, but even her eyes widened at the insult.

  Andrew bowed—curt and short—and took himself off to the estate office to consult with his steward over a drainage problem in a lower field before he did something rash.

  It was the better part of an hour before his blood calmed from boiling to a low simmer.

  Of course, all the effort was wasted. When walking back through the house to dress for dinner, he couldn’t help but hear Montacute’s voice in the library—his cool aristocratic tones already unmistakable.

  “. . . your mother informs me that you are not showing a proper interest in Lord Wanleigh. I am most disappointed in you, Jane.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Duke, but I do not find Lord Wanleigh’s attentions desirable—”

  “I have had great patience with this matter, Jane. But you will be five and twenty soon. You are far too old to still be unwed. I have indulged you long enough.”

  “If I were to look a little lower than a marquess—”

  “Lower? Bah. The blood of the Dukes of Montacute runs thick in your veins. You cannot, for a second, consider that I would allow you to mingle with those of lesser standing?”

  “Perhaps, but if I could simply—”

  “Enough, Jane. Enough of this selfish thoughtlessness. You are making this situation unpleasant. You will be obedient to my wishes. If and when Wanleigh declares himself, you will accept him. Do not force me to behave in a manner that would be injurious to you. I will say no more on this matter.”

  Andrew stood outside the library for a solid three minutes, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching, listening as their conversation moved on to their grandmother’s health.

  He knew storming into the room and releasing his anger on Montacute would not help Jane’s situation. And, yet, the urge to do so was powerful.

  Was Jane all right? Would Montacute only use words to wound?

  Jane would not be forced to marry Wanleigh. Andrew would steal her away before watching such a farce.

  Their voices retreated into murmurs. And yet it took another couple minutes before Andrew could force his feet to move on.

  Tomorrow, he and Jane would sit down together with Montacute and make the situation excruciatingly clear to the duke.

  As he dressed for dinner, Andrew briefly considered donning his kilt. When confronted with such jackassery, his knee-jerk reaction was to force others to assume the worst.

  But as he stared at the length of plaid folded in the armoire, he realized he truly was no longer that person.

  Yes, Montacute was a bully—a cruel tyrant.

  Yes, he wished to hurt and offend, using his words as weapons to control others.

  Montacute wanted Andrew to react, and by doing so, acknowledge the duke’s mastery over him.

  His mother’s words from that haberdashery so long ago rang in his head: Never allow others to choose how you feel.

  He needed to heed her words more thoroughly.

  Andrew straightened his shoulders and instructed his valet to dress him with impeccable care.

  In the end, he donned only one nod to his Scottish heritage—Jamie’s tartan.

  “I am sure understanding the intricacies of land management and your potential duties in the House of Lords has been overwhelming for you,” the duke said over their soup course, fixing Andrew with his gray eyes.

  Montacute had a distinctly aristocratic face—sagging cheeks, hairline slightly receding, all suspended over an exceptionally long nose.

  The better for looking down upon lesser mortals, Andrew suspected.

  Everyone seated at the table turned their heads in Andrew’s direction. They were a small group tonight in terms of numbers. Lord and Lady Whitcomb had arrived with Lord Wanleigh in tow. Peter, Jane, and Lady Hadley rounded out the dinner guests.

  Andrew dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before answering. “I feel that I have been able tae execute my obligations with relative ease, Duke.”

  Andrew allowed his gaze to drift to Jane down the table. She shot him a wan smile, a paltry thing that didn’t touch her eyes.

  Andrew hated that Montacute had stolen her spirit yet again. But she wore Andrew’s bracelet. He caught the glimmer of its polished, round stones in the candlelight. He willed Jane to remember what it stood for—that she deserved better than mere half-moon impressions of reality. She merited whole worlds.

  Something in his eyes must have buoyed her up.

  “Lord Hadley spent the afternoon meeting with his steward, did you not?” Jane offered, taking a slow sip of soup.

  “Aye, I did, Lady Jane.”

  “How is the south field coming?” Peter asked, further turning the conversation and drawing Montacute’s attention from belittling Andrew. “Has the drainage improved?”

  Andrew smiled, acknowledging Peter’s help. The two of them had come a long way in their relationship, forming the beginnings of a true friendship.

  Lady Hadley set down her spoon. “Please do not speak of agriculture, Peter. I see quite enough of it out my window at present.” She sent Montacute an apologetic frown.

  Everyone smiled politely at her comment, allowing the conversation to drift back to the duke.

  Peter flashed his mother a dark look before taking a large gulp of his wine. If the conversation continued like this, he would be deep in his cups before dessert.

  Andrew noted Jane twisting the bracelet on her wrist, turning the round moons with her thumb, strumming the stones almost like a talisman.

  “You are quite confident, Hadley.” Montacute turned back to him. “I am sure managing the expectations of the earldom must be difficult for a man of your . . . upbringing.”

  “Hear, hear,” Wanleigh agreed from his seat beside Jane.

  Andrew took a sip of wine, mentally debating the pros and cons of antagonizing the Duke of Montacute.

  Hah! It was a short-lived debate.

  The devil in him couldn’t resist baiting the bull.

  Besides, it was a quick way to take Montacute’s full measure. Would the duke directly threaten? Or use more subtle tactics?

  “My upbringing?’ Andrew asked, tone mild and genuinely curious. “What, pray tell, do you know about my upbringing?”

  Montacute smiled. His expression said he found Andrew’s impertinence vaguely amusing, in the way of a rambunctious child. “I do not wish to sully our present conversation with a lengthy list of the objectionable nature of your parent
age, Hadley. Suffice it to say, if you must ask the question, you would not understand my explanation.”

  Ah. Subtly direct.

  Bloody hell.

  The man was a menace.

  “Are ye so sure?”

  Montacute missed the implied sarcasm in the question. Or if he did catch it, he didn’t care. Andrew guessed it was the latter.

  Regardless, Montacute decided to indulge Andrew.

  “One’s station in life requires a minute understanding of social etiquette and aristocratic obligations. The peerage rule Britain, and as such, have a responsibility to understand that which we govern.” The duke leaned back in his chair, fingering his wine glass. “Most peers begin learning this lengthy list of rules while still in leading strings. Some, however . . .” The duke paused. “. . . some do not receive this instruction, much to their own detriment.”

  Andrew longed to roll his eyes.

  Wanleigh nodded his head. “You reach to the heart of the matter, Duke. Our responsibilities are not easily assumed and mastered.”

  “Precisely,” Montacute replied with languid ease. “When one is raised among one’s own, you make important friendships early. More significantly, one intuitively understands power and how the world works.” He sipped his wine. “A true English lord would never be at a loss as to how to behave properly. He commands his world with ease.”

  Andrew chose not to reply. He felt no compunction to defend his skills as a manager and administrator. His business ventures over the years had proved his capabilities there.

  Montacute continued talking, waxing on the importance of camaraderie in social position and the power wielded through familial and friendship ties. The gist of his monologue was clear:

  Noblemen who stepped outside the rigid bounds of the ton risked financial and social ruin.

  Of course, Andrew would have to want to be part of the social whirlwind of the ton to care. As for finances, he had no need of the ton for that.