A Highland Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  “I shall not need you, Ian. But thank you.”

  What the hell did he say to her? He felt caught between his honor and his wishes, between his obligations and his needs.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  Her smile altered character, became a little sadder. “Please don’t say that. Do you think I fault you for what happened between us?” She looked down at her clasped hands. “I wanted it as much.”

  How did he leave her?

  She was the one to open the carriage door.

  “Then I wish you the very best of good fortune in your future, Duchess,” he said as she made to leave the vehicle.

  What was she thinking when she looked at him with such a steady regard? Was she remembering the passion they’d shared? Or the laughter that had so effortlessly flowed between them?

  “May you find all that you want in life, Duchess.”

  Another warning bell rang.

  “I think I liked it better when you called me Emma,” she said, as she gripped her skirts with one hand and reached for the strap beside the door with the other.

  He watched her climb the steps to her town house, telling himself that this strange interlude was over. The fact that he deeply regretted leaving her was something he would have to reconcile, along with his bruised and dented honor.

  Emma pushed down all the emotions threatening to overwhelm her, and entered her home.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” the majordomo said.

  He said nothing about her three-day absence. Nor did he mention that she arrived home looking a little worse for wear, since she was attired in the same dress she’d worn three days ago. He was simply deferential, as he’d always been, his demeanor the same for her as for a stranger.

  Williams had managed never to lose his humanity in the performance of his duties.

  Her uncle appeared in the doorway to her left.

  “Emma.”

  She turned to face him, waiting for some sort of explanation. Or even a greeting. He said nothing, merely raised one eyebrow.

  In this light, he looked nothing like her father. Perhaps he never had, and she’d only wished to see some familial resemblance. The man who greeted her now was thin, his narrow face pinched into an expression of displeasure.

  “You’ve returned,” he finally said.

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Merely grateful. Plans are in place for your wedding. How would I explain the absence of the bride?”

  She was nothing more than a walking bank draft, a funding source for his gambling. This marriage he so desperately wanted for her must be valuable to him in some fashion.

  “Who was he?”

  “My abductor?” she asked. “I have no idea.”

  He asked for no more details. Nor did he move to explain himself.

  The last three days had proven she was not a coward. She’d been someone else, a woman named Emma, who’d chosen what to feel and how to act, irrespective of society’s rules or a man’s dictates.

  “I know you didn’t ransom me, Uncle,” she said. “Did you hope I’d be killed?”

  “How dare you address me in such a tone,” he said, his voice quietly chilling.

  “You’ll find I dare a great deal,” she said, no doubt shocking him.

  “Then we have nothing more to say to each other.” He turned and, without another word, walked back into his library.

  Emma followed him, knowing that the issue must be put to rest now, when she was fueled with courage.

  She entered the library, took a deep breath, and clasped her hands in front of her. “I’ve thought about it a great deal, Uncle,” she said. “I do not wish to marry again.”

  “Your abduction has made you courageous, Emma.”

  She wasn’t that brave or she wouldn’t have stepped aside when he approached her. The odor of camphor surrounded him like a noxious cloud. Did he bathe in it?

  “You will marry, Emma. When I say. To whom I say. You will do whatever I want. Whenever I want it.”

  His voice echoed with Anthony’s arrogance.

  “No.”

  He shoved her so hard that her back hit the wall. She immediately recovered, straightening her shoulders and facing him.

  “Anthony trained you well,” her uncle said. He took another step toward her. “You don’t show fear. How very admirable of you, Emma. But, then, you’ve had a great deal of experience at being the Ice Queen, haven’t you?”

  Her gaze flew to his face.

  “Oh, yes, I know,” he said, his thin lips curving. “So reticent, so decorous. But the world doesn’t know, does it, Emma, that you’re the worst whore in London?”

  She could taste salt on the back of her tongue, but she forced the nausea away.

  “I witnessed your performance more than once. Anthony was rather . . . masterful, in his way.”

  This wasn’t a conversation. Nor did it require her participation. If it followed the pattern of Anthony’s diatribes, she would be flogged with each point until she bled from it. All she had to do was endure.

  “Perhaps I should let slip that what society speculates about is true. All the fluttering old ladies, gossiping at their afternoon tea. You couldn’t go anywhere without whispers. Is she the one? Yes, it’s her. The Herridge Whore.”

  She didn’t blink or move her gaze from his face. She’d once read a newspaper account of a famous explorer and his expedition in the wilds of Africa. What she remembered now was his insistence that one should never show fear, especially in the presence of a predator. She’d learned that lesson on her own.

  “What do you think society would do then, Emma? You’d spend your life in isolation.”

  As a threat, it lacked teeth. She’d spent the last four years in a self-imposed isolation and would do so again, if necessary.

  He gave her a considering look.

  “Perhaps that wouldn’t matter to you,” he said, as if guessing her thoughts.

  She remained silent.

  “Marry Bryce, Emma,” he said, his smile feral, his tone thoroughly pleasant. “If you don’t, I shall have to do something I’d abhor.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, feeling as if her throat were closing. Her heart had, strangely, slowed its beat, as if to ready her for death. Her feet were blocks of ice and her fingers cold.

  He reached out and touched the cameo at her throat. She jerked away as if he’d touched her, instead.

  “How many men do you think you could take, Emma? Before you agreed to wed?” He smiled. “We’ve a few stable lads who’d be more than happy to bed you for free. Imagine their joy if I pay them for it. Add in another dozen or so men I can easily find on the east side of London and you’d have your fill in a few hours. I’m willing to say ten before you change your mind. Shall we have a wager on it?”

  “You can’t be serious,” she said, pushing the words past numb lips.

  He moved away to lean against his desk. He folded his arms, regarding her with that small smile. “It’s your choice, my dear Emma. Strictly your choice.”

  She shook her head.

  “How very foolish you are. Of course I’m serious. You mustn’t doubt that. What shall it be? Marriage? Or will you push me to do what I must? Of course, there’s every possibility you’ll find yourself with the pox at the end of it. Or with child.” He shrugged. “Regardless, you’ll be married.”

  “Is that why you didn’t ransom me, Uncle? Because you wished me dead?”

  His face changed. The appearance of affability faded, to be replaced by another emotion, one that caused her to take a step to the side, away from him. Why had she never seen his hatred before now?

  “Let me set up my own establishment,” she said. “Give me enough money to do so. You keep the remainder.�
��

  “Perhaps you could hold out to twelve. Or your experience as the Herridge Whore might have made you receptive to at least two dozen.”

  “You can have all of my inheritance,” she said. “Surely, the solicitors can arrange it.”

  “What’s it to be, Emma? Marriage? Or will you choose the least acceptable alternative?”

  Her composure was as thin as her skin. Inside, she was screaming. Her mouth was dry and her palms wet. Not only did she suspect that he would do what he threatened, but that he would thoroughly enjoy the spectacle.

  “Do you owe this man money, Uncle? If so, pay him from my inheritance.”

  He didn’t respond.

  No one would help her. Not the staff, all of whom got their pay and instructions from her uncle. She’d broken off her friendships when it had been only too obvious what kind of monster she’d married. She hadn’t wanted her friends tainted by Anthony. Ian was gone, back to Scotland to marry.

  “Well, Emma?” He smiled. “What shall it be?”

  She forced herself to breathe deeply. “You know the answer, Uncle,” she said, her voice tight. “I’ll marry him, of course.”

  “There, I knew you were a smart girl.”

  The past wasn’t dead after all—it lived and breathed here in this room. Her tormenter had changed identities, that’s all.

  She turned on her heel and left the room before she could do or say anything that would only put her in more jeopardy.

  Chapter 14

  “There is nothing you can do to change his direction, Ian?”

  Ian forced his attention away from the motion of the whiskey in his glass and to his mother. They sat in his Edinburgh home, one of the few homes he’d inherited that he didn’t particularly like. It was old, cramped, and crowded, but for some reason his mother preferred to live here rather than at Lochlaven. The Edinburgh house was always filled with visitors, and was a center of activity—because of his mother.

  He couldn’t say that she’d decorated the house as much as simply filled it. The entire house was so crowded as to be impossible to navigate. In this room, a flowered carpet covered the floor, and on top of it rested a sofa, two armchairs, and a scattering of square and round tables. Every bit of furniture was draped in a crimson fabric with fringe, from the tables to the mantel to the flower pots.

  Lochlaven was a sparsely furnished haven in comparison.

  “Bryce is going to go his own way, Mother,” he said.

  His train journey to Edinburgh had been interminable. Under normal conditions, he would have continued on to Inverness as soon as possible, then taken his carriage to Lochlaven. But he needed to tell her of his meeting—confrontation—with Bryce, and as the Countess of Buchane was to leave for the continent soon, now was as good a time as any.

  “He’s getting married,” he said. “To an heiress, evidently. He was quite proud of that fact.”

  The Countess of Buchane sat in the adjoining chair, her eyes wide.

  She’d always appeared too young to be his mother. With her light brown hair and hazel eyes, she was a pretty woman—an impression that lasted until she smiled. Then, some magic of nature rendered her unmistakably beautiful.

  She’d contemplated remarriage more than once, only to change her mind at the last moment. He’d accused her of enjoying the attention of being courted, and she’d only laughed in response. But he’d made note of the fact that she never denied the charge.

  “Is that the best thing for him?” she asked.

  He glanced at his mother and stifled his smile. Despite his age, or his sister’s, or Bryce’s for that matter, his mother was determined to orchestrate their lives. The fact that she had quite an exciting life of her own was their only saving grace. She traveled often, leaving the three of them to tend to their own lives without difficulty.

  His mother was generous and never refused Bryce funds when he requested them. What Bryce didn’t know, however, was that the simple request for money also triggered her well-developed protective instincts. Now the same impulses were in play, and unless he dissuaded his mother, she would travel to London to see Bryce herself.

  “It’s what he wants,” he said. “You can’t make his decisions for him, Mother,” he added, knowing that she’d ignore the caution.

  Ian’s father and his cousin had been close; it had been natural for her to swoop down and gather up Bryce when he was orphaned at ten and bring him to Lochlaven to live.

  From that moment, his second cousin was one of the family, and nothing would dissuade the countess from treating him like another of her children.

  The fact that Bryce had resented her kindness from the moment he arrived at Lochlaven was something his mother had never been able to discern.

  Bryce would make his own way, whether or not his mother interceded. People did.

  Would Emma?

  She was going to be married. Someone would wed the sad young Duchess of Herridge. Would the fool ever understand what darkened her lovely blue eyes? Or why she sometimes looked as fragile as a glass tube?

  Because he was a man who studied, investigated, and pulled apart the skeins of the mysteries of his life, he didn’t flinch from examining his own thoughts.

  Was what he felt for her simple lust? Had it been, he could have controlled his baser impulses with some difficulty but controlled them nonetheless. What he’d felt for her, what he’d experienced with her, had been something different.

  What would he call it?

  The need to conquer? Part of it, yes, not the whole. He’d dominated but had also been overwhelmed, by tenderness, by protectiveness, by emotions he’d never felt.

  Strangely enough, he’d first wanted to talk with her, learn her secrets, know her mind, and perhaps offer up to her the gift of his knowledge. He wanted to introduce her to all those things that amused, charmed, or intrigued him, if only to see if she felt the same.

  “Ian?”

  He glanced over to see his mother staring at him.

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you? What’s wrong?”

  Unless he acted quickly, his mother’s concern for Bryce would be transferred to him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Wool-gathering.”

  “Was London successful, then?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I believe it was.”

  “Rebecca will be pleased to see you.”

  He regarded his mother steadily. “You like her a great deal, don’t you?”

  His mother returned the look. “I would like anyone you chose.”

  “Did I choose her? Or did circumstances do it?” He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember making a conscious decision to marry Rebecca. Perhaps it was something he and Albert had discussed, hunched over their microscopes. Perhaps it was simply a sliding forward into something that felt companionable.

  “Are you having second thoughts, Ian?”

  More like third and fourth thoughts, but he only smiled.

  “Were you happy with my father?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “From the beginning. So much so that I can’t imagine being married to anyone else.”

  From the beginning—that’s what it was. From the moment he’d seen her from the window of her sitting room. From the first words out of her mouth. From the first time her chin rose imperiously and her finger pointed. He was hers, and she was his from the beginning.

  His mother leaned forward. “Love is not an easy emotion, my dearest. It’s not soft and pretty and filled with romance. Love is difficult because it demands all of you.” She looked away, and he wondered where her thoughts were. With his father? In those early days of her marriage? “Your father was not an easy man to love,” she said, turning back to him. “He was stubborn, overbearing, frugal to a fault, and was more than content to remain
at Lochlaven for the rest of his days.”

  “Yet he traveled to Edinburgh often enough with you. And to the continent as well.”

  She smiled, and the expression had a great deal of mischief in it. “I’m not necessarily an easy woman to love, either. But he did. We did. All I would ask of you is that you feel the same for Rebecca.”

  He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  He stood, suddenly needing to move. “I’ll go back to London,” he said. “And bring Bryce physically back to Lochlaven if I must. Will that reassure you?”

  She looked at him curiously. “Do you think that’s necessary, Ian?”

  He smiled at her, the decision coming easily to him. “I’ve got to return to London regardless, Mother,” he said. “It’s no trouble at all.”

  He placed his whiskey on the table before approaching her.

  “If I bring Bryce home, you’ll welcome him with open arms, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said, obviously surprised at the question.

  “Even though his behavior isn’t necessarily honorable?”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll forgive him again, won’t you?”

  “Love again, Ian. It forgives anything.”

  “I may call upon you to do some forgiving on my behalf,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek.

  She still looked confused. As well she might, because he was grinning like an idiot.

  Emma could feel time trickle away like water through her fingers. She read, toiled on her needlework, or paced in her sitting room until she was certain that she had created a permanent pattern in the polished wooden floor.

  She grew so adept at deciphering the sounds around her that she could tell what time of day it was by the tasks being performed: the sweeping of the floors, the muffled conversation of the maids as they moved on their knees brushing the carpet, the splash of water as the floors were damp mopped, the clank of the boiler as baths were drawn.

  Her mourning gave her a reason to hide in her chamber, and she took full advantage of it. She also refused to go to meals with her uncle, and for once he didn’t object. Why should he? He’d already won his battle.