The Reluctant Duchess

by Roseanna M. White

  The countess made some vague greeting to him, and Brice responded with the usual pleasantries, taking her hand as expected and keeping his eyes trained on her as was polite. But his ears strained to hear the soft reply of the young lady . . . and failed. Perhaps she spoke too softly, or perhaps her stepmother’s prattle was too loud.

  Mother touched his arm, though, to draw him over. “You never had the chance to meet my son that summer.”

  He got his first full glimpse of the girl . . . and knew more than a little surprise. From the neck up, she was what he expected of a young lady. Pretty, in an understated way, with middling brown hair touched here and there with gold. But the frock she wore was of low-quality cloth, the tailoring sloppy and not flattering. For an earl’s daughter and heir, she was downright unfashionable—and not the kind that came of a lack of sense. Rather, the kind that came of not having quality to work with. Odd indeed, given the fine linen of her stepmother’s dress.

  Lady Rowena curtsied, though she didn’t so much as glance up at him. “Duke.”

  Brice took her hand, bowed over it. “My lady, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Her hand was small, delicate. And as he lifted it to his lips, he saw bruising peek out from the too-wide cuff of her sleeve.

  A familiar pang echoed through him. That pressing upon his spirit, the kind that might as well have whispered Pay attention into his ears. He let go her hand but, as he straightened, did his best to capture her gaze.

  She did not cooperate. Indeed, she slid halfway behind her stepmother again, doing no more than dart a quick glance up at him.

  It was enough to make his brows lift, his smile tickle the corners of his mouth. “A pleasure indeed. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a young lady with such lovely silver eyes.”

  She directed them downward, her cheeks going pink.

  Brice chuckled. “And she will deprive me of seeing them again. As cruel a creature as any young lady, I see.”

  “Rowena!” His sister appeared, all but elbowing him aside. Foregoing niceties, Ella threw her arms around the girl and gave her a squeeze. “Oh, how good it is to see you! I’ve missed you terribly all these years, every time we’ve come.” She pulled back, her grin large and brilliant. “Come. I’ll rescue you from my shameless flirt of a brother and introduce you to my friends. Oh, we’ve years to catch up on!”

  Ella pulled Lady Rowena toward the other young ladies, while Lady Lochaber moved off in the opposite direction to greet a Highland woman who was signaling to her.

  Brice stepped back to his mother’s side. “Odd.”

  “Troubling.” Mother smoothed out her brow, but it did nothing to banish the clouds from her eyes. “She was as boisterous as Ella a decade ago—and dressed in all the frills and lace that were the height of fashion for girls.”

  Pay attention, indeed. Something wasn’t right here. He could feel it, deep in that place where the Lord stirred within him. With Lady Rowena herself, and with her and Lady Lochaber’s sudden appearance at Gaoth Lodge. “What do you think the earl is about? Ought I to be worried?” He was all too familiar with families plotting to match him with their daughters. Perhaps such a plot would explain the young lady’s bashfulness.

  Mother shook her head. “No, not for the reason you mean. Lochaber would never seek a union.”

  Refreshing as that may be, he couldn’t help but straighten his shoulders. “Because I’m English?”

  She sighed. “Because you’re my son.”

  At that, he turned fully to face his matron, blocking her from the rest of the room. “And what has that to do with anything?”

  His mother held his gaze for a long, unblinking moment and sighed again. “I was betrothed to him once. I went to London, in fact, to shop for my trousseau . . . and met your father.”

  No doubt Brice looked as witless as a fish, his mouth gaping open and eyes wide. “How is it we’ve never heard of this, in all your tales of how you and Father met and fell in love?”

  Mother slid to his side, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and led him to the far, empty corner of the room. “The betrothal was quiet—my parents hoped to talk me out of it. They were not in favor of me marrying a Highlander in general and were not all that fond of Douglas in particular, though they were willing to indulge me if I was certain. I had no intentions of budging. But when I met Nottingham . . .” Her eyes went distant, dreamy, as they so often did when she thought of his father. “I realized then that I hadn’t known what love was before.”

  “So you broke it off?”

  “Again, quietly. And stayed out of the Highlands for nearly twenty years, to avoid him. Douglas was never an easy man. I thought it appealing at the time, but . . .” She glanced over her shoulder, to where Ella and Lady Rowena had sat. Though smiling at his sister, the visitor still managed to look as though she’d rather disappear than stay in the crowded room. “He accused me of choosing your father for his title and nothing else. Of being heartless and mercenary.”

  The railing of an injured suitor—not so difficult to understand. “It would have looked that way to him.”

  “I know. But I thought he would have forgiven over time. He married a wealthy American several years later—Rowena’s mother. Water under the bridge, I thought, and so eventually we came back to Gaoth with my family. When Nora—the previous countess—brought Rowena to visit, I thought I was right, that all was forgiven. But Lochaber was in Town for the Sessions and didn’t know they’d even come. When he found out . . .”

  She shook her head, and the tears that were always so quick to gather these days made a sheen over her eyes. “I received only one letter from Nora after that. Apologizing for the fact that we would never meet again. For their safety, she said. I daresay she secreted the missive out, as he never would have let her write such a thing.”

  Safety? Storm clouds gathered in his soul. How could his mother have even thought herself in love with a man who had a cruel spirit? But she had been young, probably not unlike Ella . . . and he could well imagine his romantic-minded sister seeing only the good in someone, blithely ignoring the hints of a darker side.

  It was why Brice watched over her so protectively.

  “Well. Allow me to say I’m glad you chose the husband you did.” He looked to Ella again, and then to Lady Rowena, who had her arms folded protectively over her stomach. Every instinct he had said he ought to figure out why the girl was so reticent, figure out if she had been hurt . . . figure out if there was any way he could help her. Worse, that familiar whisper hovered over his spirit, the same impression pounding, pulsing. Pay attention. Pay attention.

  He nearly groaned. He had trouble enough at his doorstep right now, given the diamonds even now being set in gold and the ruthless woman out to claim them. The last thing he needed was the distraction of a needy young lady . . . and a generation-old feud coming to call.

  The ladies laughed when she spoke. Rowena tried to smile through it, but all she could remember was the teasing of the other girls at school those first weeks in Edinburgh. Mocking her burr, imitating it, somehow making it ridiculous. She’d had to learn fast how to soften its edges, bury it under a layer of polish.

  She’d forgotten. How had she forgotten?

  “I love your accent. Ignore them.” Ella’s smile, at least, was genuine. As bright as ever. And praise be to the Lord, as warm. There was no hint in her cinnamon eyes of the cruelty Rowena had expected.

  The cruelty every other guest here seemed to hide away behind a mask of welcome.

  “I can hardly believe you’ve come!” Ella gripped her hand and beamed. Her voice, though, was hushed. “All these years . . . we’ve sent invitations every time we’ve come. Hoping and praying that something would change and you’d be allowed to call again. Or that we’d run into you in London when you debuted.”

  They’d invited them? Of course they had. The Nottinghams were the epitome of hospitality. It was the Kinnaird who snubbed whomever he didn’t like. Rowena tugged the
cuff of her sleeve down, wishing she’d worn gloves to cover the bruising on her wrists. “Father has never taken me to London.” Why would he bother, when his goal had always been for her to marry Malcolm and keep the earldom and chiefdom united and strong?

  A titter from behind them made Rowena bristle. She didn’t turn to see who laughed now, though she could hear the soft padding of slippers, the rustling of dresses as ladies took a turn about the room. “What is she wearing?” one of them mock-whispered.

  The other giggled. How could a giggle sound so heartless? “I suppose the rumors must be true—Lochaber is too ashamed of her to let her be seen in public. Though one would think his wife could have done something with her. Elspeth has always been fashionable, even when she was married to that laird. What was his name?”

  Their words disappeared into the other chatter filling the room. Not so from her mind. When she glanced up into Ella’s face, she saw lightning in her eyes, flashing in the direction of her guests.

  Rowena covered her friend’s fingers and gave them a squeeze. “Dinna fash yourself over me, Ella.” No, all wrong. She must control her tongue, her words. She had done it before—she could do it again. Clearing her throat, she tried to swallow down the Highlands. “They only speak truth. I . . . I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Nonsense.” The cheer had leaked from Ella’s voice. Determination replaced it. “You are a dear friend—not an acquaintance, as they are. If anyone is welcome here, it is you. And if I have to send them packing, I will. Invitations can be rescinded.”

  Not politely—not without making enemies. Rowena squeezed her eyes shut. Why must discord follow everywhere she went? “Not on my account, Ella, please. We . . . we havena—haven’t—even seen each other in a decade. I daresay that makes us mere acquaintances, not dear friends.”

  “Nonsense,” Ella said again. “We were children, open-hearted. We shared all our dreams. A summer of such friendship far outlasts the shallow talk that comes with those sorts.” She waved a dismissive hand at her fashionable guests, now walking the edge of the room before them. One of them noticed and straightened her shoulders, jutted out her chin.

  Rowena’s stomach cramped. The ladies would know it was her baffling affection for Rowena that made Ella, the duke’s sister, dismiss them. They would know it was her fault, and they would hate her—go back to London or wherever they were from and say nasty things about her. Strangers would laugh, would scorn, without her ever having met them. All of England would speak of the dowdy, ugly daughter of Lord Lochaber.

  She should never have come. There was no point. She couldn’t leave the Highlands with Ella, even if an invitation were issued. Even if Father allowed it, which he wouldn’t. She would find no welcome waiting in the south.

  But even gossiping strangers were preferable to Malcolm, weren’t they? She shivered and touched a finger to the yellowed bruise hidden under the frayed lace of her cuff.

  “You look as though you could use some reinforcements.” Another female voice, young and cultured. Rowena looked up just as a young lady about her own age sat on her other side. She was beautiful, too, with dark brown hair and intelligence gleaming in her eyes. “Not that I can offer much, having been the object of their sneers before your arrival, my lady.”

  This lovely girl?

  Ella sighed. “Rowena, this is Miss Stella Abbott—my childhood friend. She and her brother are our steward’s children and grew up in the cottage at Midwynd Park.”

  Not a lady then . . . though she spoke more like one than Rowena ever could, and carried herself with confidence and poise. Rowena managed a smile. “Stella and Ella?”

  “The two little bellas,” they singsonged in unison, ending on a laugh.

  Ella shot a grin across the room, to where the duke and his mother stood in the far corner, looking deep in conversation. “Our brothers tormented us mercilessly as children.”

  “As children?” Miss Abbott shook her head, sending her dark curls bouncing. “That implies they’ve stopped.”

  Ella laughed. “The duke and the vicar can only get away with so much teasing in public these days.”

  “Ha! If any two ever pushed the boundaries of acceptability in such things, it is they. After a few months with us all together again, it will be a relief to take my post in the new year.”

  Rowena kept her spine straight only by will, pushing away the urge to hug her arms to her stomach. What had she thought? That she would be the oldest of Ella’s friends here this afternoon? Ella already had a childhood friend to keep her company through the end of the year. Rowena would be superfluous.

  “Stella is to be a governess.” Ella leaned close, her scarlet curls brushing her shoulder and her brown eyes twinkling. “At least until she can nab herself a wealthy husband.”

  Rowena produced the expected grin.

  Miss Abbott shook her head. “I believe siblings are a safer topic. Have you any, Lady Rowena?”

  “Aye.” A smile slipped out, and her shoulders edged back. “I have now, since my father remarried. Annie—she is eight, and the apple of my eye.”

  If not for Annie, would she dread the possibility of a babe more? Probably. But having known the girl since she was four, she well remembered the joy of a wee one cuddled to one’s side. There were worse things than having someone look up into your face as if you were the whole world.

  Someone to love. Someone to love her. If only she could have such a thing without having to marry Malcolm.

  She tugged on the cuffs again and then looked up when a heavy feeling settled. The duke watched her. He still stood on the far side of the room, his mother no longer by his side. No suspicion seemed to shadow his eyes, no outright question in them like so many of the others were sending her. And yet as his gaze remained latched upon her, she had the distinct feeling that he was peering into her very soul.

  Her shoulders rolled forward, and she focused on Ella’s expressive hands, gesturing as she spoke to Miss Abbott. She should have told Elspeth to come without her today. Much as she yearned for the chance for a true friend again, it was hardly worth the scrutiny of all these strangers who found her lacking.

  All these strangers who seemed to see down to the gaping hole inside.

  Five

  Lilias peeked into the chamber from behind a massive tapestry that concealed the hidden access. Voices lifted and laughed and filled the cavernous great room. It was strange to hear English intonations rather than the Highland speech that the earl usually surrounded himself with. Strange to peek out and see peers instead of lairds.

  The Kinnaird had seen fit to wear his charm tonight. A rare occasion, but when he pulled it out, he could make friends with the very stones of Castle Kynn, so compelling was his smile. He had exchanged only a few words with the duchess—Lilias couldn’t hear the conversation from her hiding place, but the lips she read indicated an acknowledgment of many years gone by, many lessons learned, and condolences given.

  Lady Charlotte Brice may have believed him when she was a girl. But Lilias had a feeling Charlotte, Duchess of Nottingham, wasn’t fooled for a moment.

  Now the Kinnaird was with the duchess’s son. The duke. Rowena’s best hope of deliverance. The young man stood with relaxed shoulders, surely not feeling a trap being set. He smiled, he laughed, he responded to his host with ease.

  He was more handsome than Malcolm—Lilias hadn’t been able to tell that from the distance at which she had seen him before. About the same age, the same coloring, similar height. He was lither, though, not so bulking and broad. And kinder. Please, Lord, let him be kinder.

  Her eyes sought Rowena and found her by the window. The girl stood beside the other young man the duke had brought along—a Mr. Abbott, she had heard them say. He smiled at her, gentle and warm, and said something that looked to be serious. Rowena listened with a tilted head, her attention riveted.

  Dinner was called, and Lilias straightened her spine, held her breath, and waited for Douglas to catch her gaze.


  He did, and gave a minuscule nod.

  Her breath whooshed out, indistinguishable above the chatter of the company. He approved. The plan would move forward.

  Lilias scurried through the dark passage and came out on the servants’ stairs, well away from where the family and their guests would be going in to dinner. She had to hurry. Get to the old croft, make sure there was peat enough for a fire and some flint to strike one. A blanket or two tucked away.

  Food and water would look odd, though her hands twitched to add some to her basket as she hurried through the bustling kitchen. But no, it wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t be there so long.

  Just long enough. That was all.

  Had there been any purpose to it, Rowena would have whispered a prayer of thanks. Somehow she’d managed to avoid the too-discerning duke thus far. His friend had ended up by her side instead, and though Elspeth had looked none too pleased, Rowena had known acute relief when she found herself positioned beside Mr. Abbott at dinner.

  Rowena breathed in and lifted her fork without the shaking she had feared would possess her. She had been reticent when Mr. Abbott had sidled up to her in the great room and struck up a conversation, but she was glad he had. His presence was easy, calming. His conversation absent flirtation.

  She avoided so much as looking at Nottingham, seated across from her. His greeting a half hour before had been another comment about her silver eyes that had made her focus them resolutely on the floor. She didn’t want to see the way he took her measure with his every glance, leaving no choice but for him to find her lacking.

  At least her evening gown, though disastrously out of mode beside Ella’s, required gloves to cover the yellow-green bruises. She turned to Mr. Abbott again. “Ye mentioned a church ye’ll be taking over in the new year. Where is it? Near your home?”

  “I’m afraid not.” But he smiled, eyes gleaming. “Bristol. Very near, as it were, to Ashley Down—the orphanage begun by George Müller. I was beside myself when I learned this. Mr. Müller has long been one of my heroes of the faith. His story is, in part, what inspired me to join the church.”