The Reluctant Duchess

by Roseanna M. White

  A curse, without question. The curse of sin, of lust, of covetousness, of hatred.

  And Malcolm was too much in its throes to leave Rowena alone just because Lady Lochaber was with child. “You’re not safe here, Rowena,” he said softly. He’d thought her father the threat—and had seen her wince away from him in the crofter’s cottage. But Lochaber paled in comparison to this laird.

  “But . . .”

  He looked up, met the gaze of his mother and then her stepmother. “Could we have a moment, please?”

  The matrons were both quick to nod and usher the rest out. But Ella tossed a look at him over her shoulder that was filled with worry. He gave her a smile. Not a grin, flippant and carefree, but one to let her know he didn’t regret anything. Her frown eased a bit.

  The Abbotts’ didn’t. No doubt his friend would have thoughts aplenty on entering so quickly into a holy covenant. And Miss Abbott plenty about the type of young lady who would trick a man into marriage.

  He waited until the door had closed behind the last of them and then led Rowena to her chair. He took the time to pull over a footstool for her to rest her injured ankle upon. Once she was situated, he perched on the ottoman beside her leg and rested his elbows on his knees. “Is that all right?”

  Rowena wrapped her arms around her middle and nodded, her expression hollow with the shock of all that had just happened.

  His instinct was to reach for her hands, but he suspected that wouldn’t have the desired effect, despite how willing she had been to cling to his side in the face of Kinnaird. He settled for clasping his own hands together between his knees. “Right. You have to know he won’t give up so easily. You can’t stay here.”

  She shook her head, so slowly it looked . . . mournful. “I’m worthless to him now.”

  “If Lady Lochaber has a son, which is not guaranteed. And even if it were, that man . . . he has something dark within him. I know you saw it. Who’s to say he wouldn’t try to kill the babe to keep his standing as heir to the chiefdom, and yours to the earldom?”

  A shudder ripped through her, and she met his gaze again. How many times in their short acquaintance had he seen that bright panic in her eyes? Too many. “No. My father would never let him close enough.”

  “Your father was but a few feet away just now.” He pointed at the spot they’d occupied. “But what could he have done had Kinnaird broken your neck? Sometimes one moment is all it takes for tragedy to strike. And no one can be on their guard every second.”

  Her eyes slid shut.

  “We must do all we can to make the risk too great for him to attempt it. Marrying me will help with that. He can’t expect to just come and claim you.”

  Her silver stare opened to him again. “Who’s to say he willna come after you too, then? Kill the babe, kill you, and then force me back here?”

  Brice nearly snorted—Kinnaird would have to wait in line to get his shot at him. And perhaps it was mere arrogance, but he still thought Lady Pratt the more dangerous adversary. Kinnaird was hot temper and impulse. The lady was cold calculation and patience.

  Brice feared ice far more than fire. “The advantage will be ours in England. He won’t know the land. He won’t have the friends. And the press is always dogging my steps, which will provide another layer of protection.”

  She went even paler. “The press? But I’m . . . I’m not suited, sir. I’d shame you, be an embarrassment to the Nottingham name.”

  And the fashionable set would feast on the tatters of her composure for breakfast. But he could handle them too. “It’s just trappings, Rowena. Clothes and jewels and the number of footmen one employs. I’ll give you those things.”

  “’Tis more than that, and we both ken it.”

  “We can handle it. Together.” He held out a hand, palm up.

  Rather than putting her fingers onto it, she stared at him. “Why do ye want to? Why do ye want to help me? I’m nothing to you.”

  True . . . until the Lord’s words had overtaken his thoughts ten long minutes ago. Until then she had been only a girl he might be asked to help. Until then, the feeling that he was to pay attention and be ready to assist had been vague and open to interpretation. But it was different now. Now he knew the Lord had far more plans for them than an hour’s conversation. And though he couldn’t yet tell why God wanted them together . . . well, the Lord saw what Brice didn’t. He always had a purpose. Brice would simply have to discover what it was. “You’re something very special to me now, darling. You’re the one God made very clear I should have and hold until death parts us.”

  “God did?” Her voice went weak, her eyes wider. “Why?”

  Ah, and there was a piece to that puzzle. Most people in his acquaintance questioned that he heard from the Lord, not why he heard a particular thing. But she didn’t doubt him. Beneath the hurt, beneath the feeling of unworthiness, she obviously had a pure faith. “You’ll have to take that one up with Him. I never presume to know His reasons at first, though they usually become clear. He led me to my dearest friends, away from what would have proven disastrous matches. I trust Him to lead me here too.”

  At last, with a long breath that must have bolstered her a bit, she slid her fingers onto his palm. “Verra well, then. I fear ye’ll regret it, but . . . I’ll trust Him too. I’ll be yer wife.”

  Who knew such a promise from a veritable stranger could make a grin break out on his face? He clasped her fingers, raised them to his lips, and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “Let the adventure begin.”

  No! No, no, no, this cannot be happening. This was worse than the fear a few hours past that something had happened to them. Worse than the realization last night, watching him walking through the mist in the circle, that there would never be another. Worse than the aching questions for year upon lonely year as to whether the old dreams would ever die, whether they would ever dare shift from flirtation to something more.

  Worse. So much worse.

  The door had been left open a crack, and they were all gathered around it, peeking in. Nottingham and Lady Rowena wouldn’t appreciate it. But Nottingham and Lady Rowena weren’t the only ones with something at stake right now. Couldn’t they see that? Couldn’t they see that others’ hearts, others’ dreams, others’ very beings would be changed by this . . . this utter poppycock?

  He would claim the Lord had told him to propose—he always claimed such when he did something foolish. And because he was him, charmed son of the Duke of Nottingham—and now the charming duke himself—life would play along.

  Stella dug her fingers into the doorframe. It was a mistake. They weren’t suited. He was too forward for Lady Rowena, she too reticent for him. That truth gleamed clear and treacherous as ice. They wouldn’t be happy together. They couldn’t be.

  The duchess let out a slow, quiet breath and shook her head, concern in her dark eyes. “I hope he doesn’t regret this,” she said to all of them. Or perhaps to none of them.

  Ella, her arm through her mother’s, nodded her mournful agreement of the question. “I love Rowena, I hate that she’s in such a situation, but . . .”

  Why couldn’t Ella just say it? But they will destroy each other.

  “He’s made his decision though,” their mother murmured. “I can see it in the line of his shoulders. There’ll be no talking him out of it. We can only pray for them.”

  No. Stella drew in a long, slow breath. No, that wasn’t all they could do. Prayers were all well and good in the echoing beams of a church, or to speak of when one needed to look pious before certain parties—like one’s brother. But some things couldn’t be left to prayer alone.

  Sometimes they must take action. And if no one else would act . . . well then, so be it. Stella would.

  It had been a long, silent two days. Lilias chanced a glance at Rowena’s face—empty—and carefully pinned the bandage on the girl’s foot. So far as the doctor could tell, it wasn’t broken, praise be. But the sprain, he had said, was a bad one. S
he needed to stay off it.

  Instead, she’d be hobbling up the aisle of the kirk this morning.

  A happy bride she wasn’t. Lilias sighed and eased the wrapped foot back to the ground, arranging the layers of white silk and organza again. “Talk to me, lass. Are ye having second thoughts?”

  Rowena barely looked her way. She’d not asked her any questions. She’d not made any accusations. Nay, after Malcolm stormed off and the duke proposed two days ago, she’d just asked to be carried to her room and had all but vanished within herself—except for when Annie came in and made her smile.

  Just as her mother had done all those years ago. Heaven help her, but Lilias couldn’t let Rowena follow in Nora’s ill-chosen steps. “Wena, lass. Ye’ve scarcely said two words.”

  “What is there to say?” She pushed herself from her chair, not wincing quite as much today when she put a bit of weight on her foot. Hobbling to the full-length mirror, she sighed at the vision of herself.

  Though why, Lilias could only guess. “Ye’re a sight to behold. That dress . . .” Lilias still wasn’t sure where the dowager duchess had gotten it, but it had appeared yesterday amid much flurry. The height of fashion, perfectly fitted to Rowena’s petite frame. Not what Lilias had ever imagined her Wena wearing, but it was a taste, surely, of what was to come. Now if only her cheeks weren’t so pale. “Ye’re all peely-wally, lass.”

  Rowena pressed a hand to her stomach. “I’m with child, Lil. I must be. My courses are a week late—”

  “Worry can cause such things. Ye needna lose hope yet.” But it could be true. Otherwise they likely wouldn’t be here, preparing for a wedding. She smoothed out a bunching in the back of the gown and then tucked in a curl trying to escape. “And if ye are . . . ye’ll have a husband in a few short hours.”

  Rowena shivered. “He doesna have to do this. Doesna have to help me. How am I to repay him by lying about something so important?”

  Lilias forsook the fabric and clasped her girl’s shoulders. “Ye canna tell him. Ye pray it isna so, and if it is, ye pass the bairn off as his. Ye ken? Otherwise he’ll divorce you and send you straight back here into the jowls of that beast. Unless, perhaps, ye were to tell him of how Malcolm attacked you.”

  Rowena pivoted on her good foot to face Lilias, incredulity in her eyes. “Ye want me to confess my shame to him?”

  Lilias’s chin snapped up. “’Tisn’t your shame, lass. Ye did nothing wrong.”

  “If it isn’t my shame, then why am I the one forced to wed a man I don’t know, forced to his bed to cover—” Her heaving breath cut her off, coming too fast, too hard.

  Lilias grabbed her before she could make herself light-headed and urged her back to the chair. “Breathe, lass. Deep breaths now, in and out. His Grace is a good, kind man. And handsome, aye? ’Twill be no hardship to let him charm you.”

  “I canna . . . I canna. I canna let him . . .”

  Poor lass. Lilias cupped her cheek, careful not to smudge the dusting of powder she’d already applied. “I ken how hard this is for you, Wena. But it willna be like it was with Malcolm. His Grace is no monster. Ye must give him a chance. Ye must. Ye understand that, aye?”

  Her breathing slowed, though no peace entered her eyes. Lilias leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead. “Lady Ella will be here soon, and then it’s to the kirk. Another hour and ye’ll be a duchess. Yer mother . . . she’d be so proud to see you today. So proud.”

  Rowena shook her head, opened her mouth, but the door swung open and Annie gusted in before she could reply. Seeing the way Rowena’s eyes lit, her lips turned, Lilias didn’t mind the interruption a whit.

  The one bright spot, if there were a bairn—nothing seemed to light Rowena as did a wee one. And if she could keep from hating a child got on her in such a way, she would flourish as a mother.

  Not like Nora.

  Little Annie climbed up into Rowena’s lap and clamped her arms around her neck. “Take me with you to England, Wena. Dinna leave me here alone.”

  Rowena closed her eyes and held on tight. “Ye’re not alone, Annie. Ye’ve yer mother and the Kinnaird, and when the babe comes—”

  “Then they’re as like to ship me off to school as anything, and I dinna want to be alone. Take me with you. I’ll be no bother, I swear it, and—”

  “Ye’re never a bother.” Rowena kissed the lass’s head and rested her cheek atop it. Lilias nearly chided her for inviting wrinkles and red marks but bit her tongue. The bigger lass needed this as much as the little one. “And I wish I could take you. But there’s no time, what with us leaving tomorrow for Yorkshire. And I dinna dare ask it of the duke yet. But I will soon, Annie. I give you my word. We’ll send for you. Perhaps ye can spend Christmas with us.”

  There now. A promise of the future, and of a relationship enough with the duke to ask a favor. Lilias breathed a bit easier as she headed to the dressing room to check her trunks one last time. Rowena would do what needed done, and she would learn how to be a duchess.

  And Lilias would be there every step of the way to make sure she wasn’t alone in the doing.

  Brice lifted his hand to knock on his mother’s door, though it swung open before his knuckles could connect with the wood. Grinning at the startled look on her face, he leaned into her doorway. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you left.”

  Mother smiled and reached up to pat his cheek with a gloved hand. “I was about to come check on you and tell you we were headed for the castle. How are you feeling? Nervous?”

  “Oddly, no.” Or he hadn’t been before Macnab had shown up twenty minutes ago. Having the Fire Eyes in hand again though . . . He needed to get them in a safe, fast. He held up the box, keeping his smile light. “I’ve a gift for you. I commissioned it when we first arrived, and Mr. Macnab just delivered it, having heard we leave town tomorrow.”

  The old man had nodded his approval of their quick departure too. Apparently Malcolm Kinnaird’s dark side wasn’t as unknown to all of Lochaber as it had been to those in Castle Kynn.

  Mother shook her head, though pleasure lit her eyes. “Oh, Brice, you oughtn’t to be giving me a gift on your wedding day.”

  “Well, I hardly knew it would be such when I placed the order.” He pressed the box into her hands.

  She took a step back into her room, waving him in behind her, and untied the satin ribbon holding the box closed. When she opened it, a delighted laugh spilled out. “The missing earbobs! And they’re perfect matches too. Mr. Macnab always outdoes himself, doesn’t he?”

  “He does. It’s why I waited until we came here to get it done. I’d a mind to since Father . . .” He had to clear his throat. “I know how you always loved this set. Now you can claim to have found them hidden away somewhere, and no one need know they aren’t original.”

  She laughed. “I have always felt so guilty. To think that they have graced the ears of every Duchess of Nottingham on their—” She cut herself off with a gasp, her eyes lighting up. “What perfect timing Mr. Macnab has! The Nottingham rubies have always been a wedding gift to the new duchess. And now I can give them to Rowena.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t . . . hadn’t thought of that, to be sure.” Striving to keep his smile in place lest it tip his mother off, he nodded. “I was more concerned with the rings than family traditions—Macnab brought those too.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coordinating set. How the old jeweler had managed to create something so intricate with so little notice, Brice wasn’t sure. But they were works of art, with small diamonds and patterns cut into the gold. Rowena would hopefully be pleased.

  And it was still more than a little odd that he had to suddenly think about whether his bride would like something. Odder still that he wasn’t well enough acquainted with his bride to know without the wonder.

  Mother waved him back out of the room. “The girls and I had better hurry over to the castle to make sure Rowena doesn’t need any help from us. We’ll see you at the kirk in an hour, love.”r />
  “Very good. Tell her . . .” What? There was so very much to talk about, and they’d had no time for anything but a how-do-you-do since his proposal. “Tell her I’ve been praying for her.”

  He meandered back to his chamber, wishing he had friends here beyond Abbott. Stafford ought to be present, returning the favor of jesting him out of any nerves, as Brice had done for him a little over a year ago. But when he’d returned to Gaoth Lodge the other day set to wire him and Brook, he’d had a telegram from them waiting. Stafford’s cousin Cayton had just lost his wife, two days after she gave birth prematurely to a daughter. They were needed in Yorkshire for the funeral today. No doubt they would rant a bit at being left out, but why pull them in another direction?

  Abbott was waiting in Brice’s sitting room, his face a mask of worry. The moment Brice stepped in, he was greeted with “Are you certain you want to go through with this? You could yet change your mind.”

  His friend had been full of such wisdom these days. “Of course I could. Which is why I don’t intend to.”

  “You scarcely know her!”

  “Oh, bah. How often does a couple really know each other after a Season in London spent flirting and lying? All anyone ever cares about is pounds per annum, anyway.” A bit more cynical a view than he usually took, perhaps, but it served his purpose. He strode to the mirror and checked his tie for the fourth time. “At least we are aware that we don’t know each other. We haven’t false pretenses between us.”

  “Nottingham.” Abbott used that solemn tone of voice with him rarely enough that it stilled him as his friend drew to his side. “Please don’t be flippant. Marriage is a sacred union, one that ought not to be entered into lightly. I am honored to count you as one of my dearest friends—I only want to be certain you’re not making a mistake.”