The Reluctant Duchess

by Roseanna M. White

  Brice turned so that he could look into Abbott’s actual eyes rather than his reflected ones. “I appreciate the concern, Ab. I do. But this is what I’m meant to do.”

  But it was irritation in Abbott’s scrutiny, not acceptance. “Will you claim again that God told you to?”

  Apparently it was too much to ask that his wedding day be all smiles and congratulations. Brice drew in a breath that did nothing to soothe the frustration. “You have never doubted me before when I said I felt the Lord pressing something upon me. Why now?”

  Abbott spun away. “Of course I’ve doubted you—anyone in his right mind would doubt you! No one hears from God as you claim to. I’ve just always bitten my tongue, as it hardly mattered.”

  Brice sucked in a breath, much as he would have done had his friend punched him in the stomach. That was about what it felt like. “All your talk of your beloved George Müller and his unsurpassed trust in the Lord, and you can say ‘no one hears from God’ like that?”

  His friend flushed. “He was a man of God. Not a duke.”

  Frustration simmered. No, not just frustration. Hurt. “So I am only permitted to be so close to the Lord if I am a missionary? Is that it? I cannot both follow Him and be a good steward of what my family has left me?”

  Abbott turned partly away. “You spend most of your day seeing to the things of this earth. Tenants and rents and improvements, sessions and balls and soirees. Then you come and say God spoke to you, when I have dedicated my whole life to Him and never—”

  “Abbott.” Brice’s sigh did more than rob him of energy. It left him aching. “You are one of the best men I know—the most faithful. I always thought we strengthened each other in our faith. Do you mean to tell me that I’m a hindrance to you instead? That you resent me or distrust me or . . . ?”

  “No! It is just . . .” Abbott sank to a seat in the stiff armchair by the hearth. “You cannot always be right, Worthing. It is impossible.”

  A lump stuck in his throat. No one called him Worthing anymore, not unless they slipped, forgot his new title. Hearing it from Abbott now took him back to their shared childhood, when it had never mattered that they were unequal in the sight of the world. He had thought it still didn’t—more the fool him, apparently, if his oldest friend had been judging his lifestyle all the while. “I never claimed to be always right. I know I make my share of mistakes.”

  “So then pause for half a moment. Consider that this could be one of them.” Abbott splayed his hands, his eyes earnest. “This is the rest of your life.”

  “And I have done nothing but consider that these two days! Disbelieve it and resent it if you must, but on this I am without a doubt. I am meant to marry Rowena.”

  Abbott groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “Do you not hear yourself? How you sound? Have you paused to actually look at this girl you’re marrying and realize that she isn’t like any of the young ladies you’ve flirted with?”

  “Of course I realize that—I realized that the moment we were introduced.”

  “What then? How will you make her happy? How will you get to know her? And how will she respond the first time you let loose some of your typical flattery, aimed at another woman? Have you thought of that?”

  A valid point, that. Flirting had become his way, and he often didn’t even notice he’d done it until a gleam flashed in a set of feminine eyes. He had always imagined that his bride-to-be would be so secure in his affections that she would laugh away any slips he made.

  But Rowena wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be. She was so very insecure in general, not to mention in their relationship, which was more potential than reality.

  Brice sighed. “You’re right, there. And I thank you for the reminder.” He raised his right hand and straightened his spine. “I promise you, O Reverend Mr. Abbott, that I will guard my tongue, my heart, and my bride with equal fervor. I will do all in my power to win her heart, give her mine, and make her happy.”

  Abbott didn’t relax. Didn’t grin. Certainly didn’t laugh. “You’re being flippant again.”

  “But I’m not.” Sinking to a chair, Brice caught himself a second from running his fingers through his hair and mussing it. “Perhaps my tone is light, but my meaning isn’t. I know this is my life, Ab. And Rowena’s. I know we are strangers. I know the path to a steady, unfading love will not be an easy one. And yet . . . and yet I can’t help but think that it’s because we’re so different—and that she is so different from all the young ladies I’ve known before—that we will ultimately suit.”

  Abbott breathed a sigh. “I will be praying for you.”

  “Thank you. That is all I ask.” Since, apparently, outright support was too much to hope for. “And while you’re praying, keep our families before the Lord too—that we somehow bridge the decades of bad blood between our parents.”

  “Well.” Abbott leaned forward, forced merriment in his eyes. “If you really want to win the favor of her family, I suggest you put that on.”

  One glance at the kilt Lochaber had sent over and Brice snorted a laugh. “On second thought . . . I’m really not all that keen on her father’s favor, thank you very much.”

  Eight

  She was married. Rowena’s hands shook as she fumbled the clasp of the ruby bracelet Charlotte had given her minutes before they headed to the kirk. It was done. Official. She was the Duchess of Nottingham, lady of a manor she’d never seen in a place she’d never been, one of the highest-ranking peeresses in a country she’d never so much as visited, among ladies who would want nothing to do with her.

  She was married, and in a matter of minutes her husband, who had been all beaming smiles and soft flirtation throughout the ceremony and the interminable banquet afterward, would come through that door that connected her temporary room at Gaoth Lodge to his. He would come in and expect to kiss her and put his hands on her and . . . and . . .

  She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred. The heavy necklace choked her. She tossed the bracelet into the wooden box and tried to convince her shaking hands to work the clasp of the necklace.

  “Easy, lass. Let me help.” Lilias strode calmly from the dressing room and brushed Rowena’s fingers away. Two quick motions and the necklace sagged, unclasped.

  Still it choked her.

  Humming, Lilias arranged the gems and gold in the box just so, framing the earbobs. She touched a finger to the gems dripping from those. “’Tis a shame ye couldna wear those too, Wena. We shall have to pierce yer ears so ye may.”

  The shake of her head wasn’t so much at the thought of a needle piercing her earlobe as at the dagger buried hilt-deep in her stomach. She was married. Married. To a complete stranger. One who was sure to be disappointed in her. Who would come to resent her for intruding on his life. For standing between him and all the beautiful young ladies he’d no doubt been deciding between.

  Or maybe she wouldn’t stand in his way. Maybe he was like every other powerful man she’d ever heard of. Maybe he even now had a mistress and would dally with whomever he pleased, expecting her to turn a blind eye. How was she to know?

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to be sick.”

  Lilias’s fingers dug into her shoulders and forced her spine straight. “Ye willna. Deep breaths, Rowena. In and out. In and out. Ye can do this. Ye must do this.”

  She understood the must. All of Lilias’s arguments made fine sense—if she were with child, which seemed more likely as each day went by, then her bairn would need a father. One who would love, instruct, protect . . . and what man would do that if he suspected the babe wasn’t his own? Yes, Lilias had reason on her side.

  But reason didn’t change that Rowena simply couldn’t. She couldn’t lie to Nottingham about something so vital, when he had sacrificed his future to help her. She couldn’t let him touch her just to perpetuate that kind of deception.

  Oh, how she wished Annie would come bursting in and toss herself into her lap.

  Deep breath, in and out.
In and out.

  “There now.” Lilias soothed a hand over her Rowena’s hair, plucking pins out as she went. “See? All will be well, my darling lass. He’s a good man. I was talking with his valet when I came with yer things, and Davis said he’s been serving His Grace for a decade now. A better Christian he’s never met, he says. Kind, generous, upright of character. He’ll be a fine husband, Wena. Nothing to be trauchled about.”

  The words swirled through her head like fog. Vapor. Smoke, cloying and suffocating.

  “And tomorrow, he’ll take you from this place. From Malcolm. Ye’ll never have to face the monster again, and ye’ll be far away from yer father too. Safe. Protected.”

  Unless Nottingham was even worse than Father. As bad as Malcolm, and as adept at hiding it. Two days ago she had been sure he couldn’t be, but she had already proven herself a terrible judge of character. She could have been mistaken about him too.

  Soon she’d know. Because Lilias would leave and he would come in and she’d be at his mercy.

  The last of the pins plinked into the tin box that held them. Lilias hummed a broken snatch of melody as she brushed through Rowena’s hair. All too soon the brush came to a rest beside the box of pins, and Lilias patted her shoulders.

  “All ready, Yer Grace.” She grinned into the mirror as she used that strange title for the first time.

  Rowena couldn’t smile back. The title wasn’t the one she’d always thought would be hers someday. Not Lady Lochaber. She would only be the Duchess of Nottingham now, too high a position for that mere “lady” to be attached to her name. A shiver stole over her. Duchess. Her Grace. A stranger even to herself.

  “Aye, it is a mite chilly in here. Come. I’ll help you to the sofa and then fetch yer shawl.”

  Rowena’s lips were numb, her tongue useless. She could find no words to object as Lilias helped her to her one good foot and then a-hobbling for the small divan situated by the fireplace. The heat from the fire couldn’t touch her. The familiar shawl that soon draped her shoulders felt heavy as shame.

  Then Lilias ran the tips of her fingers over Rowena’s cheek, kissed her forehead, and smiled. “All brides are nervous on their wedding night. Even I was, though I was head over heels for my Cowan. He’ll understand yer fear, but ye . . . ye must let him comfort you, lass. Let him love you.”

  “Let him love you.” But he wouldn’t. There would be no love tonight, not the true kind. Only bruising hands and insistent mouths and the stuff of which nightmares were made.

  Lilias stepped away, still smiling as if this were a good day. “I’ll go and let Davis know ye’re ready.”

  Unable to object, Rowena settled for squeezing shut her eyes and gripping the shawl tight. She could do this. She could. She must.

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t. There’d be nothing left of her inside if she did. She couldn’t let him take what wisp remained, no more than she could lie to him. She couldn’t. Mustn’t. Wouldn’t.

  The shivering intensified until the word no longer suited it, until it deserved to be called shakes, even convulsions. Perhaps she would quake to pieces before he could even come in.

  A light rap on the door between their rooms, and it opened. Through the blur before her eyes she could only see the dark head. The pajama-clad legs. The height of him.

  Rowena leapt to her foot, gripping the side of the sofa to keep her balance.

  Through the blur she made out his smile, small and soft. He didn’t come any closer. “I know this is awkward. And we needn’t—we’re strangers still. I thought we could just talk. Get to know one another.”

  Talk. She’d thought Malcolm interested in talking, had been fooled by the months of conversation and longing looks. But the words had been deception. A mask over the monster. “Please go away.”

  His brows pulled down, though the smile remained in place. “Had I known I would end up wedding a Highlander, I would have taken more care to learn Gaelic. What was that?”

  She opened her mouth again, but only a sob came out. Heat rushed her face. But embarrassment turned cold and breathless when he advanced.

  He moved quickly, like a wildcat coming for its prey. Thinking only of escape, Rowena took a step back.

  Her ankle betrayed her, sending her crashing to the floor and flailing at the couch for support that didn’t come.

  Then he was above her, dark head and broad shoulders, pressing her to the stones by his mere proximity. The blood roared in her ears, her own sobbing filling them. She held up an arm to try to fend him off, but he didn’t grab it. Didn’t twist it behind her back.

  He clasped her fingers with one hand and touched her face softly with the other. “Are you all right?”

  His voice was smooth and so very English. A different tone. No threat in it.

  But there had never been threat in Malcolm’s either, until there was.

  He brushed her hair from her cheek. “Let me help you up. May I?”

  Her ears strained for Gaelic words, Gaelic curses to bite their way through her heaving breaths and burrow into her mind. Her shoulders tensed, ready for gentle hands to turn hard and strike. To push her down.

  They lifted instead, picking her up from the cold, hard floor and cradling her.

  She was a child again for one blessed moment, a child in the arms of the Kinnaird before his affection had turned to hate. Safe. Protected. Loved.

  A lie. He wasn’t her father. He didn’t love her. And though he might protect her from one monster, who would protect her from him?

  “You knocked the cushion from the sofa. I’m going to put you down on the bed, all right? I—”

  Bed? She cried out, flailed, pushed from his arms. Soft feathers caught her, but not before she felt her arm connect with something solid, before she heard a grunt of pain from him. She scrabbled to an upright position on the mattress and blinked the tears from her eyes.

  He stood there with a hand to his nose, red staining it.

  A whimper escaped even as she pushed herself as far from him as she could get, until her back found the wall. She had hurt him, had drawn blood, and he would punish her now. The only question was how.

  With every second that ticked by, her stomach churned and knotted. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed at his nose. Then, inexplicably, crouched down beside the bed, so that he had to look up a bit as well as across the mattress. No anger burned from his eyes . . . but that only meant he was expert at hiding it.

  His sigh sounded weary rather than exasperated. But that only meant he was disappointed in her. “I’ll not hurt you, Rowena. Never, never will I hurt you.” He rested one hand on the edge of the mattress and stretched out his fingers. “Please know that.”

  Her ankle throbbed, demanding she stretch out her leg and let it rest. But she daren’t. If she did, he could touch her merely by shifting his arm.

  He nodded toward the door. “I’m going to leave, all right? I’ll send Cowan back in.”

  Cowan? She pressed against the wall . . . then realized he meant Lilias. Still, she could say nothing, couldn’t even nod. Not until he’d stood, backed away, and slipped through the door.

  Then the fear holding her taut snapped, and she sagged down to the mattress. The sobs overtook her again. Now what was she to do? She could hardly call him back in, though Lilias would probably insist she try. Would chide her for her foolishness. Would be as displeased as Father always was in everything she did or didn’t do.

  “Rowena, lass. What happened?” Familiar hands nudged her up, a familiar worried frown looked down on her. Familiar eyes condemned her.

  Was there no one left in the world whom she hadn’t disappointed? Too heavy to speak, Rowena pulled herself to the pillow and rolled onto her side, facing the wall so her injured ankle remained on top. And so she didn’t have to face Lilias.

  Her cousin drew in a sharp breath. “Rowena! Ye . . . ye’re bleeding.”

  Bleeding? Had she scraped her leg or something in her fall? She felt
no pain beyond the ebbing throb of her ankle.

  Lilias laughed and tugged on her shoulder until she rolled to her back and looked at her. Why did she look so happy at an injury? She beamed. “Lass, do ye hear me? Ye’re bleeding. Ye’re not with child! Praise be!”

  Lilias embraced her, laughing again in her ear and murmuring more praises.

  Rowena went numb. She should feel relief. And did—heaven knew she didn’t want Malcolm’s child.

  But in that moment she knew without doubt that she had wanted hers. Someone to love. Life within. A future worth putting her hope in.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and told herself to be grateful. To praise the Lord for His mercy.

  But she couldn’t shake the thought that now she had no one to love her. No one to love. She was yet again only what she was—no more.

  Not enough.

  Brice waited in the hall for his wife’s door to open, turning his hat about in his hands. The others had already eaten, were already loading into the carriages. He’d had breakfast brought up, and some for Rowena as well. Not that he’d so much as spoken to her since last night. Not that she would have replied if he had.

  His nose had a minor ache this morning, and his knees a matching one from spending his wedding night in prayer on the cold stone floor. But it had been necessary. Because no matter what Cowan murmured about embarrassing circumstances—which, granted, had brought heat rushing to his face—it wasn’t only that which had rendered his bride so panicked last night.

  A fear of men in general, thanks to her father? Perhaps in part. But he suspected it wasn’t just that either. Not given how similar her reaction to him had been to her reaction to Malcolm Kinnaird the other day.

  How, exactly, was one to ask one’s bride of less than a day if she had been attacked in the worst possible way by a brutish monster of a man, though?

  One didn’t. That answer had come through quite clearly during the never-ending night. One didn’t push. One didn’t press. One didn’t insist on answers. One just silently proved that one was different. That one would never hurt, never take, never abuse. One waited.