Unbeknownst to her, Keane had covertly observed her since she entered the great hall for dinner, a vision in green and gold. He’d believed her lovely this afternoon, travel-weary and rumpled. The woman—no, the woodland sprite—gliding into the hall had drawn the avid interest of several males.
With a pointed, possessive stare, he’d glowered each man into a silent retreat.
Mine. She’s mine.
What the hell was he thinking?
Naturally, she wasn’t his. Women weren’t possessions.
Well, in truth, the law considered them as such, but he didn’t. How could someone own another? Subjugate them to their will?
Nonetheless, Keane had all he could manage with his two lovely, headstrong, and—he feared—on the verge of rebellion wards. There wasn’t room or time in his ordered life, or his restructuring of the dukedom, for a wife.
At once his thoughts sobered, and his gaze instinctively roamed the milling crowd for Lady Constance. He found her near a refreshment table, a moue on her mouth as she frowned her displeasure at him.
God’s balls.
Was she the jealous type?
He’d be bound she was.
Should he warn Marjorie?
About what?
By-the-by, Marjorie, there’s a woman here with designs on the duchy. She mightn’t like the regard I’m showin’ ye. Ye best watch yerself. I have nae intention of marryin’ either of ye, however.
By the by, do ye ken how to use a dirk?
Marjorie might well laugh in his face. Odd that marriage to her didn’t seem quite as horrific as he’d always viewed the institution.
What am I thinkin’? She has two daughters.
He’d practically raised two lasses already. Branwen and Bethea were nigh onto driving him to the brink of madness with their not-so-subtle attempts to manipulate him into expanding their social calendars, and hinting that they wanted to wed.
Why did women wish to marry so badly?
His wards had everything they could possibly want here at Trentwick.
Truly? his conscience mocked.
Friends? Beaus? Entertainment? Outin’s? Balls?
Yes, tonight was essentially a ball, wasn’t it?
Not to Society’s standards, but since when did he give a donkey’s neigh about any of that pretentious rot? Mayhap since he’d decided to restore the duchy’s honor.
Aye, now that he pondered it, perchance, a broader social circle for his wards mightn’t be such a bad thing.
Och, aye, it would be bad—godawful, in point of fact—but he could utilize their introduction to Society as a means to reestablish the dukedom’s good name and status with influential peers.
“Why, you’re not a cold-hearted brute at all.”
Marjorie’s exclamation from earlier filtered back to him.
She’d thought him a brute?
He supposed he deserved that assessment. He had behaved rather brutishly.
What to do about the delectable woman on his arm, though?
He glanced down, taking in the lustrous copper head that just reached his shoulder. Marjorie neither wore a wig nor powdered her hair. Two absurd fashions he eschewed, as well. In that, they were alike. In a very short time, he’d discovered much to admire and appreciate about Marjorie Kennedy.
And not fifteen minutes ago, he’d heard Lady Kilpatrick remarking to a pair of her cronies as the tower of feathers topping her wig jiggled with her animation, that apparently, he’d staked a claim on the Kennedy widow. Ballocks. He’d done no such thing. He’d merely warned opportunistic Scots away from her.
That was all.
Why did men always assume a widow was eager for their sexual attention?
His blood boiled again, and a crease appeared between Marjorie’s luminous brown eyes as they took their places for the set. “Keane? Is something amiss?”
Bloody hell, aye.
His cousin had acted like an arse, and now Keane would have his uncle’s wrath directed at him. Uncle Bothan turned a blind eye to Lorne’s faults, which was partially why his cousin had become an unruly whoremonger. “Nae. I’m still fumin’ about my cousin’s treatment of ye, ’tis all. I still itch to thrash him.”
She offered a nascent smile but didn’t deny her upset. “I confess, I’m rather rattled myself, yet.”
Blinding fury had consumed him when Lorne grabbed her. Instead of creating a monumental scene, she’d tried to extricate herself discretely.
If Keane hadn’t been watching her…
His gut flopped over at the ugly thought. Aye, he’d banish Lorne from Trentwick. He’d not welcome a despoiler of women beneath his roof, cousin or not. “’Tis nae wonder. Ye handled yerself with admirable aplomb.”
“Do you truly think so?” she wrinkled her nose. “I think I should’ve been more assertive early on. Nipped Mr. Buchannan’s attentions in the bud, as it were. Instead, I do what I generally do. Retreat into politesse.”
“Aye, I do think so,” he insisted.
She glowed under his praise, her eyes shining with pleasure. “Oh?”
Did no one ever compliment her?
“’Tis nae easy task wardin’ off a drunkard without drawin’ the eye of every person in attendance,” he went on.
She gave a self-conscious lift of her shoulder. “Ah, but in case you haven’t detected, I’m rather invisible despite this.” She fluttered long, elegant fingers toward the bright red curls topping her head and gracing her left shoulder. Her hair shimmered like lustrous flames in the candlelight.
“I canna fathom it,” he denied.
And he couldn’t. He could scarce tear his eyes from Marjorie.
How could anyone ignore her?
She consumed way more of his thoughts and attention than she ought.
He should be attending to his guests, seeking alliances, monitoring his wards. Looking over the crowd, he spied them happily chatting and—by damn, flirting! Flirting!—with Camden Kennedy and Bryston McPherson.
A scowl furrowed his brow as his protective instincts kicked into full awareness.
Keane didn’t like that. Not one bit.
He blamed those damned new gowns his wards had insisted upon having. When Branwen and Bethea had entered the hall tonight, arm in arm, their faces glowing with excitement and anticipation, he’d bitten his tongue to keep from telling them to return to their chambers at once and don different attire.
Preferably something shapeless and sack-like in a mud-brown or ash-gray.
My God, how was he to endure a week of men ogling them and Marjorie?
Dinna forget Lady Constance’s petulance.
This was exactly why he didn’t entertain or attend social functions.
That last thought brought him up short. At once, Keane smoothed his features. He would manage. He was a duke and a laird. Monitoring his wards and assuring Marjorie wasn’t harassed couldn’t be all that difficult.
The music for the Strathspey began, and he bowed as she curtsied. The dance steps prohibited anything but casual remarks for the next several minutes. Each time he and Marjorie came together and touched hands, a jolt sluiced through him.
He knew it for what it was. Lust.
Keane hadn’t slaked his carnal appetite in a good while, and with each graceful turn and skip of the graceful woman obsessing his thoughts, his hunger to take her to his bed burgeoned. To brush his fingers over her pearly skin and see that splendid mane of coppery hair spilling over her naked body and across his pillows.
He stifled a groan, and she gave him an inquisitive look as the dance steps took her away for a skip and a hop. He ordered the unruly organ at his groin to behave itself, which his cock promptly ignored. It rebelliously throbbed with renewed vigor when he took her hand once more.
A woman like Marjorie expected—deserved—love and marriage.
Keane wasn’t capable of the former and wasn’t agreeable to the latter. Not now. Mayhap not ever. As a child, he’d learned to shut his warmer, more vulnerable e
motions off, and after years of doing so, he didn’t know how to feel again.
Except if he didn’t marry, his wastrel cousin would eventually inherit the duchy. And that he could not—would not—permit.
But for all he knew, Marjorie was still in love with her dead husband—a man known for his kindness and humor. Keane didn’t want to address that issue right now. One thing at a time: reestablish the duchy’s reputation, and then contemplate marrying—several years in the future.
The music ended, and eyes shining, Marjorie laughed up at him, a breathtaking apparition in her unfettered joy. His gut clenched at the enchanting vision, wanting her more than he’d ever wanted a woman.
He couldn’t.
Not a Kennedy.
Not after what his mother had endured at a Buchannan’s hands.
He didn’t have the right.
“Thank ye, for the dance,” he said, staring past her. “Excuse me. I have other guests who require my attention.”
With that brusque comment, he gave a brief brow and strode away. Before the guilt from the shock on her face at his curt dismissal had him pulling Marjorie into his arms and begging her to forgive him for being a callous brute.
At the edge of the dance floor, he glanced back, unable to resist assuring himself she was all right.
He was ten kinds of an arse, and yet his actions were for the best. For both of them.
She stared at him, one slim hand to her throat, confusion and hurt in her soft doe-eyes.
Then the practiced mask descended upon her lovely features, except for a glint of defiance in her eyes, and turning her back, in a wash of green and gold splendor, she left the ballroom.
At her departure, the room grew dim, as if the sun had ceased to shine.
Instead of playing the host and circling the room to chat with the company, he made his way to his study. Once there, he poured himself a healthy dram of whisky. Eyes closed against the memory of Marjorie’s wounded eyes, he swallowed a gulp of the spirit, the sharp sting burning a slow, sizzling path to his belly.
“There ye are, Keane. We need to speak.”
Hell’s bells.
He stiffened at his uncle’s churlish tone. He’d hope to postpone this confrontation until the morrow. Opening his eyes, he turned to face his irate relative and cocked an eyebrow. “Ye’ve somethin’ ye need to get off yer chest, Uncle?”
Heavy brows twitching like an annoyed cat’s tail, Uncle Bothan gripped Keane’s arm. “Ye’ve banished yer cousin over that worthless, Sassenech slut?”
The air left Keane’s lungs in a forceful whoosh, and instant ire replaced it. With controlled calm, he stared pointedly at his uncle’s hand, gripping his forearm, then raised his eyebrows in expectation.
His color already ruddy, Uncle Bothan flushed an unbecoming brick hue, but he stepped backward, releasing Keane’s arm. “Well, did ye?”
“Aye, I did.” Keane drained his glass and gave the decanter a speculative glance. Nae. He was not his father or uncle. Or cousin. After placing the empty glass atop his desk, he folded his arms and leaned his hips against the piece of furniture. “Lorne forced his unwanted attentions on Lady Marjorie and frightened her.”
“That’s nae what he said.” Apparently, his uncle wasn’t ready to quit the battle just yet. “He said she teased him, that the redheaded hoor wanted it, too. Ye ken how women are, nephew. They pretend nae to want the rogerin’, but we men ken they do.” He winked and chuckled lewdly. “I like my women to resist. It makes a mon’s blood flow hot, if ye ken what I mean.”
Keane hadn’t thought he could become more enraged, but at his uncle’s carelessly slung words, he slowly drew to his full height, grateful for the Kennedy blood that ran in his veins, which afforded him a full six inches over his uncle.
“Lorne lies,” he managed through his teeth, despising his father’s identical twin more than he thought possible at that moment. “And I have never forced, nor will I ever force, myself upon a woman.” He curled his lip contemptuously. “Unlike ye and yer spawn, I believe when a woman says, nae, she means nae.”
Mouth pursed, Bothan slid his gaze around the study in the same covetous manner he did whenever he visited Trentwick. “So ye intend to side with the Kennedy wench over yer own kin?”
A Kennedy by marriage, only. That detail mattered very much.
“I intend to stand on the side of truth.” Keane rested a hand on his hip. He should’ve had this confrontation years ago. “Lorne will leave in the morn. Ye can stay or go, but if ye remain, ye will adhere to behavior appropriate for a Buchannan. Ye and yer kind have done our family’s reputation enough damage. And, I’ll have the name of yer spy in my household while I’m at it.”
His uncle laughed then, a guffaw that raised Keane’s nape hair.
“Yer as great a fool as Gordan was,” he choked out between gales of laughter while slapping his leg. “He could never see the truth when ’twas right under his nose, either.”
Bothan was either further into his cups than Keane had realized, or had toppled over the edge into lunacy.
“Their name, uncle?” Keane would not be dissuaded. He was done with his uncle and cousin, and the spy must go, too.
Finally reining in his humor, his uncle sniffed and waved his hand in the air. “There’s been many over the years, beginnin’ with yer mother’s lady’s maid.”
“Who is it now?” Keane all but gritted, his patience at an end.
“Yer butler, of course.”
Keane didn’t believe him. Nevin had been with the family for generations and was as loyal as any Scot ever was.
“Who is it, really?” he demanded.
His uncle would depart on the morn, too, and henceforth was no longer welcome at Trentwick, either. To hell with the gossip. There was no affection or respect lost between Bothan and Lorne, and most of Keane’s other guests.
Sighing, his uncle shook his head, very much looking like his dead brother at that moment. “Yer the grand duke. Ye figure it out.”
“Rest assured. I shall.” Sooner rather than later, now that he intended to ban his uncle and cousin permanently.
The sly glance his uncle slid him, unnerved him.
“Ye ken, I was born a mere two minutes after yer father?” He glanced around the comfortable study once more and rolled a shoulder. So he’d mentioned on dozens of occasions, using when lamenting he wasn’t the duke.
“I ken.” Keane was eager to have this done and return to his guests.
Well, the one person he longed to see would likely be tucked in her bed by now, cursing him to the ninth layer of hell.
“On several occasions, I pretended to be him,” Uncle Bothan droned on, his gaze distant as if he looked into the past. “Few but our parents and nurses could tell us apart. No’ even many of the staff and certainly no’ mere acquaintances or strangers. Gordan would become so infuriated when punished for some mischief or other I’d caused while pretendin’ to be him.”
“I’m aware,” Keane snapped, wishing he’d allowed himself a second dram of whisky.
His uncle took particular glee in the retelling of his misdeeds as if Keane was supposed to commiserate with him.
Chuckling, Bothan scratched his stubbly chin. “He had the dukedom and all that went with it, just because he was born first. I might as well have had a bit of fun at his expense.”
Aye, his uncle had slid into madness. Or did jealousy do that to a person if the emotion were fed and encouraged?
“Think on that, a wee while, son.” At the door, he glanced back, his brow puckered. “Yer a far better mon than Lorne. I’m glad of it.”
And then, he was gone.
What the hell was that all about?
Chapter Seven
The next afternoon, after a successful morning hunt, Graeme and Camden had joined several of the other more boisterous guests in a snowball fight on the back lawns. Cora and Elana had begged Marjorie to allow them to go outside, and with promises their uncles wouldn’t permit them
to become too cold and wet, she’d consented to their bit of fun in the snow.
Like devoted puppies, Sphynx and Chimera had followed the girls from the keep. Her daughters were as besotted with the wildcats as the big cats appeared to be with the lasses. Perhaps she’d see if Graeme would permit them each a kitten at Killeaggian Tower.
Presently, she sat at the harpsichord in the music room, playing her favorite tunes from memory as a few of the other ladies sipped tea and chatted—which was to say, gossiped.
That also included the hostile, dark-haired beauty. Courtesy of Anny, the chambermaid, tending the fireplace in her chamber this morning, Marjorie had learned the name of the woman shooting daggers at her with her thick-lashed eyes last night: Lady Constance Abercrombie.
A frown puckering her freckled features, Anny had rubbed her forearm. “She’s a mean one, is Lady Abercrombie. Pinched me ’cause there werena any strawberries on her breakfast tray. Where is Cook to find strawberries this time of year, I ask ye?”
Where indeed?
Even now, Marjorie felt the woman’s venomous, adder-eyed gaze upon her. She intended to avoid Lady Constance Abercrombie if at all possible.
Berget joined her and, with a saucy grin, plopped down beside her on the bench. There was scarcely enough room for them both given the paniers beneath their skirts. A secret smile lit her violet eyes and curved her mouth.
Oh, to be in love.
“I saw ye dancin’ with the duke last night.” She winked and nudged Marjorie’s shoulder, causing her to miss a note. “Och, sorry.”
“Shh, keep your voice down.” Marjorie battled the urge to slide a glance toward Lady Abercrombie, fearful she’d heard Berget’s innocent remark. “The duke was merely being a good host, Berget.”
Berget shook her head, oblivious to Lady Constance’s flapping ears. “I dinna think so. He didna dance with anyone else.” She cast a covert glance around the delightful music room decorated in rich shades of berry and gold. “Several of the ladies have commented on it. And there’s one in particular who seems most miffed by that fact.”
To Defy a Highland Duke Page 6
