Scottish Brides

by Christina Dodd

  Stunned by the revelation that his mother, who most certainly knew better, had neglected to invite any of his younger relatives to provide screening company for himself and Clarissa, Duncan looked down in time to see Clarissa smile sweetly at Rose. “I gather you know the house quite well—I’ll look to you for help in finding my way, if I may.”

  Rose smiled. “Indeed—”

  “Clarissa—” Duncan cut in.

  “Rose?”

  That last had them all turning as a slender gentleman of about thirty joined them. He was quietly elegant, with wavy brown hair, a soft, almost feminine mouth and an easygoing expression.

  Rose turned her smile on him. “Jeremy.” She let him take her hand and place it on his sleeve. “Allow me to present you to Strathyre.” She looked up and met Duncan’s eyes. “Mr. Jeremy Penecuik.”

  Obliged to nod politely and shake Jeremy Penecuik’s hand, Duncan fought down an urge to dismiss him instead. He had enough distractions already to hand without the additional irritation of seeing Jeremy Penecuik draw Rose close, as if he had some recognized claim on her.

  Aware that in the present company, he could not scowl—not at Rose or Penecuik—he was forced to stand silently while Clarissa and Rose chatted. Penecuik contributed the odd observation; for his part, Duncan said nothing at all. While one part of his mind would dearly have loved to commandeer the conversation, and spirit Clarissa out of Rose’s orbit, another part of his mind—the dominant part of his mind—was engrossed in yet another discovery.

  It was impossible to assess Clarissa with Rose approaching by, because, if Rose was within twenty feet of him, his attention deflected to her.

  Clarissa, at nineteen, perfect princess that she was, stood not a chance against the attraction Rose exuded, the earthy sensuality of a mature woman, compounded, in his case, by memories legion, by shared childhoods—and a soul-deep remembrance of the timbre of her voice.

  It bad always had that huskiness, soft and deep, like a lover’s caress. Age had perfected the siren’s song; the years had heightened his sensitivity.

  So he stood there, silently, and listened to her voice, to the lilting brogue which, he suddenly realized, was the sound of home to him.

  His butler, Falthorpe, rescued him from total confusion by announcing that luncheon was served.

  Luncheon, with Rose and Penecuik at the other end of the table, allowed Duncan to refocus on the matter at hand: Clarissa Edmonton. As she and her parents were clearly taken with the house, he seized the opportunity and offered to take them on a tour; they left directly from the luncheon room.

  He made the tour a lengthy one. As they were returning through the east wing, Mrs. Edmonton commented, “It’s such a monstrous pile, it must be hard to keep it heated in winter.”

  Duncan shrugged lightly. “There are fireplaces in every room.”

  “Anyway, Mama”—Clarissa flashed a smile at her mother—“it’s not as if Duncan would spend much of the winter here. There’s the Season, and all his business to at-tend to in London, after all.”

  She turned her bright, rather eager expression on Duncan; he responded with a calm, noncommittal smile.

  And wondered whether he should explain that, contrary to Clarissa’s expectations, now he’d secured Ballynashiels’ future, he expected to spend all his days—not just the winter—within the arms of the narrow valley that held his home.

  They passed a large window and he glanced out—and saw the loch, wind-whipped blue under the wide sky, saw the tall crags encircling the fertile plain bisected by the narrow ribbon of the river that both fed and drained the loch. In the center of the loch lay an island on which the remains of a turreted castle, first home of the Macintyres in this place, stood surrounded by the greens of birch and hazel.

  His ancestors had lived in this valley for generations; he would live here, too. With his wife, and the family they would raise.

  The view fell behind as they strolled on; Duncan glanced down at Clarissa, eyes wide as she took in the old tapestries, the velvet curtains, the portraits of Macintyres long gone. He had chosen her because she was perfect—perfect in face, perfect in figure, perfect in deportment, in her connections, her breeding, in her ability to be the perfect wife. He’d chosen her in London, and she had been perfect there.

  But here?

  Looking ahead, he reflected that he had said nothing, made no promises, no commitment. Couples like the Edmontons, well-connected but not wealthy, knew how things were done: when the visit ended, if he made no offer, they would shrug and move on to the next likely candidate.

  There would be no drama; he knew beyond doubt that there were no feelings involved, not on his part or Clarissa’s. When he’d chosen her, he’d counted that in her favor, that her feelings would never go beyond mere affection, so she would not interfere too deeply in his life.

  Looking ahead, he inwardly sighed. He’d learned over his years of trading to deal with mistakes decisively, to recognize them quickly, admit them and go forward. They reached the top of the stairs; his expression impassive, he started down. “All the reception rooms bar the ballroom are on the ground floor.”

  He showed them the formal dining room, then took them on a circuit of the well-stocked library. Exiting by one of the lesser doors, he led the way down a secondary corridor. And heard laughter coming from behind the door at its end.

  Rose’s laughter, warm, infectious—he recognized it instantly. It was followed immediately by the rumble of a male voice.

  Duncan turned left and steered the unsuspecting Edmontons into the conservatory.

  “Oh!” Clarissa clapped her hands at the sight of the ferns, palms and exotic blooms artfully arranged about the room. “This is just perfect. So pretty!”

  Mentally toying with the possibilities of what Rose was up to in the billiard room, Duncan didn’t smile. “I can take no credit, I fear—this area is Mama’s domain.”

  “I must remember to commend her ladyship.” Mrs. Edmonton sailed down the long room, admiring the display. Clarissa followed more slowly.

  Duncan turned to Mr. Edmonton. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you here. There’s some business I need to attend to.”

  Mr. Edmonton smiled. “Indeed, my lord. You’ve been most kind in giving us your time.”

  “Not at all.” Duncan inclined his head. “Dinner will be at seven.”

  His “business” took him straight to the billiard room. He opened the door—and beheld a sight similar to the one that had stopped him in his tracks earlier in the day. This time, Rose was leaning over the billiard table, laughter spilling from her bright eyes, her ivory breasts all but spilling from the neckline of her dress. Jeremy Penecuik was beside her, his hands wrapped about the cue Rose was angling.

  That much, Duncan had expected. What he hadn’t fore-seen was that it was Rose teaching Penecuik, not the other way about.

  Rose’s smile, predictably, widened at the sight of him; to his relief, she straightened.

  “Duncan—perfect. You’re just the man we need.”

  With an imperious wave, she gestured him in. Belatedly wary, Duncan complied. If Penecuik had not been there, he would have been tempted to retreat; he’d learned to distrust that particular light in Rose’s eye.

  “Jeremy can’t play, and I’m finding it impossible to demonstrate—he’s left-handed.” As she spoke, Rose crossed to the rack holding the cues and took down another. Then she turned and, head on one side, regarded Duncan. “If you and I play an exhibition match, Jeremy can see how it’s done.”

  Then her eyes twinkled.

  “Are you game?”

  Duncan’s jaw locked; he was crossing the room toward her before he’d had time to think. Then he thought—and it made no difference; he was incapable of walking away from her challenge.

  He stopped by her side; looking down at her, he took the cue from her hand. “What form?”

  She smiled, and her dimples winked. “Just the usual.”

  They proc
eed to play; he knew she played well—he’d taught her himself, one day long ago, when she hadn’t driven him to distraction first. Now . . . he watched from across the table as she sighted along her cue, and tried to remember to breathe.

  She potted two balls, then rounded the table; dragging in a quick breath, Duncan stayed where he was, leaning on his cue. Only to be treated to an equally mesmerizing sight: that of the ripe hemispheres of Rose’s luscious bottom, outlined beneath her thin gown as she leaned over the table. His mouth dried like a desert.

  Rose missed and cursed lightly; forcing his eyes to the balls, Duncan approached the table to take his shot. Rose leaned one hip on the table beside him. Duncan bent low. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the ball—and tried to block out her perfume, and the more subtle scent that was her and her alone. He drew in a tight breath; her scent wreathed through his brain.

  His gut locked; his hand trembled.

  He missed the shot.

  Rose raised her brows. “Hmm.” She slanted Duncan a provocative glance. “You can’t have been practicing in London.”

  She circled the table and selected a ball; as she bent over her cue, at the edge of her vision, she saw Duncan tense. Inwardly frowning, she sighted this way, then that, wondering at his response. She wasn’t teasing him just now, so why was he tensing?

  By the time she sank three balls, she’d worked it out—but it still made no sense. Duncan was thirty-five; she was quite sure he’d seen more than a few female breasts in his time, all considerably more bare than hers. She had a great deal more claim to being a nun than he had of being a monk. Yet the conclusion was inescapable.

  Interestingly, Jeremy, for all he was watching avidly, showed no signs of the same susceptibility.

  And when she missed and Duncan took charge of the table again, his every muscle locked when she settled close beside him.

  The discovery was curious—and utterly fascinating.

  She thrashed him resoundingly.

  Curiosity, Rose had often been told, was her besetting sin. The observation had never stopped her before; it was not going to stop her now. But the size of the house party, and the consequent length of the dining table, forced her to restrain her besetting sin until the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room after concluding their ritual with the port.

  Her fell intent—to further probe Duncan’s sudden and amazing susceptibility—was, to her surprise, aided and abetted by Clarissa Edmonton. The girl—Rose could not think of her otherwise, she seemed so very young—linked arms with her as soon as the gentlemen appeared, and steered her directly toward Duncan, who had helpfully entered at Jeremy’s side.

  Clarissa smiled sweetly as they bore down on their victim; Rose’s smile held a different promise.

  “I thought we should plan what we will do tomorrow,” Clarissa innocently suggested.

  Duncan looked down at her, his expression unreadable, then he glanced at the still-uncurtained windows, through which the loch with its backdrop of craggy peaks was visible. “There’s a mist coming down; it’ll most likely be damp, drizzle if not rain, at least for most of the morning. Not the best weather for riding.”

  “Oh.” Clarissa followed his gaze. “But I hadn’t meant . . .” Turning back, she smiled at Duncan. “I must admit, I don’t ride all that well, so you must not think you need make up a riding party just for me. And the scenery hereabouts is a trifle bleak—the mountains seem to close in on one so, don’t you think?—so I thought perhaps we might play charades or have a musical morning, singing songs.”

  She looked up, into Duncan’s face, her expression sweetly eager. Rose bit her tongue, swallowed her laughter and equally eagerly fixed her gaze on Duncan—and waited, breath bated, for his reaction.

  His lips thinned, his face hardened, but his voice remained urbanely even. “I’m afraid I only arrived late last night and have urgent business I must see to in the morning. You’ll have to excuse me”—his gaze lifted to Rose and Jeremy—“but no doubt the others will be happy to join you.”

  Rose wasn’t having that. “Actually,” she purred, catching Duncan’s gaze and smiling knowingly, “I rather think Lady Hermione intends to exhort us to music here and now.”

  The words proved prophetic. They all glanced at Lady Hermione; she saw and imperiously beckoned them. Mrs. Edmonton sat beside her on the chaise.

  “Clarissa, my dear, your mother has been telling me how wonderfully you play the pianoforte; I do so enjoy a well-rendered air. I really must entreat you to entertain us all—just a few pieces to enliven the evening.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” Clarissa blushed and demurred prettily.

  Prompted by a look from his mother, Duncan politely added his entreaties. “The company would be honored.” He offered his arm. “Come, I’ll open the pianoforte.”

  Clarissa gifted him with a too-sweet look; his expression impassive, Duncan led her to the piano, sited between two long windows overlooking the terrace. He handed her to her seat; Jeremy opened the piano while Rose handed Clarissa the stacked music sheets. The rest of the company eagerly gathered around, shifting chairs and chaises to get a better view. After sorting through the music, Clarissa chose two pieces; Rose restacked the rest on the piano, then joined Jeremy and Duncan at the side of the room.

  Frowning slightly, Clarissa shifted the stool, reshuffled the music, then shifted the stool again. Finally, she laid her hands on the keys.

  And played.

  Predictably perfectly.

  After three minutes, two of Duncan’s aunts resumed their conversation, whispering softly. Beside Rose, Jeremy shifted his weight, once, twice; then he straightened and, with a murmured “Excuse me,” drifted off to study a cabinent filled with Dresden miniatures.

  Rose, as partial to good music as Lady Hermione, willed herself to concentrate, yet even she found her mind wandering. Clarissa’s performance was technically flawless but emotionally barren. Every note was struck correctly, but there was no heart, no soul—no feeling—to bring the music alive.

  Surrendering to the inevitable, Rose stopped trying to listen and let the notes flow past her; she scanned the company, most now distracted, then glanced at Duncan beside her.

  In time to see him stifle a yawn.

  She stifled a grin and leaned closer. “Seriously, you aren’t going to marry her, are you?”

  He looked down at her, then replied through gritted teeth, “Mind your own business.”

  Rose let her grin show; his expression only grew harder. She looked away, across the room—Clarissa’s first piece was reaching its penultimate crescendo. Deliberately, Rose leaned lightly against Duncan, letting their bodies touch fractionally as she brushed past him, across him, on her way to Lady Hermione’s chaise.

  She heard the swift hiss of his indrawn breath, felt the sudden, brutally powerful seizing of his muscles.

  Lips curving lightly, Rose headed straight for the safety of his mother’s presence; reaching the chaise, she nodded to Lady Hermione, then turned and gazed innocently about the room, studiously refusing to let her eyes flick to Duncan, still approaching, rigid, by the wall.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see his hands were fisted, that his gaze had followed her; it remained fixed, in-tent, on her. She suspected he was envisaging throttling her, closing his long, strong fingers about her neck and wringing it—his usual response to her teasing.

  To her considerable surprise, he straightened; fists relaxing, he prowled toward her.

  Rose quelled a frown; when she teased him, Duncan usually avoided her. He ran; she chased—that’s how it had always been.

  Not this time.

  As Clarissa concluded her first piece, Duncan strolled up and halted directly behind her, slightly to one side. Trapping her between the back of the chaise and him. His strolling prowl had appeared nonchalant, yet Rose could sense his tension, the controlled, steely power behind every movement.

  Clarissa held the final chords, then lifted her finge
rs from the keys. Everyone applauded politely; Rose clapped distractedly. Duncan clapped slowly, softly, deliberately, directly behind her right shoulder—she got the distinct impression he was applauding her performance, not Clarissa’s.

  After favoring the company with a suitably demure smile, Clarissa looked at her mother, then Lady Hermione, and then at Rose and Duncan. Rose summoned an encouraging smile; she knew without looking that Duncan was watching Clarissa, virtually over her own head. Clarissa smiled and turned back to the piano, and started her second piece.

  Rose struggled to breathe, struggled to ignore the vise that, once again, had clamped about her lungs. Her senses flickered wildly, in a state unnervingly akin to panic, her mind wholly focused not on the music, but on Duncan, so close, so still, so silent behind her.

  The first sweep of heat along the side of her neck and shoulder, exposed by her gown, caught her unawares. She frowned slightly, then banished the expression as the sensation ceased.

  It returned a moment later, hotter, stronger, extending over more of her, from her shoulder to the swells of her breasts, bare above her neckline.

  And it was her turn to drag in a quick breath and hold it, as she realized it was Duncan’s gaze that she could feel. He was . . .

  Rose inwardly cursed and gritted her teeth against the wave of sensation washing over her, through her, pooling heat within her . . .

  In desperation, she searched for salvation. Lady Hermione was sitting before her and could not see; all the older guests were busy chatting. Even Jeremy had deserted her. He was now deep in discussion with Mr. Edmonton.

  Duncan shifted—closer.

  Rose’s knees quaked. She gripped the back of the chaise as unprecedented giddiness threatened.

  Clarissa ended her short piece. She lifted her hands from the keys and looked up—and Rose was safe. As everyone applauded, Rose breathed again, released from Duncan’s gaze.