Nora was always hidden away.
After Nora’s accident, her mother quickly withdrew her from London’s drawing rooms and socials. Her friends withdrew their acquaintance, fearing the repercussions she might have on their future marriage prospects.
Everyone thought her simple now that she stammered. Nora was a plague to everyone, it seemed.
Which was why, as she wove herself up and down the mountain, she was content. Even as she spotted a plume of gray smoke pouring out of Mrs. White’s guest cottage. The older woman hadn’t mentioned anything to Nora about a visitor at their tea last week.
That was curious. Mrs. White told Nora everything, perhaps in part to fill the silence that often fell between them. Or perhaps because Mrs. White slipped whiskey into her tea when she thought Nora wasn’t looking. Nora would have to overcome her fear of speaking at some point, especially since Mrs. White had instead been occupying her time with Mr. Jacobs, the widower in town.
Nora did not care to know what type of lover Mr. Jacobs was, even though Mrs. White certainly felt inclined to share the details. It was absurd. Nora was certain there weren’t types of lovers.
Mistresses were lovers. Wives were vehicles for important men to pass on titles.
Coupling would never be an intimate experience. Nora did not harbor any fantasies for how a husband would handle her. She would submit to him on their wedding night, her night-rail pushed up to her waist until, after a minute or two, he finished. Sheep were quick at mating. She expected the same of men.
Nora drew in a deep breath when she came to a stop at the foot of the mountain, her body pulsing with energy. A figure in the distance drew her attention.
Below the pink-washed landscape of early dawn, a man bent over a canvas perched on an easel. His shoulders hunched forward as he leaned on a cane with one hand, holding a paintbrush in the other.
Was the new tenant a painter?
He was too far away for her to make out any details—thank goodness for that. Nora bowed her head and changed direction. It might be longer to return home by going right, but it was a sacrifice she was willing—
“You, stop there.”
She froze, her head snapping up to the man waving at her, his paintbrush still clutched in his hand. His voice, though cutting, was akin to a quick caress against the cheek. Warm, inviting.
Nora drew in a breath, her heart racing as she ignored him and resumed walking.
“Stay there.”
Her cloak fluttered against her legs as the scarlet ribbons of her bonnet stirred in the cool, sweet breeze sweeping over the field. She’d never grow tired of the smell of fresh heather and earth. She would miss it when she was brought south to Stuart’s family seat after their impending wedding in two months.
She hedged forward.
Then the man shouted, “Damn it, stay, will you? I only need a moment longer.”
Nora balled her fists. Why did everyone assume they could order her about? Did they not realize she had value in this world, and a path of her own?
Nora squinted. The unruly dark hair of the man tussled about in the breeze. He wore a long olive coat—a tailored cut that defined his height even as he bent to clutch onto the cane. What she couldn’t make out was why he, a self-possessed arsehole, was bellowing at her from across a field before seven in the morning.
Anger bubbled up within her as she waited, yielding to his demand. The anger simmered and brewed, and words flew about inside her mind. Begging for her to release them into the world. She had a mind of her own, and a voice. At least, at one point in her life. Since her accident, Nora had made a habit of swallowing those words to the point where now, she stood still as a stranger rudely ordered her about.
“Very well,” he said, his voice almost carried away on the breeze. His attention already returned to the painting before him.
Dismissed just as quickly as he had barked at her to stay. Like a dog.
What a fitting example of manhood, Nora thought bitterly, spinning on her heel. No surprise that he was English.
Nora marched, not slowing even as the man came into focus—a beautiful man, his dark brows pinched as he worked over the canvas. She had gathered he was tall. She also made note of his dark hair, but that was just the start. This man, though bruised and moving as if he were in pain, had a face Italian artists lusted after for their frescos and statues. He had a Roman nose accentuated by razor-sharp cheekbones.
Instead of looking away or walking past without paying much attention, she made a mistake—Nora paused just long enough for him to glance up from his painting. Yards away, she remained spellbound under his intense green eyes.
Och, but this man might be the most beautiful she had ever seen. He was a dream, the perfect representation of a moody Romantic painter, windswept and a bit wild. Wild enough that when he raised his brows, her pulse quickened. She studied his lips—the laugh lines that crowded each corner.
Interesting, that. He didn’t strike her as someone predisposed to humor.
“Sapphire,” he mumbled to himself, concentrating on his painting once more.
Nora looked away, confused. Once again, he was defining her without her permission.
Hmph.
People thought women were the weaker sex, which was ridiculous enough. But not enough was said about the male population’s lack of appropriate boundaries.
The pit of her stomach ached as Nora’s feet carried her closer, drawn to the man. She couldn’t stop them even as her heart beat wildly. She preferred not to be hidden away or stored in corners of ballrooms, but she also preferred to keep her distance from people, especially strangers. Most especially a handsome stranger who couldn’t manage to button his shirt to the top.
“Yes?” he said, peering up. Instead of backing away, she moved forward.
Nora closed the distance between them, stopped short by the canvas. She studied the stranger, the way the rich paint colors caked into the scars and bruises on his hands—tan hands that spoke of time in the sun. Warmer sun, and not the one the highlands hugged close behind rainclouds and fog. Sun that spoke of beautiful blue water and trees completely foreign to Nora. Palm trees, she believed they were called. There were palm trees on the coast of Italy, and one day, Nora would go there.
A hundred things flew through her mind and words fought in her throat to escape. Instead, she swallowed them down, her chest swelling from the effort. Without saying a word, without asking one question or making a simple introduction, Nora gestured toward the canvas then walked around to view it.
The man was a talent.
Her praise died upon her lips as she smiled, admiring her likeness painted onto a moody landscape.
“It’s the ribbons,” he said in a low, husky whisper. “The red, you see.” He brought his index finger up to the canvas, careful not to touch the wet paint.
“Hmm,” she said, peering at him from the side. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, dark stubble covering his face. There were dark bags under his eyes, and the faint smell of whiskey on his breath.
Nora reeled back, ready for a proper introduction, some context as to why she was out walking at this time of the day. This stretch of land was usually hers and hers alone, and she didn’t care for sharing. Especially not with a stranger—even a handsome English one.
Nora met his stare, her hair dancing in the wind. It picked up, as if to carry her home. It was just as well. Surely breakfast was laid out—Maeve always drank the coffee, leaving none for Nora.
What could she say? What words could she put out in the world, and why would he care?
No words came.
As Nora continued on to Esslemont Abbey, the stranger’s focus immediately returned to the painting.
Twenty minutes later, clouds rushed in, dark and pregnant with the threat of rain. Nora rushed inside her family’s home, closing the heavy oak door behind her to face her mother standing guard in the hallway.
“I was wondering when you would return,” Nora’s mother
said with an annoyed tone. “Always walking. One of these days you’re going to catch your death outside.”
She almost had, some ten years earlier.
Nora arched her brows, acknowledging her mother’s constant disappointment. She untied her bonnet with chilled fingers. They would remain chilled for some time. Esslemont was a sixteenth century relic, stone upon stone. The house was bathed in darkness despite the grand foyer that soared up some three stories, exposing ancient oak beams. The house was a labyrinth, steeped in the history of her ancestors and the pride and joy of her father since he was never blessed with a son.
A fact he liked to remind Maeve and Nora both of equally since they were small.
“Mr. Knight is here to pay you a call.” Her mother leaned in to whisper, “He has been waiting for some time. Come now, hurry.”
With a flutter of hands, her mother and the maid fought to free Nora from her cloak.
Nora didn’t wish to see Stuart, especially not so early in the morning. He might fool her mother, but she was not so innocent to believe he kept early hours. Most likely, he hadn’t been to bed yet. Most likely, he had imbibed in too much brandy. Though he would do his best to conceal it. His charm was almost always liquor-induced.
Mrs. MacAllen’s fretting hands patted Nora’s frizzy hair. “You look a mess. Can’t you at least tie your hair back before you go walking?”
The answer, though Nora’s mother didn’t wait to hear it, was yes, she could be bothered. But when Nora hiked those mountains, she was as good as free from all the rules, the judgements, and misplaced pity. Tying her hair back would have been relinquishing that small taste of freedom over her person.
“Heaven help us, this will have to do. Now come along.”
Nora quirked an eyebrow in annoyance as her mother turned and huffed down the hallway toward the morning parlor.
“Come along, Nora Jane MacAllen!” Her mother stomped when she discovered Nora still lingered by the doorway. “I swear you were put on this Earth to punish me.” She dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. “Lord knows why Mr. Knight wants you as his wife. Your father’s money helps, but there’s no hiding the fact that you’re simpleminded. Come on. Hurry. Hurry!”
Mother never talked to Maeve this way. In fact, Mother never spoke this way to Nora before her accident.
Nora cursed under her breath, thankful that her boots clicked against the polished floors and hid her improper words. They made for a horrible escape in the early dawn hours, but at least they helped hide her sass.
Mr. Knight waited by the fire, stopping his conversation with Maeve as Nora and their mother entered the room.
“Good morning, Miss MacAllen,” he said, sliding away from Maeve. “You’re looking well.” He reached for Nora’s hand, which she gave, reluctantly.
Nora swiped nervously at her windswept hair with her free hand. The number of lacy doilies covering the furniture in this room made her uneasy. Draping lace over a sagging velvet couch might make it in style, but it did not hide the fact that there was nowhere comfortable to sit.
“You’ve been walking again,” he noted. “Your hands are still chilled.”
“Yes,” she answered, praying to remain calm. If she could collect her nerves, she may have a fighting chance in joining polite conversation this morning. It was when Nora grew nervous that her problem grew worse.
Mr. Knight dropped his hand from hers before she sat in the empty armchair by the fire. She found herself wringing her hands. Then she remembered the new tenant by Mrs. White’s cottage. She had never seen a painting that conveyed such feeling, a hand that moved so quickly to capture a fleeting moment with near perfection. It appeared as if he did not use sketches or studies, he painted with emotion.
She wished to see the finished painting holding her image, if she ever had the opportunity.
No. She did not wish to see that man again.
Lie.
“Maeve, come help me with the ledgers.” Mrs. MacAllen pulled the keys at her waist for emphasis.
“I’d rather stay, Mother. And speak with Nora and Mr. Knight. He was telling me the most delightful story of London.”
“London?” Their mother grimaced. “That city will corrupt you. I won’t have my daughters marrying any Englishmen. Come along.”
Stuart guffawed before asking once more if Maeve could remain behind. But it was no use. Soon, the room was cleared, and Nora faced her future husband alone. She swore she was more alone with him than by herself on the mountaintop.
“Dear,” Mr. Knight said. He brushed his fingers against the edge of the tea table, stacked with freshly baked scones. “Nora, I couldn’t help but come for a visit. You haven’t returned my letter.” He sauntered over to her.
She rushed to her feet, opening her mouth to speak but the words never came.
Instead, Nora gripped her hands tightly in front of her chest. Upon meeting his gaze, Mr. Knight caught his breath and smiled. Was it possible he thought her pretty? He had never said so.
Mr. Knight was handsome, she thought, looking into his deep brown eyes. Tall and broad shouldered. His face was heart-shaped and always cleanly shaven. He had a square-set jaw that was strikingly masculine, and a fine, straight nose.
He ran a hand through his golden hair, worn short as was the fashion and parted neatly with a slight wave. His clothes were finely tailored, despite his family’s money troubles, and he conveyed himself with a warmness that made him accessible. She appreciated that about him, even if it wasn’t always genuine.
“You look well this morning.”
He was repeating himself. “You’re d-drunk,” she said, holding herself still.
“A little, perhaps.” His eyes lit up.
There were qualities to value about her soon-to-be-husband, but there were plenty more that gave her pause. Their families had always been close, and that was enough at the start. But now…well, Nora wasn’t sure about him even if he did come from Scottish blood.
Mr. Knight brought her hand to his lips and allowed his kiss linger. When he finally met her gaze, an anticipatory glint shone in his eye. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips. Their heads collided.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” he asked with a lighthearted chuckle. “Keep your eyes open,” he instructed, “and step closer.” She did as she was told, gasping when his warm hands settled around her waist.
“Such an innocent,” he chided. Resentment stabbed in her belly as he laughed at her. She furrowed her thick brows.
Curiosity not desire won out. “K-kiss me.” She meant it as a demand, but it sounded more like begging, and she hated herself for it.
“An impatient innocent at that.” His fingers curled tighter around her waist and he tugged her against his body.
Her nerves burst into a strange fluttering.
Mr. Knight lowered his face to hers, where they bumped noses. He grumbled, lifting his hands to her face. “Stay still,” he ordered.
She did.
His fingers pressed firmly on her temples as his lips met hers with unexpected force. He moved his head over hers, positioning his mouth this way and that, darting his tongue along the seam of her mouth until she was forced to open to him. His tongue entered her mouth, and Nora, unsure, remained stone still.
Wasn’t kissing supposed to be pleasurable?
This was…well, anything but.
She moved her lips slightly, mimicking his movements. Instead, her mouth moved opposite and their front teeth collided.
“Och, lass!” Stuart pulled away, dropping his hands as if she had burned him.
Nora attempted a smile even if she did wish the floor would open up and swallow her.
Stuart stared back, disappointment etched on his face. They had been engaged for mere months and already he cast the same look her family reserved for her. Nora was someone to be shunned. She was a fly in a cook’s prized marmalade.
Her heart sank.
Nora subtly wiped at her mouth as she turned to the fi
replace. When Mr. Knight proposed, he had jested she could call him Stu to save her from stammering. She didn’t want pity. Certainly, she didn’t want ridicule either. But that was the difficult part of being engaged to Mr. Knight; she was never sure what he meant.
Today, he was drunk. She could allow a few small liberties; they were to be married in a month after all.
“Any word on D-d-d-daniel?” She balled her fists at tripping over her dearest friend’s name.
Stuart helped himself to a scone on the tea tray, which he ate like a child without a plate. She pointed to the trail of crumbs, but he only shrugged. “No, I suspect we won’t hear anything. Uncle was careful and likely sought out a place well out of reach of gossip.”
Daniel Carrier, her best friend, had been committed to an asylum by his family nearly six months ago after rumors spread he was discovered kissing his valet. Nora had agreed to marry Mr. Knight in exchange for his assistance in locating Daniel. After all, the two were cousins; he must want to help.
Nora was beginning to have her doubts.
“Nowhere in Scotland? Then over the b-bord-der?”
Stuart rubbed his forehead and heaved a sigh. “I need coffee. Can you ring for some?”
“You promised, Stu.”
He ate up the space between them with long, angry strides. “I have looked. I’m keeping my word, Nora. Daniel is nowhere to be found, and my uncle won’t speak a word further. Says he never had a son.”
Stuart grabbed her wrist and hauled Nora close. His hand skimmed over the tan frise of her bodice before resting on her breast. “And you,” he growled, “are still going to be my wife. You’ll do as I say.”
“I w-will find him.”
“Maybe he’s best left missing. You’d do best to mind yourself.”
Nora swallowed. If she were a braver woman, if she weren’t afraid to speak, she might have asked what he meant. Instead, she nodded, her thoughts escaping to the sunrise and the man in the field. That beautiful man, the one who carried secrets in those paint-smeared hands covered with scars.
The Duke’s Improper Bride Page 2
