The Duke (12 page)

Lady Adella realized that she had buried herself in a losing argument, and she knew that her threat was a hollow one. Never would the duke let Percy have the girl. She hastened to change her direction, gnashing her teeth impotently at the duke's orders. She resorted to a fine display of rage. She slammed her cane
hard into the side of a small table and sent it crashing to the floor.

It didn't work. Brandy shook her fist. “I'll run away. Do ye hear, Grandmama? I swear that I'll run away.”

Lady Adella drew up short and sucked in her breath. A cunning grin pulled up at the corners of her mouth. “Ye run away, Brandy, and I'll take Fiona away from ye.” She had no idea how she could accomplish such a feat were it required of her, but she saw that she had finally won the battle. The rebellion was gone in a flash. Brandy stood there, shoulders slumped, defeated.

“Aye, that's more the thing, lass. Fiona is like yer wee bairn, isn't she? Once ye're married—after yer season in London with the duke and duchess—she'll be all yers, I promise ye.”

“Ye're wicked, Grandmama, just plain wicked.”

“I may be, ye silly child, but it matters naught. Now off with ye, for I wish to speak to yer Uncle Claude. He's waiting for me, he is, at the dower house.”

Brandy whirled about and ran from the sitting room. She rushed from the castle, heedless of the fact that Percy could still be about, and made for a lonely stretch of beach, far away from prying eyes. She rushed to the edge of the water and gulped in the salty air. She stood staring blindly toward the empty horizon, wondering if anyone beyond that stretch of water could be as miserable as was she. Water lapped about her sandals, and she retreated beyond the reach of the rising tide to a large out-jutting rock.

She wrapped her skirts about her legs and sank her chin to her knees. She felt tears sting her eyes. She would never give up Fiona. She would do anything, even wed with Percy, not to lose her little sister. Her mind brought her back to her other choice. London with Ian—and his bride. The thought brought with it such a sense of despair that she pressed her knuckles against her eyes to keep away the damnable tears. To
be in his company every day while that hated, faceless wife held his attention and his love. Unbidden, the words she had spoken to Percy rose in her mind: “I won't chase dreams.”

She was a witless fool, she told herself. She couldn't have the duke, so there was the end to it. She swallowed this bitter pill and forced her thoughts to London. She had no workable notion of exactly what a Season involved. Obviously, from the way Grandmama spoke, it must involve scores of single ladies and gentlemen coming together for the purpose of deciding who would marry whom. She tried to picture these gentlemen, but only Ian's face appeared before her. She rose abruptly and kicked a stone with the toe of her sandal. I might well be a witless fool, she repeated to herself again, but I do want him, and I'll have none other. She drew herself up and stared out to sea.

She was chasing a dream, but she didn't care. Sometimes dreams were all there were.

 

Lady Adella leaned heavily on her cane as she followed Fraser into the small sitting room in the dower house. “Don't ye get up, Claude,” she said sourly, “there's no reason for the both of us to suffer.”

Fraser helped her sit down, then offered her one of his freshly baked scones.

“Strawberry jam, my lady?”

“Nay, Fraser, I like them just as they are, with the butter oozing over the sides.” She gazed at him, a gleam in her faded eyes. “Morag would be a fat slut were ye still living with her. Claude, ye got the best of the bargain. Would ye like to trade Fraser for Morag?”

Claude cackled, displayed bits of buttery scone against his black front teeth. “Fraser stays right where he is, lady. Besides, ye try to force him to be near
Morag, and he'd take himself off to Edinburgh. Have I yer measure, Fraser?”

Fraser folded his lips into enforced silence and nodded pleasantly.

Lady Adella poked his leg with the tip of her cane. “Don't ye miss having a wench in yer bed, Fraser? I vow Morag gets scratchier by the day, seeing as how she has nay a man to tumble her.”

Fraser's nostrils twitched. He said, “If ye'll allow me to say, my lady, it isn't a man Morag needs, it's a thorough scrubbing twice a day with a bar of lye soap.”

Lady Adella choked on her scone, and Fraser delicately thumped her back. “I like a man who speaks his mind, Fraser. Off with ye now, for I must needs bore myself with yer master.”

After Fraser had calmly bowed himself from the room, Lady Adella turned to Claude, smacking her lips free of crumbs.

“Well, nephew, now we can speak freely. Attend me well, for the subject will be closed after today.”

Claude sat forward in his chair, his eyes glittering, his gout forgotten for the moment.

“Ye know that the time has come to make retribution. I suspect that old MacPherson is grinding his teeth at the tasks I've set him. But it will be done. Ye'll have yer claim to Penderleigh, as will Bertrand after ye. As to what it'll bring ye, only God and the devil know.”

Claude said harshly, “Ye set me more trouble, what with yer legitimizing that scoundrel Percy before ye reinherit me. And the English duke—what do ye plan to do with him, may I be so bold as to ask?”

Lady Adella raised a penciled eyebrow. “What would ye that I do—poison him like the Borgias? Come, my boy, ye know there was naught I could do whilst Angus cursed this world with his presence.
After he died, I could do naught immediately, for the duke's claim carried the day. Look ye, Claude, the duke pours his English money into his estate. I have no intention of allowing the faucet to be turned off till the well is dry. Then we'll see. Ye, Bertrand, Percy—it's a fine battle we'll have if ye've any blood in yer veins.”

Claude growled deep in his throat. “Ye've tied my hands, lady. And I can see that ye haven't even looked beyond the end of yer nose. If the duke's claim holds, then not one of us will ever benefit. Penderleigh will fall into the English line and be forever lost to us. Have ye any idea of how I feel to see Bertie sing the praises of that damned English duke? Why, I don't think the boy feels even now that I and then he are Penderleigh's true heirs. And ye, lady, ye are under the duke's thumb, just as am I, and ye keep yer claws sheathed.”

Lady Adella leaned forward and said softly, “Aye, ye're right, Claude. But remember, the duke has no direct heirs as yet. Right now there's only a cousin—an English cousin—to succeed him. Surely, ye can't believe that a Scottish court would rule in favor of an English cousin who has no blood ties with the Robertsons.” She raised her hand as Claude looked ready to protest. “Enough, my boy. I've done all I can for ye and Bertrand, and, aye, for Percy too. It's up to ye now. I'll be saying no more on the matter.”

“I want only what is my due,” Claude said, his anger rising. “Ye give me the horse's saddle but not the horse.” A crafty look settled into his small eyes. “What if, lady, the world were to discover the cause of my father's disinheritance? What if, lady, ye were—”

Lady Adella threw back her head and roared with laughter. “Douglass was never as doltish as ye, Claude. I'd call ye a miserable liar and hound ye as far as the Highlands. Yer father held his tongue until he reached his deathbed. His only mistake was in
telling ye, my lad. If ye've a brain in yer head, ye'll not tell Bertrand, though. He seems to me a spineless creature, lapping about the duke's heels.”

“I'll not let ye speak thus of Bertie. I think, lady, that ye've far more the taste for bounders like Percy than for gentlemen like my Bertie.”

Lady Adella held up a conciliating hand. “Calm down, Claude, afore ye burst yer heart.” She took a noisy sip of her tea and changed the topic. “I haven't told ye, but I intend our Constance for Bertrand. I'd thought we would have several years yet, but the girl has blossomed more quickly than I expected. If I don't miss my guess, yer son's hot for her.”

Claude reared back his head in patent disbelief. “Wee Connie? Why, Bertie's never spared a thought for a wench in all his life, more's the pity, save that trollop in the village.”

“I'm surrounded by witless fools. Open yer eyes, my boy. Connie's not like Brandy—she thinks herself a woman grown. If Bertrand plays his gentleman's game with her, he'll soon find himself left in a ditch, with no one but himself to blame.”

Claude thoughtfully stroked the stubble on his chin. “Bertie tells me that the duke plans to dower all the girls.”

“Aye, but ye needn't worry about Constance trekking off to London, as the duke intends for Brandy. Lord, we'd have to wait another two years, and I tell ye, she'd have lost her maidenhead long before that.”

Claude shifted painfully in his chair. Bedamned but that gouty foot was paining him today. “Very well, lady, I'll speak to Bertie. But don't expect him to ravish the chit.”

Lady Adella endeavored to picture such an event but failed. “I can't even imagine Bertie without his breeches. More likely, I think, if we are to get anywhere at all, it will have to be Connie who seduces Bertie.”

B
randy discovered during the next two weeks that the idyllic existence she had sought to cling to held less and less pleasure for her. Her thoughts centered more and more upon the duke, on what he was doing and whether his thinking ever included her. She even allowed herself the fancy of picturing herself as an elegant young lady whose Scottish accent had miraculously disappeared, whose bosom had become far less prominent, surrounded by London gentlemen, with a jealous Ian standing close by. No, she thought, the duke would never be jealous. Jealous of what? He was too certain of himself, of who and what he was to ever know doubt.

She was in the middle of seeing herself languidly waving a fan to and fro when she heard the rumble of carriage wheels and brought herself back to the present.

She walked slowly back to the castle, wondering who had come to call. MacPherson, most likely. Grandmama had mentioned that he was to visit. As she rounded the last outcropping of rhododendron bushes along the drive to the castle, she drew up dead in her tracks. There in front of the castle steps stood the duke's carriage.

She suddenly became aware that she looked like a
sorry excuse for a female. Salty, damp tendrils of hair clung to her forehead, and her old gown hung about her with all the style of a crofter's wife's. She thought to skirt the front entrance and creep through the servants' door and up the back stairs when she heard her name ring out:

“Brandy!”

The duke and Bertrand stood beside the carriage, looking toward her. She ground her teeth and forced herself to wave at them. There was no way she'd get close to them. She would keep her distance.

“She always has the look of a little mermaid,” she heard Bertrand say to the duke.

A porpoise more like, she told herself and forced her feet to move forward, just a little closer to Ian, each step more painful than the last.

“Yes,” the duke said with a smile. He drew in a deep breath of the fresh sea air, aware that he was glad to be back at Penderleigh. The huge gray rambling castle no longer appeared to him as a crumbling old ruin and a ready drain on his purse. It was a proud symbol of Scotland's rich past.

“Come, Brandy,” Bertrand called, “don't dawdle. We've much to tell, and the spice goes out of the telling if it must be repeated.”

There was no hope for her. “Good afternoon, Bertrand, Ian. I trust yer trip was successful.” That sounded nice and formal, elegant even. Perhaps they'd listen to her and not really look at her.

“Aye, that it was,” Bertrand said. “Lord, my girl, ye smell salty as the sea itself.”

In that instant Brandy hated the sea. She looked up at the duke's face to see his eyes lit with jocular good humor. She wanted to scream at him that he wasn't her damned uncle. Her pounding heart plummeted to her toes. He thought she was a ragamuffin, a dowd, a
child. Damnation. She said, “I will go change now, if ye'll excuse me.”

“Don't be a silly goose,” Bertrand said, clapping her on the shoulder. “It matters naught if we have a mermaid in the castle.”

There was no doubt about it. He did think he was her uncle, she thought, as Ian added in that hideously kind voice of his, “Yes, come, Brandy, I have brought you a present from Edinburgh, and I don't want to wait in the giving of it.”

A present? Had he bought her a doll? She nodded, the image of herself as that elegant young lady waving a fan to and fro gone from her mind.

As she passed beside him, Ian had the urge to wind his fingers around the salty tendrils of heavy blond hair that curled over her brow. He made no move at all. He hadn't the least idea where that urge had sprung from. He wasn't a man to give into urges, particularly ones he didn't understand.

As the three of them entered the drawing room, Ian found himself wondering just how Lady Adella would treat him. He had not, he grinned to himself, left her on exactly the best of terms.

Lady Adella, Claude, and Constance were in the drawing room having afternoon tea. It was, Ian thought, Lady Adella's only concession to her English heritage.

“Well, ye're back from mucking about in yer sheep dung,” Lady Adella said, and snapped her teacup back on its saucer.

“That we are, lady,” Ian said, finding he'd missed—perhaps just a bit—her sour humor. “I see you're in good health.”

“Aye, no thanks to ye. Well, Bertie, yer presence relieves me. Claude's become a maudlin bore in yer absence. Better ye than I living with him.”

She saw that Bertrand was in conversation with
Constance, and said in a loud voice, “I can see ye've missed yer cousin more than yer father. Knowing yer father as I do, I can't say that I blame ye.”

“Indeed I have not,” Bertrand said calmly, and made his bow to Claude. “I was just telling Connie that Ian and I spent several days in Edinburgh, seeing the sights, visiting the duke's man of business and his bank.”

“What sights?”

“Well, the castle, for one. And many other things as well,” Bertrand said.

“I hadn't thought ye interested in brothels, Bertie,” Lady Adella said slyly, fingertips tapping the arms of her chair.

Ian laughed. “Nothing so decadent, I assure you, Lady Adella. Edinburgh is a beautiful city, in fact, London's undisputed northern rival. I might add that it boasts excellent shops.”

“Aye, and ye might guess that Ian insisted upon visiting them,” Bertrand added, his eyes intent on Constance's face. He straightened and pointed toward Crabbe, who stood in the doorway, holding several wrapped boxes in his arms.

“Ye brought me a present,” Constance yelled, leaping to her feet.

“We brought all the ladies presents,” Ian said, looking at Lady Adella to see what she'd make of this. He wasn't disappointed.

She snorted. But she stuck out her hands fast enough when Ian handed her a prettily wrapped box.

“What is it, a shroud to cover my old bones?” she said, all indifferent.

“Nay, lady. I suggested it, but Bertrand hadn't the fortitude to visit a shroud shop. He said you wouldn't take it well, so I was forced to think of something else.”

“Ye're a sly one,” she said, snorted, and quickly
began pulling away the layers of silver paper. “Och!” She withdrew an exquisite shawl of Norwich silk, the varying shades of blue shimmering like spun sky in her hands. “It's not fit for an old woman. It'll bring out all the wrinkles in my face. It will make me look shriveled, nearly dead.” But her eyes told a different story.

“That's exactly what I told the shopkeeper,” Ian said. “I told him something in plain black with no adornment.” He sighed. “I suppose he went against my wishes. I will have it returned for the black.”

Lady Adella gave him a sour look and clutched the shawl to her meager bosom.

The duke handed Brandy her present while Bertrand placed a wrapped box into Constance's waiting hands. He wondered how Brandy would react to a gift that was more for a fully grown woman than a girl who was a woman in years but not in other ways.

Brandy's hands trembled as she lifted out what seemed to be yard upon yard of dark blue velvet. She stood slowly and shook out the gown in front of her. She saw no sash or belt and wondered where the waist was. She looked doubtfully up at the duke.

“It's the empire style, made fashionable by Napoleon's Josephine,” Ian said, smiling. He wanted to add that such a gown hugged and lifted a woman's breasts and made a man want to slaver, but he held his tongue. He prayed her breasts were large enough to fill it out. God, the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass her.

“It's beautiful, utterly beautiful. It's so soft. I've never before felt anything so rich and warm. But I don't understand, Ian. It has no waist. I fear I would look quite odd in it.”

“Not at all,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face. “It's designed to fall in a straight line from well above your waist. The style is all the thing in London.”

She looked closely at the small gathers in the bodice of the gown and realized that the small expanse of blue velvet above was meant to cover her bosom. She paled at the thought. She wanted to scream and cry at the unfairness of it. Why had nature made her a cow? Why had fashion decreed two inches of material were all that was necessary to cover a woman's breasts?

Ian was watching the myriad expressions dance across her face. She was embarrassed. She didn't like the gown. He shouldn't have bought it for her. Well, hell.

“Brandy, if the style doesn't please you, we will just have a seamstress design another gown for you. It doesn't matter, truly.”

She hugged the beautiful gown against her breasts. “Oh no, it's the most wonderful gift anyone's ever given me. I thank ye, Ian, for yer kindness.”

“It's nothing. I just wanted to please you.” His voice was gruff, which was unusual. He turned quickly at Constance's crow of delight. He grinned to himself, for he had insisted that Bertrand choose Constance's gown. It was a deep green muslin, with row upon row of delicate lace covering what would otherwise be a most inappropriate expanse of bosom for a sixteen-year-old girl.

Brandy lovingly wrapped the gown and placed it back in the box. She looked up at Ian. “Fiona, yer grace?”

“I would never forget your wee child,” he said with a smile, and pointed at a large wooden crate near the door.

She raised eyes brimming with love to his face. He shook. No, she intends it for the child, he told himself. That look is for Fiona, not me. Hell and damnation, why did that bother him?

“Let me fetch her.” Brandy dipped a slight curtsy and ran from the room.

Bertrand said to Constance, “The green matches yer eyes, Connie, though the material could never be as warm and as bright.”

Lady Adella shot Claude a look fraught with meaning. “I see ye have become a poet, Bertie,” he said, gazing at his son with new eyes. “So ye got nothing for yer old father, eh?”

“Nay, Father, only the ladies,” Bertrand said, looking quickly away from Constance, who was looking at Uncle Claude as if he'd spoken German to her.

A bright mop of red hair appeared in the open doorway, followed by a child's high squeal of delight. Fiona stood speechless in front of the large wooden crate, so overcome that her mouth was open.

“Come, poppet, I'll help ye open it,” Brandy said. “Ye want to guess what it is? Ian gave it to ye, brought it all the way from Edinburgh.”

“Let me help,” Ian said, and pulled Fiona's small hands away from the wooden crate. He and Brandy pulled the boards until the top flew off. Brandy rocked back on her heels. “Oh, goodness,” she said. “Oh, my.”

“It's a horse,” Fiona cried, and began to tug frantically at the lifelike mane.

“Just a moment, sweetheart,” Ian said, laughing, “let me pull him out for you. Hold, now. Let go of his mane for just a moment.” He pulled the horse out of the crate. “It even has a saddle and bridle,” he said. “And it rocks. See?”

“Oh, goodness,” Brandy said again. She was on her knees next to her sister. She looked up at him and said in a voice soft enough to melt stone, “It's the grandest present she's ever had, Ian. Ye shouldn't have spoiled the child, but I'm glad ye did. Fiona
doesn't get many gifts. There's never money for that sort of thing. Thank ye.”

Dear God, she looked beautiful staring up at him, her soft, lilting voice flowing over him like warm honey. Felicity, he thought, and felt a knife of guilt turn in his innards. “You're most welcome,” he heard another man say to her, another man who couldn't feel anything toward her save cousinly feelings.

“I say, Ian,” Bertrand said, “don't ye think it's time we informed everybody of our other purchases?”

“Yes, it's a very large and very wooly purchase, presents for Penderleigh. Seriously, we purchased sheep from a rather dour old man in the Cheviot, near to Fort David.”

“A man by the name of Hesketh,” Bertrand continued. “Have ye heard of him, Lady Adella? He owns a large old stone manor house that looks as time-honored as Penderleigh. He's got a long nose and he's always scratching his ear.”

“Hesketh,” she repeated slowly, and shook her head. She looked sourly over at Fiona, whose crows of pleasure were becoming more enthusiastic. “Brandy, remove the child and her horse before my head splits with her noise.”

“Come, poppet, we can pretend he's the great wooden horse that sat before the gates of Troy.”

Brandy settled Fiona and her horse near the small fireplace in her bedchamber, then pulled the exquisite velvet gown from its silver paper. She quickly stripped off her clothes, not even bothering to keep on her shift. She wanted to feel the soft, shimmering material against her skin. She slowly slipped the gown over her head and let it float down over her body. With some difficulty, she managed to fasten most of the small hooks up the back. She felt the small gathers, sewn into a stiff band of material, pushing her breasts upward and forward. Hesitantly she walked to the long,
narrow mirror in the corner of her room and stared at herself. All she could do was stare, speechless, furious, red with embarrassment.