The Duke (13 page)

Her breasts rose from the bodice of the gown in rounded white splendor, forming a deep cleavage that seemed to start nearly at the base of her throat. Oh, my God, she was a cow, hideous and misshapen.

“Brandy, ye don't look like yerself. Ye look like a queen, a beautiful queen, and ye're all so white.”

Brandy tried to cover her breasts with her hands, an impossible task.

“Aye, a queen, like that Helen who was held inside Troy that the soldiers came to save. Ian will think ye're more beautiful than any other lady in the world.”

“I don't think so,” Brandy said. “Nay, poppet, it's just me. Ian bought ye the horse, and for me he bought this gown. It is lovely, isn't it?”

Fiona stepped forward, looked to see that her hands were clean, then fingered the material. “It's all furry, like a rabbit. But I prefer my horse.”

Absurdly, Brandy asked, “Do ye think it's a proper dress to wear downstairs to dinner?”

“If cousin Percy were here, he would be sure to like it,” Fiona said with guileless candor that ripped Brandy apart. She was just telling the truth, but how could she know? She had come upon Percy on top of Brandy, but she just thought they'd been wrestling. Hadn't she? Oh, dear. No, she was too young to guess the truth.

Fiona said, “Well, I think it's stupid the way he's always looking at ye. And Connie, always batting
her
eyes at
him
.”

Fiona, that precocious child, had nailed the board exactly in the right place. Brandy walked across the room toward the windows, savoring the delicious feel of the gown against her belly and legs. Her eyes were
drawn to a light carriage that was pulling to a halt amid clouds of dust before the castle. She sucked in her breath as she watched Percy climb down. She quickly backed away from the windows. What in God's name was he doing here?

She walked back to the mirror and looked at herself for a long time. Then, slowly, she pulled off the velvet gown and lovingly laid it back into its box.

She thought of Ian and how she simply must do something about her appearance, else he would always think of her as a dowdy child. She quickly dressed in her waisted muslin gown, tightened the laces of her chemise over her breasts, and came to a decision. Ruthlessly she unbraided the long tresses and pulled a brush through the deep, tight waves. She fashioned a braided coronet high atop her head and drew the long masses of hair through the circle, curling the ends about her fingers. She looked in the mirror and was satisfied, at least from the neck up.

Brandy entered the drawing room rather later than usual that evening, for Fiona, still excited over her wooden horse, hadn't wanted to go to sleep. Then she wanted to have the horse sleep next to her. Brandy had to yell a bit at her. Now she prayed to be unobtrusive, but realized the moment she stepped into the room that this was not to be. Her eyes first fell upon Constance, lovely and terribly grown up in her new gown, and she choked back a stab of jealousy.

Lady Adella took one long look at her and roared, “Stupid girl, I thought we'd finally banished the ugly duckling. Ye look like a scraggly weed next to yer sister. Well, at least ye've gotten rid of yer child's braids. It's some improvement, but I'd prayed for more.”

Percy said to Lady Adella, never looking away from Brandy, “As ye say, lady, our ugly duckling has changed some of her plumage, but not enough. If
she'd allow me, I'd teach her how to present herself in, shall we say, a more conclusive light.”

“What do ye mean by conclusive, Percy?” Constance said.

“Yer sister's a woman, Connie, but she doesn't want to present herself as one. I could help her, show her, encourage her, even.”

“I don't think so, Percy,” Brandy said.

Ian thought her hair looked stunning. But damn, he'd been certain that gown would be perfect for her. Brandy said to him, “The gown is quite lovely, Ian, truly it is. It is just that it did not fit quite right and I must make alterations before I can wear it.”

She turned quickly to her sister. “Ye're lovely, Connie. The green matches yer eyes, just as Bertrand said, and the gown fits ye to perfection.”

Constance nodded her head gracefully. Those green eyes of hers showed nothing but triumph. Aye, she thought, Brandy did look like a scraggly weed, just as Grandmama said. Tonight she'd gain what she wanted. Percy would want her, not her sister. She was pleased to the very tips of her toes that she was herself and not Brandy. She gave a pouting smile to Bertrand, since he seemed to admire her so very much. And he had bought her the gown, after all. The pout made his eyes darken. She'd practiced a long time to get it just right. She felt gratified by her success. Perhaps, she thought, trying to untangle her budding woman's wiles, if she paid more attention to Bertrand, Percy would take more interest in her. She turned to Bertrand and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Do ye really like the gown on me, Bertie?”

Bertrand, more than fascinated by the pointed pink tongue, willingly allowed himself to be seduced. “Aye, Connie,” he said in a voice that sounded hungry even to himself, “ye're the fairest lass in all of Scotland.”

But Percy was looking at Brandy, curse him. What
was she to do now? Here was Bertrand looking at her like an infatuated mule and she just didn't care. Why was Percy so interested in Brandy? Just look at her.

Percy was saying in a low voice to Brandy, “Ye don't appear sorry to see me, little cousin. Perhaps ye've changed yer mind? Perhaps ye and I can take a little stroll on the morrow? Perhaps I can teach ye all those things ye do need to learn.”

“Perhaps the devil roves all about the land, like the Bible says. Perhaps the devil would like to return to Edinburgh and treat the ladies there like harlots. Isn't that what the devil does?”

Percy threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Dinner be ready, yer grace,” Crabbe shouted from the doorway.

“Ye needn't sneak in like a limpet, Crabbe,” Lady Adella shouted back at his wooden face. She gave a loud creak of laughter at her own joke. “Come here, Brandy, and make yerself useful. If ye can't look like a lady, ye might as well forget yer hoity-toity manners and help me on with my shawl.”

Percy whispered, “So ye've a new gown from the master, lass. I ask myself why ye must make alterations on it.” He looked at her flattened breasts. He remembered her struggling beneath him. She wouldn't have fought him long, he'd told himself over and over after he'd been forced to climb off her.

Brandy arranged Lady Adella's new Norwich shawl about her thin shoulders very precisely before saying coldly, “Why did ye return to Penderleigh? Did yer heiress discover yer true nature and tell ye to take yerself to perdition?”

“What a sharp tongue sets on yer shoulders, little cousin. Nay, my heiress pleaded with me to remain with her, if ye must know.”

“It's a shame ye didn't see fit to comply with her
wishes. It's certain she would appreciate ye more than we do.”

“I will agree with the child, Percy,” Lady Adella said, “if ye don't behave yerself. No more of yer Robertson ways, Percy, else ye'll be sorry.” She looked at him from beneath furrowed brows. He realized with a start that she knew of his attempted seduction of Brandy.

He felt a sudden stab of fear, for the old woman could still, he supposed, prevent him from becoming legitimate. Damn the girl, anyway, she'd wanted it, he knew she had. Coy, that was what she was, and a tease. He said easily, “I shall be as meek as the Cheviot sheep the good duke has just purchased, lady.”

“Percy thinks himself much in demand,” Bertrand said, unable to hold his tongue and wishing he had once the words were out of his mouth, his dislike as evident as the look of surprise on Ian's face.

“Eh? Percy in demand?” Lady Adella said. “The only ones to demand ye, my boy, are the constables from debtors' prison and all those loose trollops on the east side of Edinburgh.”

“Not for very much longer, as ye know, lady. Not for very much longer at all. Ye'll see. Everything will change once I'm a true Robertson.” He sounded certain of himself, which he was. He even whistled all the way to the vast dining room.

B
randy walked quickly toward the stables, some ten minutes late, having waged an exhausting battle with an old and very snug riding habit that had belonged to her mother. She could take only short breaths because of the painfully tight lacing of her chemise.

Her step lagged as she drew near the rickety stables. She was a complete idiot for having smiled at Ian and told him how she loved to ride, and all because she just wanted him to herself for one entire morning. Now he certainly thought she must be a wonderful rider, all grace and smooth gait. Oh, God, she would be brought down, and she deserved it.

Perhaps she had a very small chance of surviving the morning with his opinion of her riding not destroyed. She would be riding Old Martha, who'd moldered happily and quite lazily in the stables for more years than Brandy could count. Surely Old Martha wouldn't mind Brandy on her back for a couple of hours, surely. She never seemed to mind anything else. She'd let Old Martha go where she liked and as slowly as she liked. Surely she could manage that. She looked at the stables, seeing them for the first time through Ian's eyes. They hadn't been mucked out for weeks, as Wee Albie avoided that task until someone found
the time to yell at him until he finally did it. The loose, unpainted boards creaked at the slightest wind from the sea. There were many leaks in the roof.

“So there you are at last, Brandy. I had begun to give up hope.” Ian smiled at her flushed face, wondering if she had run all the way from the castle. “You're looking lovely. I like the green velvet on you, very smart.” Actually, he thought, any change from her own gowns and the tartan shawl was an improvement, but her hair, it wasn't a girl's style. She'd braided it high atop her head, like the previous evening, and set a plumed riding hat squarely over her forehead.

Brandy took several small, gulping breaths, afraid that at any minute the buttons on the fragile blouse would pop open. “Thank ye, Ian,” she said, her eyes shifting to one of his huge gray stallions. “Ye look smart too,” she said, and he did, in buff riding britches and a matching buff jacket and those very manly boots that came up to his knees. She thought they were called hessians.

“I thank you too. You're admiring Cantor, I see. He's one of my favorite mounts. His sire was Madras from the Kensington stud in Westerford. I'm going on and on like this because he's yours to ride this morning. I looked at that miserable old hack in the stable. She stared at me as if I were jesting when I told her she was in for a treat. I don't think she would have moved, no matter how many carrots I offered her. So, Brandy, you have Cantor. He's certainly more worthy of you since you're an accomplished horsewoman. He's a bit frisky but well mannered. Given how well you ride, you can handle him without a second thought.”

Brandy had many more than just two thoughts. Cantor had wicked, shifty eyes. He was going to kill her and all because she was a braggart, all because she'd not only bragged, she'd lied without hesitation and
with no regret, and now she would pay for it. She would die and it would be only her fault. Though Cantor stood quietly enough, tethered to the duke's hands, she knew he was just biding his time until he felt her own inept hands on his bridle. She gulped.

“He does look rather spirited, Ian. Perhaps he's just a bit too spirited for me. I haven't ridden such a magnificent horse in a very long time, maybe even never in my life. Perhaps it would be better if I gave Old Martha some more carrots. She's rather greedy, and that just might get her out of her stall.”

“No, I swear he's not too spirited at all. It's true he's itching for a gallop, as is my own stallion, Hercules. But Cantor is a gentleman, you'll see. I unearthed a side saddle for you.” As she hesitated, he said, “You mustn't think that I can't properly girth a saddle, for I have gotten much practice in Scotland. Here, let me assist you to mount.”

Brandy gulped yet again and nodded. Well, my girl, she told herself, ye must turn yer bragging into fact. If ye don't die first. She placed her booted foot on his laced fingers. Cantor sidled away just as Ian tossed her into the saddle. She hadn't even ridden a foot and it was all over for her. But no, she managed to hang on. More important, Cantor held still.

“Be polite, Cantor, you've a talented lady on your back. Show her your best side this morning.” The duke patted Cantor's nose. He placed the reins into Brandy's gloved hands and turned to his own horse.

Oh, please, God, look kindly upon a fool. Then she said aloud, “Please, Cantor, don't toss me into a ditch. After you toss me onto some soft grass, please don't step on me. I promise ye carrots by the dozen if ye'll help me not to shame myself.”

Ian brought Hercules prancing neatly to her side, and she knew sharp envy at his skill. “Where would you like to ride, Brandy?”

With sudden inspiration she said with a swarmy smile, “Ye lead the way, Ian, and I'll follow behind. I've covered all the land ye see, and wish to follow someone else's lead. Who knows where ye'll want to go? This will be fun.”

“As you will. We'll go slowly for a bit, but then I promise you a treat. While Bertrand and I were visiting some of the crofters, I spotted a wide, flat meadow that will be perfect for a gallop.” He smiled at her, and just for an instant she admired that smile of his and those beautiful white teeth. She admired that hard jaw of his, knowing he was very likely more stubborn than the most stubborn stoat.

Then reality hit and she thought of that meadow, pictured that long, long meadow in her mind, saw herself galloping across it, and nearly burst the buttons on her mother's blouse.

The duke gave Hercules a gentle dig, and the stallion broke into a smooth canter. Brandy had no time for a simple click, for no sooner did Hercules break into a slow, measured stride than Cantor, oblivious of the ineffective tug on his reins, snorted, flung his head up, nearly ripping the reins from her hands, and pranced forward.

Brandy gripped the pommel and concentrated on keeping her seat. She chanced to look down and nearly fainted. The horse was two stories high, at least. At least Ian was in the lead. She fully intended to keep him there. No way would she let him see how she was managing to keep herself in the saddle.

She forced a pathetic smile, not without some difficulty, when Ian pulled up Hercules and waited until she came alongside.

“The wooded area around Penderleigh reminds me somewhat of the home wood at Carmichael Hall—that's my country home in Suffolk. It's a massive old place set in the middle of a huge park. I think you'd
like it. There's a home wood, lots of elms and maples and oaks. And more birds than you can imagine. The only thing is, though, we don't have the sea at the back door, or any heather.”

She said something about how grand it sounded, but her full attention was on Cantor and how he seemed to be doing this dance beneath her. What was a home wood? If it was where you lived, of course it would be home and the trees there would be the home wood. Well, she'd figured something new out before she died.

“No,” the duke continued, looking around him and breathing in the sweet morning air, “I have nothing so awesome as the sea, but there is a long, winding lake that sits like a beautiful blue gem in the middle of the maple forest.”

Cantor's ears flattened. “I should much like to see it,” she said, staring at those ears that seemed sewn down to his head, so flat they were. Why? What could Cantor possibly have to be mad about? She hadn't asked him to do a single thing.

“Do you like to swim, Brandy?”

That got her attention momentarily, and a big smile. “Aye, indeed I do. I wager, Ian, that ye would have a difficult time beating me. The sea currents make one a strong swimmer, ye know. The last time Bertrand raced me, I left him swallowing water and thrashing around. I thought I'd have to go save him.”

He raised a black brow, trying to picture this slip of a girl beside him stroking through the choppy waves. She'd beaten Bertrand, a man?

“Laughing at me, are ye? I see it, ye don't believe me. Well, ye'll be singing a different tune, yer grace, once I have ye in the water. I'm very strong, ye'll see. Ye can lower that sarcastic eyebrow of yers as well.”

The black brow remained cocked upward and he
grinned. “Bertrand called you a mermaid, but I doubt he was referring to your prowess as a swimmer.”

“Nay, it's because I'm often damp and smell salty. He likes to tease me. He's done it all my life. But ye know,” she added, her chin up, “I don't think he'd ever want to see Connie like me.”

“Ah, so you've seen that the breeze blows in that direction. Bertrand is besotted with your sister. Actually, it took hardly any encouragement from me during our trip for him to praise your sister in the most revoltingly glowing terms. He nearly put me to sleep, he kept going on for so long about her beautiful hair, her magnificent eyes, her straight nose—good God, he just wouldn't stop. It's too bad that Constance doesn't as yet return his regard. But she's young. Time will tell.”

“Ye ending in a platitude, yer grace? Time has nothing to do with it. You know as well as I do that it's that damned Percy again, curse his blighter's eyes.”

He laughed aloud.

“Oh, dear, I keep forgetting that I shouldn't curse in proper company.”

“I'm not feeling particularly proper at the moment. Damn away, Brandy. And you're right, I did spout a platitude. Not, well done of me. Now you've got me on my toes.”

She sighed. “If only Connie would see him for what he really is—a vain, strutting villain. Goodness, I pity that poor heiress of his.”

“Perhaps,” the duke said quietly, looking straight at her, “just perhaps once he has the Robertson name and his heiress, he will forget about all that he can't possess.”

“It isn't important, truly, it just doesn't matter. Grandmama was encouraging him one minute, and scolding him, telling him to keep away from me in the
next. I had hoped to be rid of him. It's strange that he came back just after ye did yesterday. Did he tell you why he'd come back to Penderleigh?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn't worry about it. Since I'm about, he'll keep his distance. Remember, Percy is a lot like Lady Adella. He likes to make mischief. He likes to mock and to sneer. I suspect he became that way to protect himself from slights. I can't imagine that being a bastard would be a very pleasant way to face life, people being the way they are. I suppose that he heard of Bertrand and me being in Edinburgh and thought it safe to return. But who knows? To be honest, I really don't care at the moment.”

With those words he dropped her right back on Cantor's back. How could she have forgotten that death was so very close for even five minutes? She'd been talking about swimming. And Percy. She was a bloody fool.

Ian drew up suddenly. “Here we are, Madame Excellence. The meadow. You're dying to grind me beneath your heel, aren't you? All right, then, a race. Our first race will be by land and, if you're willing, and I can see that you are, our second will be by sea.”

“Men are all big talk. You'll eat our dirt. Then what will ye say? ‘Aye, Lady Adella, I hate to admit it, but I was trounced by a mere female.' And she'll laugh louder than Uncle Claude and thwack her knee, and you'll be so humiliated, you'll slink away to your bedchamber and hide for a full week.”

“All that? My, but we're cocky, aren't we? As for this race, Brandy, Cantor has all the speed of Hercules, so you get no beginning start. The last one to the trees must pay a forfeit.”

Brandy looked across the long stretch of meadow and knew she would die a fool. And she would die soon, even though the trees on the far side of the
meadow seemed at least five miles distant. She opened her mouth to confess that she was a shiftless liar, but she couldn't get the words out. She looked at the duke, saw that beautiful smile of his, the challenge in his eyes. Her head nodded. She hadn't told it to, but it had, just nodded and nodded. She heard a voice come out of her mouth: “I have all the advantage I need, Ian. Prepare to lose, yer grace. A forfeit, ye say?” In that instant she dug in her heels and slapped the reins against Cantor's neck.

She heard Ian's shout of laughter behind her.

For a brief moment she forgot her fear, so smoothly did Cantor race across the meadow. She felt her riding hat loosen in the wind and slapped her hand down on it, pressing her body close to Cantor's neck. She saw Ian close rapidly beside her, and she lost what little sense of self-preservation she had left. She dug in her heels. She actually encouraged Cantor to go faster, as fast as the wind.

The once faraway trees loomed closer and closer. She would run into those trees and not just kill herself but also Ian's horse as well. She had to do something. How the devil did one pull up the ton of horseflesh beneath her? She heard Ian's deep laughter as he pulled ahead of her. She watched him draw Hercules to a smooth stop at the very edge of the trees and whirl him about to face her.