The Duke (17 page)

“Rest assured, old boy, that I in no way encouraged Felicity's thinking. Indeed, I found myself forced to be an unwilling recipient of her venom all the way to Scotland.” He drew to an alarmed halt as Ian opened the door to his bedchamber.

“Good God, I do hope that you will tell me that this is where you expect my valet to sleep.”

“Dammit, Giles, I simply haven't had the time to see to the refurbishment of the castle. This room is perfectly adequate, and I've already suffered similar observations from Felicity. You are snobs, the both of you. Since you're here, though, I would be quite happy to allow your artist's talents full rein. Not that I'll listen to you, necessarily, but it will give you something to do other than pander to Lady Adella's lascivious side.”

“I would be hard pressed to know just where to begin,” Giles said, dusting off a chair top with the tail of his coat. “This place needs more than just my excellent taste, not that my taste isn't an excellent place to begin. It needs an army of carpenters, an army of furniture warehouses, a battalion of—”

“Shut up, Giles, and stop your jabs. I don't care what you do. Order that valet of yours—old stiff-necked Pelham—to turn your room into proper form. If you must know, my Mabley is quite enjoying himself now, after his initial shock.”

Giles sighed in gentle suffering and walked to the window. “No wonder it's so devilish damp. The place is very nearly hanging into the sea. To think that I let that ice maiden talk me into coming here. I wanted to say no, I begged her to reconsider, but do you know what she said?”

“N
o, what did she say?”

“She went on and on about wishing to see your new estate, how you must miss her dreadfully, and that she wanted very much to make you happy and the only way to do that was to present herself in front of you.” He shook his head. “I don't believe that, of course. It all had to do with Brandy, as I told you. Believe me, Ian, she's an ice maiden.”

“Ice maiden? I thought she was a termagant.”

“Unfortunately, I believe that dear Felicity is both. If I do not miss my guess, she will be all ice and coldness at night and a termagant boiling with acrimony during the day.” He brushed a speck of dust from his coat sleeve and added softly, “Poor Ian, she is not at all like Marianne, you know.” He ignored the tightening of his cousin's lips and the rush of color to his cheeks. “Much the same looks and appearance, I grant you. Of course, if you wish to make a marriage of convenience—”

“You go too far, Giles,” the duke said, his hands fisted at his sides. “Marianne has been dead these six years. She has nothing to do with anything. As to Felicity's character, either during the night or the day, I think you must grant that I am in a much better position to judge than are you.”

“Don't call me out at dawn, Ian. Undoubtedly you are quite right, but then, you have never spent the better part of a week with her.”

“Giles, you're goading me to the point of planting my fist in that beautiful face of yours. Not another word. Just believe me. All Felicity needs is a firm hand, and, as I have told you before, she will do my bidding.”

“You make her sound like some sort of filly to break to bridle.” He looked as if he would say more, but only shrugged. “Have you been much in the company of Felicity's brother, Lord Sayer?”

“He's a gambler, something of a womanizer, I hear, but an excellent horseman. I don't dislike him. He strips well in the ring and shows a good account of himself. Like your friend Aldous, he doesn't whine. Why?”

Giles shivered delicately and regarded his beautifully manicured nails. “I find him rather indelicate, rather outspoken, mayhap vulgar.”

“Why? Because he doesn't wear gold buttons the size of saucers?”

“I don't think it's particularly smart of you, Ian, to draw attention to your own lack of style,” Giles said, and the laughter was clear in his eyes and in his voice.

The duke threw up his hands. “Damn you, Giles, stop tossing around those damned barbs of yours. Lord, but you and Percy will have a fine time of it.”

“Percy? Who is this? Another Scottish relative?”

“He's a bastard,” Ian said, and grinned like a fool. At Giles's arched brow, he added, “His father, now dead, was one of Lady Adella's two sons. Percy was born on the wrong side of the blanket but is in the midst of becoming legitimate at this very moment.”

“Good Lord,” Giles said, rubbing his hands together, “and here I thought I was going to be bored down to my toenails.”

“Ah, here's Pelham. I'll see that Wee Albie sends up your bath.” The duke laughed again. Why the devil was that so funny? Giles wondered as he stared after his departing cousin.

When the duke finally reached his own bedchamber, he looked about the large, gloomy room. He doubted it had ever looked inviting or warm or cozy. It was quite different from his magnificent suite of rooms at Carmichael Hall, but in his opinion, even in its current dilapidated condition, it wasn't all that bad. He caught himself wondering idly what Brandy would think about his ducal residence—and in the next moment walked over to a wooden chair and kicked it violently toward the fireplace.

Mabley came bustling into the room, saying, “We mustn't dawdle, your grace. You know how particular Lady Adella is about gathering in the drawing room before dinner. Crabbe told me that once a visitor was only twelve minutes late and Lady Adella had Crabbe dump his plate over his head at the dining table.”

“No,” Ian said, “we don't want haggis dripping down our necks.” He eyed the bald head and cherubic face, and found himself smiling at how Mabley seemed to have settled in.

“Do with me what you will, Mabley. I'm in your hands. The only favor I ask is that you please not make me as grand as Giles.”

“I should think not, your grace. My, my, whatever happened to this chair, I wonder?”

 

Brandy shook her fist toward Felicity's bedchamber as she paced the threadbare carpet in her room. How dare that fine English lady call her a servant? Damnable twit, aye, that's what she was, a twit. How could Ian ever bear her? No, she didn't want to think about that. Call her a servant, would she?

She halted in front of her mirror and felt all her
anger collapse in on itself. She looked like a crofter, no doubt about it. Her hair was knotted and wind-whipped all about her face, face and hands sticky with salty seawater. She smelled a strong whiff of her own fishy scent. Oh, dear, it was too much.

Constance chose that moment to dance into her room in a state of nearly incoherent excitement. “Brandy, I got a glimpse of her. Did ye see her gown and that gorgeous bonnet? And so small she is. I felt the perfect clodpole just being near her. Why, she can't possibly even reach Ian's shoulder. And her hair, it's even a purer black than mine, and those green eyes of hers, as pure as the moss down at Slanaker's forest.”

“I didn't see anything so very special about her,” Brandy said.

It wouldn't have mattered if Brandy had compared this new goddess to a rut in the road, for Constance took no notice at all. “Ah, and that gentleman—Giles Braidston. He's so elegant, so very fashionable, far more so than the duke. Grandmama told me that he's Ian's cousin, and even though she called him a gossiping fellow in that sour way of hers, I could tell she was impressed. Ugh—fish. Brandy, do ye wish to disgust our guests? Ye look and smell like a fishmonger's wife. Goodness, do take a bath. I do wonder if my new gown—the green one—is stylish enough for Lady Felicity's taste.”

She dashed to Brandy's mirror and peered closely at her black curls. For the first time she noticed that her sister was very quiet, just standing there, her fists at her sides, staring at nothing in particular. Constance frowned, her brows drawing together. “Ah,” she said. “Her coming here distresses ye, doesn't it, Brandy?”

“Why should I care where she goes? But I will tell you something, Connie. She's a rude bitch. You think
she'll be polite to you? I doubt it. She thinks she's above all of us. She thinks we're crude and savage.”

“Perhaps all that is true,” Connie said slowly, studying her sister's face. “But she's also going to marry the duke. Even if she dripped charm, even if she called you the prettiest lass alive, I can't imagine ye liking her.”

“That's drivel and ye know it, Connie. It will always be drivel. I'll thank ye to forget what ye just said. No one would like to hear it.”

Constance shrugged. “As ye will. It doesn't make any difference to me. Ah, Brandy, ye might try wearing the new gown Ian bought for ye.” Brandy didn't say a word. “I must go. I think I'll have Marta do something special with my hair.” She was humming an English ballad as she left Brandy's bedchamber.

After Constance left her, Brandy thought a moment about the beautiful velvet gown and dismissed it with a sigh that bordered on fatalism. Ian would be sure to think her a perfect cow, with her bosom sticking out as it would in that dress. She was so unlike the petite, exquisitely slender Felicity, damn her eyebrows. She gazed toward the closed door. Had she been so obvious in her feelings that even Connie had seen them? Evidently so. She would have to be much more careful.

After biding her time for a good hour until a tub was free for her use, she managed to convince herself that the famed Robertson pride—at least it was famed according to Lady Adella—must see her through this evening. She arranged her long hair in the Grecian style, pointedly ignored the lovely velvet gown, and yanked down a waisted green muslin. She added the crowning touch of her mother's faded shawl, drawing it closely over her breasts, and forced her feet downstairs.

Felicity, after driving her maid to distraction with
conflicting orders and demands, finally achieved a result that pleased her, and walked down the wretchedly dim corridor downstairs to the drawing room. She knew that she was some minutes late, but she didn't care, for she was determined not to let Ian dictate to her. It was best to begin as she meant to go on. She would bow to his wishes when it seemed to be in her best interest to do so. This wasn't one of those wishes. She would have preferred eating in her bedchamber, but she doubted there was any such thing as a tray in this pile of stone.

Ian gave her a slight nod, his look not particularly loving, and made brief introductions to Claude, Bertrand, and Constance. Felicity looked closely at Constance, for this girl, unlike her sister, gave the impression of budding beauty, with her carefully coiffed black hair and her green dress. Yes, she was lovely and just might be beautiful in a couple of years. Why that dowd Brandy? It made no sense to Felicity. Then she got the shock of her short life.

“Ye're late,” Lady Adella said, not mincing matters, guest or not, “and I, for one, don't like my haggis cold. Ye'll not do this again, or ye won't like the consequences. Give me yer arm, my boy,” she said to Giles and stuck out an arthritic hand.

Felicity wanted to shriek at the crude old lady, but she knew it wouldn't serve her well. She merely nodded, saying nothing. When the duke drew her arm through his, she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. Surely he would condemn the old lady's rudeness and believe Felicity the epitome of tolerance. No, there was no smile for her, curse him. He was angry with her for being late. Well, he would get over it soon enough. She would smile at him, perhaps tease him a bit. But he did look stern, withdrawn even, and so very severe in those black, even clothes of his.

She'd spent a week with the laughing, stylish Giles.
Ian was nothing like his cousin. A pity. She shuddered delicately, her eyes drawn to his large hands, to the long fingers, blunted at the tips. She thought of him touching her. She shuddered again.

As Ian seated her at the long dining table, he said mildly, “You must see that it's important to Lady Adella that everyone is punctual for dinner. I trust you will pay more attention to the clock in the future, if for no other reason than to avoid her sharp tongue. And also those vague consequences she threatened you with. Though if it's boiling oil, I'll try to make her select a milder punishment.” He'd meant it as a mild jest, to lessen the tension between them, but she didn't even look at him. Would she be in a snit all night? He drew a deep breath and waited.

He waited a few more moments, just stood there, but Felicity said nothing at all.

No smiles for him just yet, she was thinking, and so she ignored him and turned her attention to Lady Adella, who was saying to Giles, “Tell me more about Dudley, my lad. Ye know I fancied myself in love with his grandfather once, the old scoundrel. I heard that he ran aground against Fox—one never went against Fox and came away unscathed—and was forced to burrow away for two years in his country estate in Kent.”

Giles willingly cudgeled his memory, but as the event described happened before his entrance into the world, he was forced to dwell upon the grandson. “A dull sort of chap, my lady, turned squire in a corner of Kent, and has quite half a dozen brats hanging onto his coattails. No wickedness of the grandfather in him, it would seem, just dull, mundane life for him.”

He sent a wicked look toward Ian and added, “Much like our Ian here, I fear, perfectly content to ignore his ducal advantages and consequence, and trudge over his acres. Admit it, Ian, you scorn town
life, and if you have your way”—this said with a pointed look toward Felicity—“you'll want closer to a dozen brats. From the size of him, Lady Adella, I'll bet he'll breed giants, all just as sturdy as those oak trees on his property. Yes, at least a dozen, more's the pity for his wife.”

“You know I can't pick you up and throw you into the haggis, Giles,” the duke said. “But I just might sneak into your bedchamber and toss you out the window onto that cannon below.” He grinned as he spoke, then turned quite serious, looking at Felicity. “Though I must admit that I do prefer country life. I love to fish in Carmichael Lake and give Cook the trout to bake for my supper. I enjoy racing my horses across the eastern meadows and shooting pheasant in the maple forest. There are Roman ruins to explore and an old abbey that Henry VIII destroyed in the sixteenth century. There is peace and quiet there and history that won't fall into meaningless rubble it would in the filth and destruction of London. And if I could be assured of half a dozen little Fionas, I would most willingly populate Suffolk with my offspring.”

Felicity dropped her fork into the mess of unnameable food that was on her plate. She stared at Ian. She shook her head. She said, “Ian, surely you are joking, yes, you must be. The country is wonderful when it is snowing and Christmastime. It's most satisfying to ride out in a sleigh to find the best yule log. But who cares about those silly ruins? About that spider-filled old pile of rocks that was once an abbey? Ah, and the most important thing. I can't imagine anything more vulgar and common than redheaded children.”