The Duke (26 page)

He jumped off the rock and stood in front of her, his eyes dark and narrowed. He yelled, “Why are you playing this game with me? Do you wish me to feel more the scoundrel than I already do? I can't and won't accept what you have said. Don't you see, Brandy, I must set things aright. I must. I have no choice.”

She rose also, and stood tall and proud. “I'll say it again. Ye're absolved, yer grace, of any dishonor. I refuse to allow ye to sacrifice yerself. Ye need have no concern that anyone will ever know that I shared yer bed, for I have no intention of telling anyone.”

He slashed his hand through the air. He was so frustrated he wanted to howl with it. But still—she'd known, she'd known. He drew a deep breath. “Forget
Marianne. She's dead, long dead. You're alive. I'm alive. We will wed. We will live together and it will be good between us. I admire you and you love me. I want you more than I've wanted any woman in a very long time.”

“But ye can't say ye love me, can ye, Ian? Not like ye loved Marianne.”

He went perfectly rigid. “Brandy,” he said finally, his voice low and urgent, “I want you to wed me, to come back to England with me. You must realize that it is foolhardy for me to stay. Indeed, I can no longer be blind to the fact that the man who shot me will continue to evade me as he is everyone else. There is really naught to hold me here save you. Even the Cheviot sheep are all penned and happy. Marry me. Come back to England with me.”

“I can't,” she said. “I'm sorry, Ian, but I can't.” She forced herself to turn away from him. “As for the villain, whoever he is, aye, I think ye should return to England. I can't bear ye being hurt again. Go home, Ian. Ye've saved Penderleigh. Ye're more generous than any of us could have expected. Ye've given Bertrand pride and responsibility. You've given him the means to see us well into this new century. We'll survive now, thanks to ye. We even have sheep, and ye're right. They're all settled. Our people are happier than gypsies with handfuls of gold coins. Go home.”

He stared down at her. He could think of nothing more to say.

She gave him a brisk nod. Without another word she walked away from him down the beach, toward Fiona, who was still trying to make the sand turrets of her castle stay upright.

I
an and Bertrand stood on the front steps of Penderleigh in quiet conversation, while Crabbe and Mabley directed the loading of the carriage. The duke's curricle stood just beyond, Wee Albie holding nervously onto the horses' reins. It was very early, scarce past seven in the morning, a bright, sunny day it would be, the warmth of spring in the air.

If everyone believed the duke was leaving because he was afraid for his life, no one said anything, which he appreciated. He was in no mood to discuss anything with anybody, particularly the identity of the bloody bastard who'd tried to kill him.

“As much as I'd like ye to stay, Ian, getting ye out of Scotland does make me easier in the mind. I'll write ye, naturally, to tell ye how we progress with the Cheviot sheep.”

“See that you do, Bertrand. I'll like to hear how happy the crofters are. Write me about the family too, if you wouldn't mind. Since I'm to be an absent owner and an absent relative, I do want to know how everyone is going along.” As he'd told everyone good-bye the previous evening, he'd looked closely at each one's face, including Lady Adella's, wondering and wondering which one of them wished him dead. Brandy hadn't been there, curse her hide.

She'd excused herself shortly after dinner, so that he'd had no opportunity to speak privately to her. Not that he had anything more to say to her. Both of them had said everything. He would never understand her, never.

Marianne was dead, long dead. Why would his second wife care if he occasionally dreamed about his first wife? If he sometimes felt the sharp pain of her death yet again? If he chanced sometimes to relive that terrible nightmare in Paris, or remember the more tender times? Surely a wife would understand that, surely a wife would adjust.

He'd told her he was very fond of her. She'd told him that she loved him. Well, she was very young.

“I'll continue to keep a fire lit beneath Trevor. There must be something more the fellow can do.”

“I wish you luck on that one, Bertrand.”

“Excuse me, yer grace. May I speak with ye before ye leave?”

Ian turned sharply away from Bertrand at the sound of her voice. He felt something deep within him lurch at the sight of her, something warm and really quite satisfying. He also wanted to strangle her. She was standing some feet away from him. She looked nervous and uncertain. Well, she should. Perhaps she'd changed her mind. Perhaps she would plead with him to forgive her, to marry her. Yes, that had to be it. He took a quick step toward her. He wanted to pull that damned braid apart and untangle her hair with his fingers. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and smell the lavender scent. Lavender? How'd he know that? From that night she'd come to him. The scent, strong for a moment, now faded away.

“I'll see how Mabley and Crabbe are faring,” Bertrand said, knowing well when to lose himself, and walked to the carriage.

“I didn't know ye meant to leave so early. May I have but a moment of yer time, please?”

What was going on here? She didn't sound like a woman who was ready to give over, a woman who was ready to plead to become his duchess. He nodded and followed her back into the castle, to the drawing room.

She saw that he wanted to speak, and forestalled him. “I need money,” she said baldly.

“You what?”

“Perhaps a hundred pounds, if that isn't too much for ye.” She saw his dark eyes narrow. She couldn't let him turn her down. She said quickly as she reached her hand out to touch his sleeve, “Ye said that ye meant to dower both Fiona and me. I need the money now. Couldn't ye please just deduct it from my dowry?”

“Would I be too common to ask why the hell you need one hundred pounds?” God, he sounded like a cold bastard, but he couldn't help it. He got another elusive scent of lavender.

Up went her chin. She stared at him straight in the face. “I need it for clothes, yer grace.”

Like hell, he thought. Why was she lying to him? What the devil was going on here? He started to pin back her ears, when he looked closely at her. She looked scared and determined, an illogical combination, but that's what was showing on her expressive face. And she was pleading, not her tone of voice, but those eyes of hers, pleading with him for one hundred damned pounds. Her fingers, with their short, blunt nails, wildly plucked the fringe of her shawl. He wished she would put her hand back on his sleeve. God, she was warm and soft. He loved her hands on him.

What else could he do? He folded his tent. “Very well. Fetch me paper and ink.” At the tilt of her head,
he said, “It would be foolish to give you a hundred-pound note. I'll write you a draft, and MacPherson will handle the transfer of funds for you.”

She was out of the room in a flash. As if she expects me to change my mind, he thought. When she returned but a few minutes later, he still couldn't think of a likely reason why she should want the money. Why one hundred pounds?

He took the paper and ink from her outstretched hand and wrote out instructions to MacPherson. He paused a moment before writing in the amount. He thought she could have very little idea of the value of a hundred pounds. Whatever her reasons for wishing the money, he wanted her to have enough. He entered the sum of two hundred pounds, signed his name, and handed her the paper.

She sputtered and very nearly dropped the paper when she read the amount.

He said smoothly, “I've found that clothes are far more expensive than I believe they will be. Even clothes in Edinburgh. Clothes are important. You always want to look your best.”

“That's very true. I thank ye, yer grace. Ye'll take care, won't ye?”

“Brandy—” He took a step toward her.

She quickly splayed her hands in front of her and backed away from him.

Damn her. His voice was hard as he said, “Very well. Since I am returning to London, it's doubtful that anyone will ever have to do any worrying about me again. You've made yourself very clear. I can see there's nothing more I can say to you to change your mind. I wish you good-bye, Brandy. I trust you will achieve what it is you're after. Some virginal knight on a white horse, no doubt, with no past, no painful memories.”

He gave her a mock bow and strode from the
drawing room, not looking back. A man had his pride, after all.

She walked slowly to the window. She saw Ian and Bertrand shake hands. Just behind the closed carriage, burdened with luggage strapped firmly to the boot, Mabley stuck his head out of the window to speak to Crabbe. In but a few moments Ian stepped gracefully into the curricle. With a final wave to Bertrand, he flicked Hercules's reins. The small entourage jerked into motion and was soon lost to sight among the thick rhododendron bushes.

He was gone. He was well and truly gone. She could have gone with him. She could have married him. Ah, but the price was too great. She looked down at the paper he'd written for her. The price was much greater than two hundred pounds.

Brandy detested tears. They never helped anything, just made her eyes puffy and red. They'd never made her feel any better for crying them in her eighteen years. But in this instance she didn't even realize they were running down her cheeks until she tasted salt. She dashed her hand across her mouth. There was no time for this. She had too much to do. MacPherson lived in Berwick and it would take her at least two hours to walk there.

She straightened her shoulders and walked back up the stairs to her room to change her sandals for a pair of stout walking boots.

 

Five days later, the Duke of Portmaine pulled Hercules and Canter to a stop in front of the huge columned entrance of the Portmaine town house, a giant edifice that dominated the eastern corner of York Square. It was a bright April afternoon, the sky was cloudless, the air sweet, though not as sweet as in Scotland. His mood was not happy. It would have
been better had it been raining. Rain or fog, either one. Anything but this bloody nice weather.

He dined alone that evening, sorting through the huge pile of invitations and correspondence that had accumulated in his absence.

As it was the height of the Season, he found that his presence was requested at a seemingly endless number of routs and assemblies. He was on the point of tossing the myriad gilt-edged invitations into the fire when it occurred to him that the last thing he needed was to entomb himself in this barn of a house. He had left Scotland behind, and now it was time for him to become an Englishman again. He had no intention of going to ground, like a mole. No, he would live life to the fullest. He would enjoy himself. He would have every woman who even aroused his male interest. He would sate himself on females.

During the next several weeks, the Duke of Portmaine, jokingly referred to as the Scottish earl by his friends, was seen at a dozen social functions, dancing with even those young ladies who weren't all that toothsome. If some chose to assume that the duke was trying to forget Lady Felicity's jilting of him, well, there wasn't anybody around to disagree. The duke certainly never mentioned a single word about Lady Felicity. It made all society talk about how noble he was not to call her the heartless chit she indeed was. Society was even more aghast when Lady Felicity was seen in the constant company of the Marquess of Hardcastle. The gentleman in question got stouter as her attentions increased. They were seen everywhere.

The gossips were kept well supplied, as it appeared that the duke passed an equal amount of time in various gaming hells, a different woman on his arm each time, each one lovelier than the last.

The duke was also becoming fond of opera. He was seen in his box several nights in a row. Of course,
the incredibly beautiful leading lady, whose lungs were covered by truly remarkable breasts, was seen a good deal of time in his company. He was seen coming out of her apartment, apparently not caring who saw him, yawning, straightening his waistcoat or his cravat, all in all, thumbing his nose at everyone.

It was obvious that the Duke of Portmaine was going to the devil. No one was surprised, when the Season drew to a close in the beginning of June, that none of the young ladies who'd dared to flirt with his grace had received an offer of marriage. Lady Felicity's announcement, however, appeared in the
Gazette.
It appeared that she was marrying the Marquess of Hardcastle in the fall, the fickle witch. No one blamed the duke for a single thing. The more wicked he was, the more everyone forgave him. He was noble, he was good, it was fine for him to be wild as a young buck, at least until, say, the fall.

The duke shook his head when he read the announcement. James, his butler, however, was the only one to see the amused smile that played about his grace's stern mouth. “Poor blind ass,” he heard the duke say to himself. “He'll learn, but it will be too late.”

One morning toward the middle of June, the duke didn't come out of his bedchamber until the clock stroked twelve times. It was noon. When he came down, he had the most terrible hangover he'd ever had in his life, which was saying something, since his years at Oxford hadn't been particularly sober. He thought of his opera singer, of the four other courtesans who'd warmed his body and his bed. It was too much. It was time to stop.

He was drinking a cup of very strong coffee prepared by his compassionate cook when James soundlessly appeared at his elbow, bearing a silver salver that held his grace's mail.

“Good God, hasn't everyone yet had the good sense to leave town and go to Brighton? More damned invitations. I'm tired of all these wretched parties. I'm even more tired of myself.”

James didn't bother to reply to these comments. They were private, just between his master and himself. But he agreed with the duke. Every servant in the duke's household would agree with what he'd just said. He stood quietly behind his master as the duke leafed through the various-sized envelopes. He saw with some surprise that his grace singled out a letter, one that had come all the way from Scotland. How odd, his grace's hand was shaking a bit as he slit open the envelope.

The duke read the letter, then read it again. He smiled grimly as he said, “Well, James, it seems that Percy has achieved at least one of his goals.”

“Yes, your grace?”

“One of my Robertson kinsmen, James. Percy, the former bastard. He's to marry Miss Joanna MacDonald in two weeks' time at Penderleigh Castle. My presence is graciously requested. I imagine her father wants to be reassured that the new master of Penderleigh is indeed an English duke and not some sham invented by Percy.”

“Ah,” said James.

The duke was silent for several minutes. James watched as the duke tapped his fingertips together, his dark eyes focused on a delicate Dresden figure atop the Buhl cabinet in the corner of the breakfast room.

“Will your grace be returning to Scotland?” James asked finally, so curious he was itching with it. Something had happened there, something that had to do with His Grace's broken engagement to Lady Felicity. It must have been something both good and bad, the good being that he wasn't going to marry that harpy. The bad being that he'd been wretchedly unhappy and off his moderate course since he'd returned to London. James waited.