The Duke (5 page)

“Brandy, look, someone is coming up the drive. It looks like one of those gentlemen's sporting vehicles.”
Constance shaded her eyes from the dying sun, still bright through the scattered storm clouds.

Brandy straightened, holding Fiona's grubby hand, her own face now covered with copper flecks of rust. She gazed at the oncoming curricle with only mild curiosity. Surely the man was driving too fast, for great whirls of dust whipped around the wheels.

“Great horses,” Fiona shouted, jumping up and down with excitement.

“Aye, that they are, poppet. Very big horses and the man driving them is an idiot.”

“They're much better than these stupid old cannons.”

With those words Fiona broke free of her sister's hold and ran as fast as her skinny legs would carry her toward the curricle.

“D
ear God, Fiona, come back right this instant or I'll take my hairbrush to your bottom!”

Brandy yanked her skirts to her knees and dashed after the child. “Fiona!” She screamed, fear suddenly clogging her throat. She saw the steaming stallions, their eyes flaming with surprise, rearing and plunging, and heard the blurred shout of a man's voice. With a hoarse cry Brandy leaped forward, grabbed Fiona's arm and, with all her strength, hurled the child backward. She heard the frightened whinnying and snorting of the stallions as she rolled upon her back beside Fiona in a tuft of yellow anemones. She gulped down two heaving breaths and turned frantic eyes to her sister.

“Poppet, are ye all right?” She was running her hands over her little sister's arms, her legs, feeling her head through her tangled braids.

“Of course, Brandy, but ye hurt my arm. I just wanted to play with the big horses.”

Brandy cursed, not overly vulgar words because Grandmama had had Old Marta wash her mouth out with lye soap once when she'd tried out something Tommy in the stables had said when he'd been kicked by Uncle Claude's old mule. She wanted to shake Fiona for her stupidity.

She saw Constance standing but a few feet away from them, her eyes widened upon a gentleman who was jumping gracefully down from the curricle.

“Pull yer skirt down, Brandy,” Constance said out of the side of her mouth, her eyes never leaving the man's face.

Brandy jerked her skirt over her old woolen stockings and jumped to her feet. The gentleman was striding toward them, his dark eyes narrowed and his swarthy face red with anger. He was wearing the most elegant driving coat she'd ever seen. What right did he have to drive his horses as if the devil were after him? What right did he have to look angry? He was the one at fault here. He was the idiot who'd been driving too fast.

She forgot his elegance when his voice, cold as ice crackling in a glass bowl, cut through the air. “Just what the devil do you mean letting that child run in front of my horses?”

Fiona stared up at the huge gentleman, her eyes wide with excitement. “They're so grand. I just wanted to see them up close. I hoped they'd stop and let me pet them.”

“So close that they could have broken every bone in your body. As for you,” he continued, turning toward Brandy, “your bravery was quite unnecessary. I always have quite good control over my cattle. You could have killed yourself with that lame-brained stunt.”

Connie, all lovely and pale with the shock of the near accident, her black hair waving beautifully down her back and over her shoulders, smiled her lovely budding woman's smile. “Sir, ye must forgive my sister, sometimes she acts without thinking. Though I must admit that Fiona scared me too.” Then she gave him a formal curtsy. A curtsy? thought Brandy. This was absurd. So he looked elegant. Who cared? He was rude and he was in the wrong.

Brandy looked at him straight in his very handsome face, but she wouldn't think about that, just about his bloody stupidity.

“You, sir, were driving like a madman. How could anyone begin to guess that ye would have such wonderful control over yer cattle, as ye put it? Should I perhaps just have waited to see if the madman avoided trampling my little sister? Go away, sir, and take your lovely horses with ye. If I had a gun I'd be tempted to shoot ye. Ye're a bloody menace. What's more, ye've no right to be angry with us. This is our land, not yers. Ye were driving recklessly and ye shouldn't even be here.”

A very clipped English voice said, cold with anger, “Now that I see that you are unhurt, I have no desire to cross swords with a rowdy, thoughtless pack of children. I suggest that you remove yourselves quickly before I am sorely tempted to take my hand to your backsides. Not have control over my horses? Indeed!”

It was obvious that the stranger believed them to be peasants' brats, beneath his exalted voice.

Brandy's cup was filled to overflowing. “And I suggest to ye, ye pompous sod, that ye remove yerself from Penderleigh land. Now that I realize ye're English, I should have guessed that ye'd have not one smidgen of manners and even less breeding. In short, sir, take yerself to the devil, though I doubt he'd have ye, at least if ye got anywhere near him driving like that.”

The Duke of Portmaine, his nerves frayed and his temper already sorely tried from his long journey, took an unmeasured step toward the repulsive brat who dared criticize him. He stared hard into rather large and passionate amber eyes and halted in his tracks. Damnation, the girl didn't even flinch.

He knew a tired breath and said with finality, “I'm sorry I frightened you, children. It wasn't well done
of me. You're right. How could you have known that I could easily control my horses?”

He looked at the two grubby faces, ignored the other young girl, who was on the verge of womanhood and was obviously delighted to have a male specimen around for her to practice her budding wiles on, and thought to himself that he could make them, as well as their probably very poor parents, quite satisfied. He quickly drew several guineas from his waistcoat pocket and tossed them to the youngest child. “Here, this should cleanse your wounds and salve your feelings. Do see to the little girl in the future. You shouldn't be so careless with her safety.”

Brandy was so stunned, her mouth stood open. In the next instant he had turned away from them and climbed gracefully into the curricle.

She was still trying to dredge up long ago curses that the man would appreciate when he whipped up his horses and was gone from them.

“Ye look like a fish,” Connie said. “Ye look stupid with yer mouth standing open like a door.”

“I thought you said fish.”

“Look, Brandy, they're gold. Big gold pieces, the man gave us gold.” Fiona held out the two guineas in her grubby hand and proudly displayed her fortune.

“Give me those.” Brandy grabbed the coins. “I can't believe he actually gave us money.” Fiona began to sob.

Constance punched Brandy's arm. “How could ye be so nasty to that gentleman? I was never so mortified in all my life. He was lovely and young and you made him really angry. As for you, Fiona, you should be beaten.” She added her Parthian shot as she turned away, “Don't expect me to take any of the blame when Grandmama finds out—and you know she will, she has more spies than England. If Papa were alive or Grandpapa Angus, ye'd get the whip.”

Brandy raised her fist to Constance's back, then lowered it. She turned on her sister. “Quit yer sniffling, Fiona, and yer nose is running. Here, wipe it. That's better. No, stop whining. Ye sound like a brat. The man gave us the guineas because he thought we were poor crofters' children. It would be wrong for us to keep them, don't ye see?”

Fiona sobbed all the harder, and Brandy, at the end of her patience, grabbed her sister's arm and hauled her to the small wooden door at the side of the castle. She put the man out of her mind, and concerned herself with how to escape Old Marta's sharp eyes. Oh, Lord, she had to hurry.

“Please hush, poppet,” she said, her voice gentle. “I'll scrub ye down myself and no one need know. I even promise to throw myself over yer little body if Grandmama raises her cane at ye.”

It was close to an hour later before a well-scrubbed Fiona was tucked into her bed, her small stomach filled with cold chicken and buttered scones. Luckily, Morag had brought up Fiona's dinner.

“I canna stay, lassie,” Morag said. “Cook be all a-flutter wi' so many mouths to feed.” She cast a disinterested rheumy eye over Brandy. “Ye best to ready yerself, lassie. Yer lady grandmother be already wi' the family downstairs.”

Brandy carried a candle across the hall to her own small bedchamber. No fire burned in her room this time of year.
Dear
Cousin Percival in all likelihood had a roaring fire in
his
room. Given the way he flattered Old Marta, he probably had buckets of hot water for his bath.

She stripped off her filthy gown and shift, and with cold fingers pulled away the tight lacings of her chemise. She gritted her teeth and splashed cold water over her body. The myriad flecks of rust clung
stubbornly, and she was covered with gooseflesh before the harsh lye soap had done its job.

She toweled herself dry and grabbed a clean shift and chemise. She thought of Percy and that repulsive way he'd stared at her this afternoon. She looked down at her excessive bosom, and wondered if he had been staring at that part of her. She jerked the strings painfully tight over her breasts. She gazed into her mirror and saw that the effect was not as flattering as she'd hoped. Well, there was nothing more she could do about it. She pulled a pale blue muslin gown from the old armoire, a young girl's dress, high-necked and sashed at the waist. The buttons over her bosom gaped apart. In desperation Brandy unearthed from her mother's chest a dark green and yellow shawl. She quickly brushed out her long, thick hair, the habitual braids causing deep ripples that fell to her waist. Her hair, she thought, was her only fine feature, and remembering Percy's roving eyes, she rebraided her hair more tightly than usual and wound the long rope into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. There, she looked like a very boring young girl who had not a single bit of taste.

Pulling the shawl tightly about her, she blew out her candle and slipped from her room.

One smoky flambeau lit the long expanse of corridor, and its acrid smell made Brandy's eyes water. She gingerly made her way down the wide oak staircase, for the carpet was threadbare on several of the steps, making the descent hazardous to the unwary.

Crabbe was nowhere to be seen, and Brandy thought again of Percy and how his presence had placed a burden on the servants. She heard voices coming from the drawing room, and mindful that she was late—goodness, more than late now—hurried across the worn flagstone entrance hall. With the
greatest care, she eased open the drawing room door and slithered inside, hoping no one would notice her.

A rush of warm air from the great roaring fire at the opposite side of the room nearly smothered her. She wanted to cough, but she didn't. She saw her grandmother dominating the family, holding court from her faded, high-backed chair, smoke-blackened from its years of proximity to the fireplace. Scores of candle branches illuminated the cozy scene.

She heard a rich, deep laugh. In an instant her eyes sought out the owner, and she found herself staring, mouth agape, at the gentleman from the curricle. She felt color rush to her cheeks, and stood rooted to the spot. Oh, my God, was all she could think.

Oh, my God. What had she done?

He laughed again at something Grandmama said. Even though she was across the room from him, she saw his strong white teeth when he laughed. She realized that he was even larger than she remembered, his swarthy countenance heightened by the snowy white ruffled shirt that reminded her of a pure expanse of clean snow. In the glowing candlelight his eyes seemed as dark as his black satin evening coat. A very elegant gentleman he appeared, and certainly many pegs above any of Grandmama's friends from Edinburgh.

Oh, my God.

“Brandy, there ye are, child. Come here at once and make yer curtsy. Ye'll not believe what the bowels of England have coughed up.”

Brandy's eyes flew to her grandmama's face, and with the lagging step of a person bound for the guillotine, she bowed her head and forced herself to walk forward. It was the longest walk of her life. At the very least, she'd get the whip.

“Ye're quite late, miss, but no matter, all understandable. His grace has just been telling us of yer interesting meeting and how you trimmed his sails but
good. I told him ye were my granddaughter and I'd taught you everything ye knew.”

Oh, my God. What was going on here?

She fully expected to be taken apart by every verbal apparatus known to her grandmother, but she sounded amused and pleased. Something wasn't right. She forced her eyes to her grandmama's face and indeed saw amusement.
His grace.
The truth struck her with such force that she nearly collapsed with shock. He was the English duke—their new master.

“Miss Brandella,” he said in a rich, lazy voice.

Without thought, she said, “Brandy, my name is Brandy.”

“Very well, Brandy.”

“Make yer curtsy, child.”

Awkwardly Brandy bent her knee. She didn't want to look at him. She just wanted to turn around and leave the room. She'd be pleased with cold porridge for supper. Perhaps the floor would open up and she could fall through to Hades, where Grandpa Angus probably was. She bet he'd be glad to see her. He'd always loved to scream at her.

Lady Adella yelled at her, “I've never seen ye tongue-tied before, miss. Now, what is the matter with ye? He too handsome for ye to even look at? He's handsome, I'll grant ye that, but I can look on him. And if I can look at him, then ye can because ye don't know anything about men in any case. Now, stop yer bloody nonsense and bid hello to our kinsman, the Duke of Portmaine.”