The Duke (7 page)

He glanced at Claude, who sat on Lady Adella's left, seemingly quite content to noisily chew his dinner with his few remaining teeth. He had been introduced as a nephew, and Bertrand, his son, as a grandnephew. Why the devil hadn't one of these men inherited Penderleigh? He disliked mysteries and determined to unravel these confusing relationships on the morrow.

He looked at Constance, so lovely and trying so hard to make herself noticed and admired, then quickly at Brandy, and back again at Constance. He found it difficult to believe that the two girls were sisters. The one with the unattractive braided hair, and the other with lush, thick black hair that curled provocatively over her rounded shoulders. Brandy wore a shapeless muslin gown, far outdated, and topped with a pale yellow shawl, and Constance a daringly low-cut violet silk gown that showed the promise of a maturing bosom. And Fiona, the redheaded little urchin who had almost dashed herself under his horses' hooves, in coloring at least was very different from both of her sisters. He looked back down the long expanse of table toward Lady Adella and decided that he had never before seen such a ragtag collection of gentry.

Lady Adella met his eyes and said, “No string of endless courses here, yer grace. When ye are finished with the haggis, we'll have the trifle served up.”

The duke smiled easily. “Trifle, my lady. That is a dish I've enjoyed many times.”

“Not the way Cook prepares it, ye haven't.” Claude cackled, a grating sound that made one to punch him except there was also just a hint of pain in that cackle as well. Lady Adella had said he suffered from gout.

“At least it isn't made in a sheep stomach, I trust,” Ian said. “It isn't, is it?” he said directly to Brandy.

“No sheep involved,” Brandy said, but she was grinning like a thief accidentally given a collection plate. He discovered after several mouthfuls what Claude meant. The sherry was sour and the cake soggy. Good manners required him to finish the bulk of the noble portion that Morag had spooned onto a plate for him. He downed a large draught of wine to soothe his irritated palate. He gazed toward Lady Adella after some moments, wondering if in Scotland the ladies retired to the drawing room and left the gentlemen to their port, as was the custom in England.

“We'll take our port in the drawing room,” she said presently, as if reading his thoughts. He raised his eyebrow fleetingly and rose with the rest of the company.

As he passed Brandy, she whispered, “That was very polite of ye. I was wrong. Ye do have breeding and good manners to survive a dinner with all of us. The trifle was terrible, but Cook was only trying to impress ye.” She giggled behind her hand.

He was enchanted, he couldn't help it. “It was a noble effort. I could do nothing else but eat all eleven bitefuls.” He lowered his voice. “Doesn't poor Crabbe resent being called an old sot?”

Brandy bit her lower lip. “Nay, yer grace, I assure ye, it's one of her more gentle ways of addressing him. I had hoped that she would refrain from being so colorful in yer presence, but I should have known better.” She added under her breath, “Ye mustn't pay any attention to Percy. He is ever hateful and, I think, most jealous of yer position as new master here.”

Lady Adella's omnipresent eye prevented him from questioning Brandy further.

“Come, Brandy, Constance. We must show the duke that Scotland is not an uncivilized land. His grace is in need of entertainment.”

She turned to the duke, who at the moment wanted nothing more than his bed and a long night's sleep. “Ye'll find the girls not without ladies' accomplishments. Constance, since ye're the younger and it is growing late, ye may perform for his grace first.”

Although Constance presented a quite attractive picture seated at the old pianoforte, her rendition of a French ballad in a small, deadened voice made the duke pray that the song had not many verses. When she rose from the pianoforte and curtsied demurely, he forced himself to hearty applause.

“Ye still sound like a rusty wood pipe, girl,” Lady Adella said. “After all the advice I've given ye, ye still sound atrocious. I even sang for ye to show ye how it's done. Well, at least ye looked a picture whilst ye were killing his grace's ears.”

The duke spoke his lie without hesitation. “I enjoyed your performance, Constance. I look forward to hearing you again.”

The petulant child's look vanished, replaced by an almost successful sultry smile. Her eyes darted to Percy in search of a similar accolade. To her chagrin, Percy was staring hard at Brandy.

“The duke is kind, child. Now it's off to bed with ye. Say yer good-nights and then it's yer sister's turn.”

Constance saw there was no hope for it, and with as much good grace as she could muster, she curtsied and left the drawing room with a lagging step.

“Grandmama,” Brandy said, “it is rather late and the duke must be tired from his long journey. Perhaps he would prefer not to hear—”

Lady Adella snorted and pointed her bony finger toward the pianoforte.

“I should enjoy hearing your performance,” Ian added, wishing for the moment at least that he were back in London, in his own home, doing precisely what he pleased.

“I will turn the pages for ye, Brandy.” Percy rose and drew close to her. Brandy quickly revised her selection. “Ye need not bother, Percy, I have no pages to turn.”

“Then I will stand next to the pianoforte and ye may sing to me.” She kept her hands in her lap until he gave her a caressing, mocking smile, sketched a slight bow, and turned to seat himself next to Lady Adella.

Ian watched this exchange with some irritation. He heard Lady Adella hiss to Percy in a low voice, “I told ye to leave the child alone, Percy. She doesn't ken yer meaning.”

In a pig's eye she doesn't, the duke thought. He did not hear Percival's reply, for Brandy touched her fingers to the key board. Three soft, sad chords filled the room and in a low, rich voice she sang,

“Oh, my luve is like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June:

Oh, my luve is like the melodie,

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

 

Till a'the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the stands o'life shall run.

 

And fare thee weel, my only luve!

And fare thee weel a while!

And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile!”

The duke was held in silence for a moment by the haunting words and the deep minor chords that added to their beauty. He had not understood all of them, for she had sung with a lilting Scottish brogue.

He heard Lady Adella snort in what he assumed was her form of applause. He said, “It's a lovely ballad, Brandy. Who is the writer?”

She turned on the stool. “Robert Burns—Rabbie Burns, as we call him. He died but four years ago, quite near to here, in Dumfries.”

“Ye might add, my dear,” Percy said with that sneer that made Ian want to plant his fist in his mouth, “that yer beloved Rabbie was a drunk and a womanizer. Peopled these parts with brats.”

Lady Adella said, her look more lewd than her grandson's, “I for one wish that our dear Rabbie had been born some forty years earlier. I wouldn't have minded a-takin' a tumble with that one. I ask ye, Percy, ‘How can ye doe ocht when ye've nocht tae dae ocht wi'?' Aye, that makes ye clam up yer mouth.”

Percy's face tightened in anger. Had the old woman insulted his manhood? Evidently so.

Ian turned to see Brandy quickly rise from the piano bench. “I will go to bed now, Grandmama, if ye don't mind.” Evidently Lady Adella had lost interest and she waved her off. Brandy kept her head down and walked quickly from the room. Why in heaven's name was Grandmama speaking in such an outrageous manner? It was as if she was being purposefully vulgar in the duke's presence.

The duke rose slowly. “I fear that I am much in need of my bed. If you will all excuse me, I bid you good night.”

Lady Adella said, “If all isn't to yer liking, yer grace, lay yer hand across Morag's back. She's a lazy trollop, that one.”

The duke nodded and left the room. He heard Claude's cackle sound behind him.

Crabbe awaited him outside to escort him to his bedchamber. It was scarcely likely that the duke would have lost his way, as he had been accorded the old
earl's bedchamber. It lay at the end of the long, drafty west corridor in splendid isolation.

Crabbe opened the dark doors with a flourish and bowed the duke in. The furnishings were as dark and cumbersome as the pieces in the dining room, and the corners of the room just as gloomy. The duke wished he had more than one branch of candles to make the room less austere.

Crabbe gazed impassively at the pitiful fire that lay smoldering in the grate. “Morag laid the peat fer ye, no doubt about that. I took the liberty to lay oot yer things, yer grace.”

After the old man had left, the duke bent down to build up the pathetic fire. Some of the peat clumps were damp to the touch, in all likelihood brought in from outside at the height of the storm this evening. No wonder the result was wispy fingers of gray smoke.

He hurriedly undressed and eased between the cold sheets. The covers smelled faintly musty. He fell asleep to the sound of pattering rain against the windowpanes and the roar of the waves breaking against the rocks at the foot of the cliff behind the castle.

“T
ell me more about the new earl, Brandy,” Fiona said, the porridge dripping off the end of her spoon.

“Have a care, poppet. Ye know how Old Marta hates to scrub porridge out of yer gowns. She complains so much that I do it and I don't like it either.” Fiona swiped her hand across her chin; then, her blue eyes on her sister, she very neatly rubbed a napkin over her palm.

“Well done,” Brandy said, trying not to laugh. “Now, I know little more than do ye about the earl. First of all, he's a duke, at least he is in England, and that's more important than an earl.”

“Aye,” Fiona said, nodding. “Maybe that's why he smells good and his clothes are clean. Grandpa Angus used to hug me sometimes, and I'd see food stains on his coat. And his breath was horrid, Brandy.”

“Well, yes, that's true,” Brandy said. “Now, ye must remember to call him ‘yer grace' and not just ‘my lord.' ”

“He's got a girl's name?”

Brandy laughed. “Nay. That's just a manner of speaking. The way one addresses a duke. We do the same here in Scotland.”

“Maybe he'll let me pet that wonderful horse of his.”

Brandy doubted that very much, but her smile didn't slip. “Ye must promise me not to make a nuisance of yerself, poppet. The duke probably isn't at all used to children. Besides that, he won't be here that long. What do we have to interest him, after all?”

“But why did he come if he only wants to leave us?”

“I don't know, Fiona. Come, poppet, finish yer breakfast. It grows late.” It wasn't really late at all, but Brandy wanted to take no chances of seeing Percy if she could avoid it. She listened to Fiona scrape the bottom of her porridge bowl as she looked out the window at the overgrown moat. The storm of the night before had blown itself out, and it promised to be a glorious spring day, with just a nip of chill in the air and a light breeze to ruffle the bluebells.

“This is a pleasant surprise.”

Brandy jerked about in her chair, expecting to see Percy's unwelcome face. “Oh, it's ye, yer grace.” Relief so flooded her voice that the duke cocked a black brow.

“Ye're the man with the grand horses,” Fiona said, and slipped out of her chair. She looked up at the huge man. “Are ye really a yer grace and not just a lordship like Grandpa Angus was?”

Ian surveyed the skinny little girl, standing arms akimbo before him, her face tilted up. Her hair was thick and bright as crimson velvet. Beautiful hair and eyes as blue as a summer sky. “Yes,” he said. “I am indeed a grace. Do I take it you're Fiona, my youngest cousin?”

“Aye, but Brandy calls me poppet. Do I have to call ye by yer girl's name?”

One forgot that children spoke whatever popped into their heads. He touched the bright red curls. “No, not a lady's name, if you please, Fiona. Let me think. I know. I want you to call me something more manly. How about Ian?”

“Ian,” she repeated, “it's better than grace. Would ye like some porridge, Ian? It's not nearly so watery this morning, although some of it still ran down my chin. But I didn't get any on my gown.”

“These things sometimes happen,” he said. “The porridge should be nice and hard by now. How long has this big bowl sat here?”

“Not more than ten minutes,” Brandy said. “Aye,” she added, lightly stirring the porridge, “still a bit on the watery side, but not bad, really.”

“Ah, it should be perfect if it's only a bit. Come on back to the table, Fiona. I'm sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Did ye sleep in Grandpa Angus's bed, Ian? He died in that bed, ye know. We had to tiptoe about fer more than a month. I heard him coughing and cursing at Grandmama.”

“Fiona, that's quite enough. Grandpapa Angus cursed at everybody. And you know very well that every Penderleigh earl has died in that bed. Here, have a scone. Aye, that's right, spread some butter on it.”

“There wasn't a single spirit from the past to disturb me,” the duke said. He eyed the porridge, then gave himself a liberal helping. He took his first bite. What a relief, he thought. The porridge was delicious, hardly watery at all. He looked up to see Fiona frowning at him.

“Is there porridge in danger of dripping on my coat?”

“Oh, nay, Ian. I asked Brandy why ye came here if ye only wanted to leave us. She said there wasn't
anything here to interest ye, so she thought ye'd be gone soon enough.”

Brandy studied her scone. Butter dripped off one edge. If Fiona had been closer, she would have clouted her.

“And why did Brandy think I'd come?” the duke asked, his dark eyes resting for a moment on Brandy's profile. She had a lovely nose, he thought, nice arched brows that were the same dark blond as her hair, and a nice firm chin. Was she stubborn? Her hair was in its tight braids, the same worn tartan shawl around her shoulders.

“She said she didn't know. Will ye tell me?”

He couldn't very well tell a little girl that he, an adult man, had felt trapped, indeed nearly comatose with boredom, at the thought of spending another Season in London, that it wouldn't have mattered if he'd been given an excuse to go anywhere—to Turkey or to Scotland—it wouldn't have mattered. He'd just wanted to escape. No, he couldn't very well say any of that. He said without hesitation, “I came because you are my cousins and I wanted to meet you.”

Brandy's eye flew to his face. She knew he was lying, knew it as clearly as she knew her own name.

The duke arched an elegant black brow and tried to look as innocent as Fiona, who was knotting her napkin in the shape of a doll.

“Well, Fiona, does that answer your question?”

“Aye, but when may I see the grand horses, Ian?”

“When you give me your solemn promise that you won't go dashing in front of them. I'm much too young to have any gray hair.”

“Oh, I promise, I surely do.”

That was a well-done lie, unlike his, the duke thought.

“Poppet,” Brandy said, her tone as motherly as Ian's great-aunt's, who had seven children, “ye must
realize that his grace has much to do. We mustn't press him for attention.”

An ineffectual mother, he added to himself as he smiled at her. She was trying to look stern and not succeeding.

He felt a tug of liking for her. Well, why not? She was his cousin, of sorts, and she was very young, if not in years, well then, in character, in experience.

“Ye know,” she said now, “it truly isn't yer fault that ye've inherited Penderleigh. Nor is it yer fault that ye're not Scottish. Someone must be English, I suppose, and ye had no say in that.” She poured him some tea.

“Thank you,” he said, and gave her a small salute with his teacup. “You're right. I had no say at all.”

He turned to Fiona again, and Brandy felt free to look at him as much as she liked. He was a big man, very big, bigger than any man she'd ever known, and she liked that. And he dressed so beautifully, he surely must think they were all savages. Her own dress was at least five years old. His breeches were knit and very well fitted to his legs. His shirt was as white as the snow that had fallen for just one special night the previous February. It had melted before it could become dirty. His coat fit him perfectly. Everything about him was elegant, including his beautiful black boots. She tugged at her skirt. He was all that she was not. He was all that none of them were. They were the poor relations, nothing more.

The duke watched the changing expressions on her face. To his surprise, she suddenly seemed to be ill at ease. He'd done nothing. He said, “What I would like most on my first day here is a tour. The storm has blown itself out, and I would much like to walk along the cliffs and look out over the sea and see anything else you want to show me.”

“That's what Brandy and I were going to do,” Fiona
said, unknotting the napkin. “Do ye like to build things in the sand, Ian?”

He thought of his buff riding habit, his last daytime clean clothes. He couldn't take the chance that Mabley would arrive today with the rest of his luggage. “What I would most like,” he said, “that is, if you would not mind, Fiona, is to stay out of the wet sand. Otherwise I'll have to wash my own clothes. That wouldn't be good since I haven't the foggiest notion of how to do it.”

“I don't either,” Fiona said.

How superbly polite he is, Brandy thought, and gave him a dazzling smile. “Poppet, go fetch yer shawl.”

Fiona slipped from the dining room, calling over her shoulder, laughter in her young voice, “I'll be back afore the mouse gets caught in the trap.”

The duke said, “Aren't you warm wearing that shawl all the time?”

To his surprise, she looked as if he'd told her she had a dozen spots on her face. “Nay,” she said, “I'm always cold, aye, that's it. Cold. Until August I wear my shawl, sometimes even all the way through the summer and then it's nearly winter again, so my shawl stays with me nearly all year around.” She hunched her shoulders forward. One long braid fell over her shoulder, dipping its tip into the warm cream at the bottom of her porridge bowl.

“Your braid, Brandy,” Ian said, and leaning over, grasped the long rope of hair.

Startled, she jerked away from him so quickly that he didn't have time to release her hair. She gritted her teeth at the stab of pain in her scalp.

He handed her a glass of water. “Here, dip the braid in the water. I didn't mean to hurt or frighten you.”

“I know,” she said, not looking at him. She swished
the cream from the braid and dried it on a napkin. “I hear Fiona. Are ye ready, Ian?”

“Aye,” he replied, savoring the lilting Scottish word that sounded so strange on his tongue, yet satisfying as well.

“Ye wouldn't be mocking me, now would ye, yer grace?”

“His grace never mocks his cousins. He is far too polite. Besides, he very much likes his cousins. Shall we go?”

The three of them walked out to the castle, across the gravel path that cut over the grassy moat, and along the rhododendron-lined walk that led finally to the cliff and the sea.

They soon gained the edge of the grassy cliff, and Ian gazed out to sea, now placid and calm. Close to shore, the shallowness of the water made it appear a translucent turquoise. Farther out the water shimmered with varying hues of darker blue. He looked up at the cloud-tossed blue sky. He felt the fresh breeze cool on his face, felt it ruffle his hair, and drew a long breath.

“Be careful, poppet, and don't get too dirty.” That quickly drew him out of his reverie. He looked to see Fiona running as fast as her skinny legs would go down a well-worn path to the beach below.

He turned to her. “I hope Fiona doesn't break her leg. That path looks a bit treacherous.”

“She's a little goat. Don't worry.”

“You've a magnificent home, Brandy.”

“It's yer home now as well, Ian,” she said, shading her eyes after Fiona until she was certain the child had gained the safety of the beach.

“Do you mind? he asked quietly.

She was silent for a moment. She said finally, a touch of sadness in her voice, “Nay, it's not for me to mind. Many years have passed, and although many
Scots don't like to admit it, change must come. Ye're a big dose of change. Ye can't help the fact that ye're English, I already told ye that. Ye must remember that I am but a female, and thus of very little worth. My opinion doesn't matter to anyone, nor can I dictate how ye'll be treated or accepted here.”

“You're of great worth to me, and I care very much about your opinion of me. I don't want you to speak like that of yourself ever again.”

She laughed, her hands over the knot of her shawl. What a stern voice he'd used with that little speech. “Ye should hear how Grandmama speaks to me. If Crabbe is an old sot, why, I'm a feckless idiot with less worth than a cellar of salt. She talks of marrying me off and rolls her rheumy old eyes.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don't mind that ye inherited. Some male relative had to, else our line would die out.”

He'd never heard a young girl speak so plainly, with such stark heed to what was real. He supposed that females really weren't worth all that much, and he thought it wasn't all that fair, but on the other hand, he was a man and it was his duty to protect her, to take care of her, to see that she knew no want. But still, to speak of herself as having no worth, it galled him.

The breeze was stiffening, pulling hairs loose from her tight braid, blowing them over her cheeks, thick strands of honey-colored hair.

“I see, then, that it's my duty to marry soon and father a brood of future heirs. If I didn't have a son and fell off my hunter and broke my neck, why then, the Earl of Penderleigh would be my cousin, Giles, of no blood tie whatsoever to you.”

“Nay, please don't break yer neck.”

“No, I won't. But life isn't all that certain. One never knows. And I'm of an age to beget an heir.”