Enid showed him around the manor, from the grounds to the vast house. She took him down the portrait gallery, pointing out their ancestors. That was a strange experience. One predecessor in particular, his great-grandfather, bore a striking resemblance to him. Their eyes were the same. Same green. Deeply set. Enid remarked on it.
“See. You belong here. Your roots are here.” She smiled mildly at him.
He nodded once in acknowledgment. Not agreement. His roots were in poverty. In Glasgow. In bastardy. He was the son of a prostitute, a woman bought and abused daily. There was no shaking that past.
“I’m glad you came,” Enid said, moving along the gallery. “I didn’t think you would.”
He strolled beside her, hands clasped behind his back. “No?”
“Marcus . . . your arrival to Town, your existence, has been difficult for him.”
Struan laughed harshly. “My existence has been difficult for him? Somehow I doubt it was any more difficult than growing up unacknowledged by our father.”
“Marcus loved our father. He thought him everything good and noble. That’s how Papa presented himself. Learning about you, learning your beloved parent was another person entirely . . . it’s disillusioning to say the least. Marcus was worried you wanted to hurt us.”
Struan stopped to face her. “What about you?”
“At first I worried that you were out for revenge, too.” She studied him thoughtfully. “Then I learned more about you.” She shook her head. “I waited, but you never attempted to see us. That didn’t sound like someone who wanted to hurt us.” She laughed lightly. “I was actually bothered because you didn’t want to meet us. I—I . . .” She stammered in a way that seemed uncharacteristic for her. “I wanted to meet you.”
They stared at each other for a long assessing moment. “And now that you have?”
She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I have another brother. I want you in my life. Whatever happens with Marcus, I want you in my life.”
He shifted his weight on his feet, feeling unaccountably abashed. “Yes. I would like that.”
She smiled again, her lips curving widely, taking her from plain to strikingly pretty. “Splendid. Now. Would you like to join me in the kitchen? Cook makes the best gingersnaps. Your life is truly not complete until you’ve tasted a least a score of them.”
He smiled slightly and motioned ahead. “Then by all means, lead the way.”
Struan owned several properties. The aristocracy was renowned for living beyond their means and that had a way of catching up with one. Generations of living like royalty without paying for it eventually came to an end for all.
Eventually, someone had to be paid, and Struan was often that someone. He was the man scooping up properties that weren’t entailed to ancient noble titles—property that had to be sold off to honor outstanding debts.
That said, even as many fine, resplendent homes as he had acquired, restored and sold again over the years, Autenberry Manor was the finest he had ever seen. He tried not to let the old feelings of inadequacy creep over him as he sat at the centuries-old dining table. A dining table that had fed his ancestors. Men and women of his bloodline sat at this very table and feasted.
And yet he didn’t belong here. Despite how welcoming the dowager was. Despite Enid escorting him through the gallery and pointing out his resemblance to his forefathers, he felt like an interloper.
Then why are you still here?
Of its own volition, his gaze drifted toward Poppy Fairchurch. She wore an elegant gown of blue silk that he knew she could not possibly own. Clearly they’d been here long enough for the dowager to find appropriate dresses for both Misses Fairchurch. Young Bryony preened in a peach-colored gown like she was born to wear such finery. Poppy appeared less comfortable and he wondered, again, at her relationship with Autenberry. Why had his brother not showered her with silks? Why should she sit in this dining room and look so ill at ease if she was to marry into this glittering world?
He forced his gaze away from her and back to the others at the table.
“Thank you, Darby,” the dowager said in that effusive manner of hers, her elegant hand brushing the server’s arm in additional thanks. “And how is your grandmother?” She shifted in her seat to more fully face the servant and hear his response. That in itself was singular. A duchess that gave a damn about someone stations under her.
His gaze drifted to Poppy. She watched the exchange, too, looking equally mystified, that delicious mouth of hers that filled far too much of his thoughts parted slightly in wonder.
“Much improved, Your Grace.” The man bobbed his head, his eyes adoring but reflecting no surprise or bewilderment. Because this was normal. The young dowager, caring for those lesser than she, was normal. “Thank you for inquiring.”
Her dark eyes flashed in Enid and Clara’s direction. “We must call on her tomorrow. Have Cook prepare some of my abuela’s magical caldo. It cures all ailments.”
“All?” Enid dryly interjected.
The dowager fluttered a hand in her direction dismissively. “Indeed, yes. I know what I speak.”
Struan gave his head a slight shake. He wanted to dislike her. She was the woman his father had remarried. Even when his own mother had still been alive, he had chosen her. Married her. Forgot about him and the woman he’d seduced and discarded in Scotland. He’d chosen a young foreign beauty. Even if born to a noble Spanish family, the English peerage couldn’t have fully embraced her. And yet none of that had mattered to the late duke. He’d chosen her.
Struan wanted to hate her and yet he could not find it in him. The noblewoman was an anomaly—warm and welcoming. The fact that he and Poppy were even here was a testament to her kindness and openness, a definite eccentricity among the ton.
He glanced around the table and caught Lord Strickland gazing at the dowager in a way that was more than friendly. The earl was affable if not guarded. Struan usually found him unreadable. Except for right now. For a brief moment, that wall came down and Struan read the admiration in the young man’s eyes. Hell. More than admiration. If the man wasn’t in love with the dowager, he was certainly in lust.
Struan observed her as she accepted a refill of Madeira in her glass. Unlike many English ladies of her class, she did not eschew spirits. She drank deeply from her cup. Her upswept hair gleamed like a moonless dark ocean. Her golden skin beckoned a man’s fingers. What sane man wouldn’t want her in his bed?
She laughed gaily at something Clara said to Bryony, tossing her head back with abandon. Lord Strickland watched her hungrily and Struan almost felt sorry for the man. He was her stepson’s best friend, several years younger than she and of lesser rank. The poor bastard did not have a chance.
Sane or not, Struan did not want his late father’s wife. His gaze drifted again to Poppy Fairchurch. He wanted her. He supposed that proved his desire for her was genuine and not something fleeting or driven by revenge—because what better way to satisfy his deep-seated resentment of his dead father than by taking the man’s woman? Too bad he didn’t want her. Too bad he burned for someone else.
He tore his gaze away and endured the rest of the dinner, chiming into the conversation when appropriate. Unlike Poppy. She hardly spoke.
“I never imagined Marcus would find himself such a shy little dove,” Enid remarked.
“Perhaps she is simply overwhelmed,” the dowager defended.
“Overwhelmed? Of us? You?” Enid said drolly, and contemplated that prospect with an exaggerated air. “Not possible.” Enid sipped from her glass. Not Madeira. She was not quite as eccentric as her stepmother, but then her roots were English, after all.
Poppy never responded to their questioning, simply managed a tight smile. They scarcely finished their meal before Poppy excused herself.
She didn’t have to say where she was going. He knew.
He remained with the rest of the party, joining them in the drawing room, trying not to think about her upstairs wit
h Autenberry. Since they’d arrived at the manor it’s where she always went. Tending to the duke. Hiding from Struan.
No more.
He was done letting her hide from him. Tonight they would speak.
She would talk to him. He’d make certain of it.
Chapter 19
He was waiting for her when she emerged from the duke’s bedchamber. At least it felt that way. Struan Mackenzie spoke her name as she gently closed the bedchamber door on the duke. Strange, she supposed. It was as though she feared waking the unconscious duke.
At the sound of her name she startled and whirled around, a hand flying to her throat. “Mr. Mackenzie. You startled me.”
The hour was late. She’d hoped he, along with the others, would have retired for the night by now. She’d done an estimable job avoiding him since she arrived at Autenberry Manor. It wasn’t too difficult. She was here as the Duke of Autenberry’s fiancée. It made sense that she should want to sit with him as he convalesced. No one questioned it. Even if Struan Mackenzie’s gaze watched her darkly when she joined them for meals, he dared not voice disapproval. It wasn’t his place. Despite what had happened between them in Town, and in the carriage . . .
Good heavens. That was sordid. Her face burned as it did whenever her thoughts roamed in that direction. How did she go from the overlooked sister, grateful for the attention of the village baker, to this? A female who engaged in wicked trysts with smoldering, unacceptable gentlemen?
She knew this hiding was cowardly of her. She clung to the farce so that she could avoid Struan. Also, so she could hide from the overwhelming evidence of wealth and opulence that made up Autenberry Manor. It daunted her and made her feel all the more a fraud. Her sister might be utterly at home in this world, but she felt like an interloper. Any moment she would give herself away.
He strode toward her with effortless grace. It was odd. For a man his size, he moved like a predator strolling at ease through the jungle. “Are we still exercising formalities, Poppy? I’ve heard you use my Christian name. On more than one occasion.” The slight smirk to his lips told her he was remembering how she had uttered his name. When and what they were doing.
She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of that truth and glanced up and down the length of the corridor, confirming they were well and truly alone. Not the best idea.
“You are up late,” she went on to say, turning in the direction of her bedchamber on the opposite side of the house in the opposite wing. It was several corridor turns and rooms from here—unfortunately. She couldn’t escape him so easily. Blast, why did this house have to be so colossal?
She began walking, pausing when he fell into step beside her.
“The same could be said of you,” he returned.
“I was checking on His Grace.”
“Yes, very attentive of you. And how does your beloved fare?”
She did not mistake the mockery in his voice.
“There has been no change,” she replied, sliding him a cautious look.
“I am certain with you sitting vigil at his bedside there soon will be.”
She eyed him, attempting to assess whether he mocked her or not. It was difficult to know.
“I know a thing or two about caretaking.” Her voice rang out defensively.
“Do you now? And how is that?”
“Before Bryony and I moved to Town, I cared for my father for the better part of a year. Before he passed away.”
“Did you? You are a regular angel of mercy, Poppy.”
She stopped and faced him. “I cannot infer if you are toying with me or not, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“I would never toy with you, kitten.” And yet as he uttered this she did in fact feel like he toyed with her. As though she were in reality a kitten and he her tormenter, dangling a ball of yarn before her. “I am most convinced before you relocated to Town you were a devoted and attentive daughter to your ailing father. Just as you are a most devoted sister. That much is obvious. The people in your life are lucky to have you.”
She slanted him a suspicious look. “Thank you?”
“I mean that in all sincerity. You needn’t say ‘thank you’ like a question.”
Not certain what to do with this complimentary Struan Mackenzie, she resumed walking down the corridor. “Bryony requires looking after.”
He stopped her again, placing a hand on her shoulder and turning her around to face him. “And what of you? Who looks after you, Poppy? Autenberry?” Skepticism dripped off the question.
“Why is that so difficult for you to believe?”
“Because so far I’m not impressed. I see little evidence that Autenberry cares for you as a man should care for his woman.”
That is because I am not his. I belong to no one.
It was undeniable. His words sent a bolt of unfamiliar longing through her. Not just to belong to someone . . . but for someone to belong to her. The longing, however, was wrapped up in Struan Mackenzie. As he gazed at her with his green eyes as deep and dark as a night wood yearning seized her.
She shrugged his touch off her shoulder and started forward again. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“I’ve nothing to gain or lose by speaking the truth.”
“The truth as you see it,” she tossed back.
“Before you moved to Town, you came directly from a small country village, I assume?”
“Yes.” She nodded warily, wondering at the question. “Once my father passed we could not afford to stay on. We had to leave.”
“Then your experience is limited. Allow me to enlighten you. A man provides room and board for his mistress—”
“I’m not any man’s mistress! That is your problem . . . your insistence at identifying me as a kept woman. No one keeps me.”
“Very well.” He sent her a tolerant look that seemed to imply he thought she was in denial. “Fiancée, then.” He shrugged. “You should expect a higher degree of consideration.”
“You needn’t concern yourself with me. I’m quite accustomed to taking care of myself and others.”
At last, she stopped in front of her bedchamber door. He reached up a hand and brushed back a lock of hair off her shoulder, his fingers lingering on the tendrils. “Isn’t that tiresome? Always taking care of others? Having no one to care for you?”
She twisted her neck so that his hand fell away from her. “I have someone.” The lie was becoming quite a comfort, and easier to utter with every passing day, a defense that she clung to around him, something to put between them. A barrier of sorts. Not that he seemed to overly care at its presence. For whatever reason, he still pursued her even knowing that. Which was a curious thing. She had never been one to inspire great passion in the opposite gender. Edmond had made that abundantly evident.
His expression hardened at that reminder. “Indeed.”
She had reached her room. She knew she could duck inside and close the door on his face, but still, for some reason, she lingered. “And who cares for you, Mr. Mackenzie?”
Some of the hardness eased out of his face, but his gaze was no less intent as he gazed at her. “No one, Poppy. I’m not so fortunate as my brother.”
“I think that’s not entirely true. You’ve won quite the admiration from the dowager. And your sister.”
“And you?” He inched a step closer, eating up the air between them. “What of you, Poppy? Have you a care for me?”
She swallowed and reached behind her, her hand finding the latch of the bedchamber door and closing around it.
“What? No answer, kitten?”
“You’re my fiancé’s brother. Of course I have a care for you.”
He moved quickly, suddenly, both hands flattening against the door on either side of her head. “Your feelings for me have nothing to do with him,” he growled, his eyes flashing with a dangerous heat that she felt down deep in her bones.
She sucked in a breath and pushed her spine back against the door as far as she could go,
the scent of him invading her, filling her senses.
“You’re wrong. That’s all there is . . . all there can ever be between us.” She turned the latch. The door opened behind her. Before he responded, she plunged inside and shut the door on him with a snap.
Breathing raggedly, she collapsed against the door’s supportive length. She waited, praying he did not attempt to follow her into her chamber. Several moments passed and she heard his steps fade away. Her prayer had been answered. So why was there that stab of disappointment in her chest?
Chapter 20
On his fourth day at Autenberry Manor, Struan went for a ride, hoping to release some of the restless energy plaguing him even if the bitter-cold wind happened to freeze his face.
He wanted the chit. Badly. And if he was to take a clue from her continued avoidance of him—or her continued bedside vigil of Autenberry—she didn’t want him back. She wanted his half brother.
Oh, he might possess the ability to arouse her, but that was merely the longing of her body. Desires of the flesh. Her head, her heart, wanted nothing to do with him—and that stung. It made him feel like the lad he was all those years ago standing before his father and facing his rejection. Who knew he could still feel so small and vulnerable?
He rode his mount into the stables, escaping the worst of the cold. The snow had ceased to fall, but the wind whipped bitterly. He waved off a groom who appeared to help him and unsaddled his horse himself, needing something to do with his hands and enjoying being alone with the animal that made no demands of him. Tension ebbed from his shoulders as he rubbed down the stallion, only to return at the sudden arrival of a feminine voice behind him.
“There you are. I’ve looked everywhere for you.”
Bryony. Whereas her sister had avoided him, she had been his constant shadow.
He glanced over his shoulder at her where she stood at the stall’s entrance. “Good morning, Miss Fairchurch.”
She pouted prettily. “Please call me Bryony. Miss Fairchurch is my sister.”
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