She stared, still stunned, as he vaulted up into the vehicle and took the seat opposite hers. Resplendent in a crimson doublet trimmed with black and silver, his eyes sparkled as he stared at her.
“But,” Cicely croaked, “you are dead!”
“Not at all.” He flashed a wicked smile. “You should not listen to such vile rumors, pet. Did you really think a mere storm could kill me?”
“But where have you been? When did you return to London?”
“I stayed in Spain, with the wealthy merchant whose ship plucked me out of the sea.” Slater looked bored. “I have only been in London for a day. I was just going to my house, but soon enough I will get out of this godforsaken cesspit and travel to the country.”
Cicely put a hand to her brow, feeling overcome by shock and the oppressive heat inside the coach. It came to her that her meeting with Sir Raymond Slater had not happened by chance. It was clearly meant to be. “Raymond…”
“Yes, pet?” His voice was smooth, and his eyes wandered over her in a way that made her nipples tighten.
“There is something important I must discuss with you.”
“Are you inviting me to come inside with you?” His dark brows flicked upward suggestively.
Cicely was tempted, but she reminded herself that when she married Robin she had made a sensible choice, leaving flirtations like this behind. “No, I can tell you here. Do you remember a lovely red-headed girl you met while in Scotland, at Stirling Castle? Her name was Nora Brodie.”
“Ah, yes. The weaver’s daughter. A bit too stiff for my taste.” He paused. “How did you know of her?”
“We met when Robin and I went to Scotland, in the spring.” They had begun to clatter along the cobbles, bound for her own abode, Cicely supposed, and in only a few minutes they would arrive there. Time was of the essence. Leaning forward, she tugged at the slashed sleeve of his doublet. “I have news about Nora that you must hear.”
“You look pale, pet. Will you have one of my special sweetmeats?” He started to withdraw an emerald-studded case from a hidden pocket. “I brought them from the West Indies.”
“No, no, I am fine. But kindly attend me. This is important.” She began to tell him about Nora, relating the fact that she had found herself with child after the night she spent with Slater, and how she could not let her father know her predicament, could not stay at court.
“Are you suggesting the child is mine?” he asked coolly.
“Yes, of course it’s yours. She was innocent before that night with you.”
“I do recall that.” A smile flickered over his mouth. “How did our little dove Nora come to leave Stirling?”
Cicely’s stomach fluttered a tiny warning as he watched her, but now it seemed there was nothing to do but tell the truth. Besides, Sir Raymond had always enjoyed a bit of gossip. “A young Highlander who was leaving Scotland agreed to bring her with him. Lennox MacLeod. He came to England in search of his true father, and to everyone’s surprise, it was revealed that Lennox is the son of Richard Gage, Duke of Hastings. Can you imagine?”
She saw him go white. “Indeed? How fortuitous for MacLeod, especially since Hastings’s legitimate son died recently.”
“I’m surprised that you know about that! Yes, fortuitous, for both Lennox and the duke. They’ve gone off to His Grace’s estate in Surrey, to get to know each other.”
Now Sir Raymond looked irritated. “It’s so sweet my teeth hurt. Tell me again what the devil any of this has to do with me?”
“Why, Nora and her baby, of course. You should step in.”
“What, exactly, did you have in mind?”
They were slowing down. Through the small window, Cicely saw her own front door come into view. “Why not court her? Nora is lovely, intelligent, and alone in the world, with your child growing inside her. Honestly, at your age, aren’t you beginning to long for a quieter life?”
“Are you implying I’m in my dotage?” Although Sir Raymond sounded impatient, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together thoughtfully.
“Do you feel it would be a sign of weakness to do the right thing?” Cicely dared to challenge. “I can assure you just the opposite is true.”
“You’re an interfering little chit.” After a long moment, his expression softened and he smiled at her. “Perhaps you are right, pet. It might be rather amusing to change my ways. But you must promise me you won’t tell Nora I have risen from the dead. I want it to be a splendid surprise…”
Chapter 27
Lennox looked into the Venetian mirror and sighed at the sight of himself in a slashed blue doublet set with jewels, topped by a slate-gray jerkin trimmed in silver. “What do ye think?” he asked Grant.
The lad leaned against the table, where Lennox’s papers and sketching tools were spread out. “Ye look like one of Henry VIII’s fancy courtiers. Is that the impression ye were hoping to make?”
“What choice do I have? If I wore my Highland plaid instead, wouldn’t the duke feel I was rude and ungrateful?”
“Aye, they would suppose ye are a heathen like me.” Grant laughed. His voice was deeper now, and he was growing a fine pair of shoulders.
“These clothes are stiffer than Highland garb, but I suppose I’ll become accustomed to them.” Lennox bent his tightly clad arm and arched a brow. “All the same, plenty of Scots Lowlanders would envy me. And now I must leave you. There are guests for dinner, I am told.”
“I saw them arriving. A finely-dressed older gentleman and an elegant, bonny lass.” Grant raised his brows before adding, “If ye care for that type.”
Lennox threw him a grin. “I am glad ye are here, lad, to save me from feeling completely lost.”
“I can’t stay forever, though. It’s been weeks, after all. Ma and Bayard want me back at Stirling, and I confess I miss Scotland more than I thought I would.”
Hearing these words, Lennox felt a familiar sharp pang. He was saved from replying when a knock sounded at the door, followed by Wilton’s austere voice. “His Grace requires your presence downstairs, sir.”
“Aye,” said Lennox. He reached for a blue-velvet cap with an ostrich feather. “I am coming now.”
* * *
“How kind you were to invite Betsy and me this afternoon,” Viscount St. John said as he speared a bite of roasted swan with his eating knife. His plump cheeks reddened, and his eyes grew wet. “I confess I have been concerned for you, Hastings, these past months. Such a tragedy you had to endure, losing Charles, and so soon after the loss of your dear Jane.”
The duke blinked. “I am grateful, as always, for your abiding friendship, St. John.”
Watching this exchange, Lennox sensed his father’s discomfort with the viscount’s emotional remarks. He had been told that the two men had been friends since boyhood, and it seemed that the viscount himself was grieving for Charles.
Lennox glanced toward Viscount St. John’s daughter, Betsy. As Grant had observed, she was both elegant and lovely, fresh as a dewy pink rosebud on this warm August afternoon. Willowy, golden-haired Betsy was blessed with blue eyes and a demure smile that she turned his way every few minutes.
“Yes, it has been so difficult for all of us who cared for Charles,” the viscount was saying. He inclined his head toward Betsy. “At times it seemed the world might end, and yet it did not. God has favored you with another son!”
To Lennox’s surprise, Betsy murmured, “Favored us all.”
The two fathers raised their glasses in a silent toast to her.
As the meal wound to a close, footmen appeared with another of the cook’s sugar-paste creations. This time a gilded Cupid rose up from the platter, colored with spices and bright fruit juices. Lennox felt an odd twinge at the sight of it, pointing its bow toward him.
Betsy blushed and looked at Lennox under her lashes. “Your Grace, your cook is quite ingenious, for I have never found Cupid looking more appealing.”
After the meal, Viscount St. John announced, “Hasti
ngs and I have business to discuss.” Turning to Lennox, he said, “Would you be kind enough to take my lovely daughter outside for a stroll?”
The duke answered on Lennox’s behalf. “My son would be honored. It’s time these two attractive young people became better acquainted.”
* * *
“Oh, look at the roses,” exclaimed Betsy as they wandered through the knot gardens of boxwood and roses. “They are my favorite flower. Will you choose one for me, kind sir?”
Lennox found a white bloom that was just beginning to open. It had very few thorns and was easy enough to break off at its juncture with the branch. It was the sort of thing he had done countless times in the past, while charming the many lasses on Skye, but this time he could not feel lighthearted as he presented Betsy with the flower.
“I love it that you chose white for me,” she said softly, gazing into his eyes. “It is apt, you know. I have kept myself pure for my husband.”
Staring at the rose, Lennox thought back to the day on the Isle of Mull, when he’d returned from trying to save those seamen lost in a shipwreck. He had ached for Nora during that long absence, and even now he could clearly see her on the windswept bluff, waiting to greet him, a crown of bright wildflowers on her wild red-gold tresses. That night, he had made love to her with all his heart and soul, but there had been so much he didn’t yet know. Secrets that were already building a wall between them.
“I had been saving myself for someone else,” Betsy was saying.
Lennox came back to the present moment with a start, realizing what she meant. He looked at her. “Charles.”
“How did you guess?” She came close enough to touch his arm with graceful fingers. “I loved him. He was a very fine person.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
“But Charles is gone, and all of my life is still ahead of me.” She paused, her hand shaking slightly against the sleeve of his doublet. “My father tells me that His Grace has plans for you, in spite of the circumstances of your birth.”
Although Lennox had no idea what plans she referred to, he could guess what Betsy had in mind for herself. He managed a smile.
“I can see in your eyes that you are a rare sort of man, but I should not say any more. I know all of this is new for you, and our ways must be different from those of Scotland.” She stood on tiptoe and pressed a warm kiss to the edge of his jaw. “I just wanted you to know, I’m very glad you are now an Englishman, Lennox.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, Lennox and the duke stood in the courtyard, watching as the coach bearing their guests passed by the gatehouse and turned down the long drive.
“I thought I’d go for a ride before the light goes,” Lennox said, feeling a strong, familiar urge to get away. “Chaucer must be missing me.”
“Chaucer?” the duke repeated distractedly. “Oh, you mean the horse that Scots lad brought.”
“That’s right. Chaucer and I had many fine adventures together before I came to England. Now that he is here, I don’t want him to feel ignored.” Lennox was grateful that his father seemed to have other things on his mind and hadn’t objected to Lennox riding Chaucer instead of Zeus, the black steed once owned by Charles. Nor did the duke seem to care that Grant had been installed as Lennox’s temporary valet.
To Lennox’s surprise, his father said, “You show a great deal of consideration for the feelings of a horse.” There was a slight edge to his chuckle. “Perhaps you might first grant me a bit of your time?”
“Of course.” Lennox followed the older man as he walked back inside, up the stairs to his own large chamber. It seemed to Lennox that the air grew thinner with each passing step.
“Ah,” said the duke, reclining in his favorite chair near the window. “That’s better.”
An unobtrusive footman poured wine into silver goblets and served the two men. A moment later, he slipped out of the room and silently closed the door.
Lennox took a chair near his father, feeling as if a weight was pressing on his chest. “Was there something ye wished to discuss with me?”
“I merely wanted to tell you how proud I was to introduce you as my son.” The duke sipped his wine, a rueful smile touching his mouth. “I do not say that lightly. St. John is my oldest friend; he alone knows how I have suffered since Charles died.” He paused. “It has been a dark time for all three of us, in fact.”
Lennox could only wonder, with a faint sense of dread, where this was going. “I did glean something of that sort from Betsy.”
“Ah, yes, you were alone together in the gardens.” His green eyes were watchful. “Betsy is not only beautiful but also possessed of a fine character. I will confess, St. John and I remarked that you two would make striking children.”
Lennox felt his entire body tense, yet the primal male in him could not help imagining, for an instant, what Betsy might look like naked in the candlelight, responding to his touch.
The duke broke into Lennox’s momentary fantasy. “Have you been happy here this summer?”
“Aye.” It was impossible to explain how conflicted his feelings were, but the one thing he did know was a sense of gratification that he could make his father smile again and offer him hope for the future. “At times, it still doesn’t seem quite real.”
“Ah, yes, I know exactly what you mean! St. John and I also marveled at the changing winds of fate. Mere weeks ago, I thought I had lost everything, and now it begins to seem God has granted me a reprieve, through you.” His father leaned forward, holding his gaze. “As we survey the future, only one thing is lacking. Your legitimacy.”
Lennox felt a muscle move in his jaw. “I don’t think any less of myself for being born a bastard. In fact, I had nothing to do with it.”
The duke seemed to barely hear him. “No, no, that’s not what I mean.” Rising, he paced across the floor which was swept daily and strewn with fresh rushes. “I am growing older. There are moments when my heart begins to gallop like a runaway horse, and I realize my life will end one day.” Turning, he looked back, his eyes agleam with emotion. “I want to make you my son in every way, Lennox. I want you to be able to inherit my lands…and my title.”
Lennox knew he should have seen it coming, but nonetheless he felt blindsided. “But don’t ye already have a legitimate heir? A nephew?”
His father waved a dismissive hand. “Edwin? Oh, he is well enough, but you must understand, when I look at you, I see myself! There are moments when it takes my breath away. It is meant to be, that you are the heir to my legacy.”
Legacy. It was not a word Lennox would have ever associated with himself. “It’s impossible, though, isn’t it?”
“No! That’s what I am trying to tell you.” The duke circled back to his chair, gripping its high, carved back. “King Henry VIII has grappled with this very issue. Without a living, legitimate heir, he turned to Henry FitzRoy, his son by Bessie Blount. His Majesty created the titles of Duke of Richmond and Somerset for the boy, and many felt he would find a way to make him the heir to the throne. It was outrageous, but our king is well known for breaking with precedent.”
“Aye.” Lennox nodded, searching his memory. “I have heard about Henry FitzRoy. Didn’t he die a few years ago?”
“Yes, he was less than twenty years old, but his story remains. Why should I not remember it—and believe I might persuade the king to legitimize you, given his own history!” The duke’s eyes grew moist as he continued, “I would beg him to allow you, my only living progeny, to inherit my title and lands. My dear son, nothing in the world could make me happier than to see you making a life here at Greythorne Manor. Perhaps I might even be able to hold a grandchild or two before I die.”
The room seemed to tilt as Lennox struggled to find words. Hadn’t he always been pushed to one side in Clan MacLeod, never even receiving a proper clan brooch from his grandfather, Alasdair Crotach? Now this good man desperately wanted to claim him before the world, even make him the next Duke of Hasti
ngs. As Lennox took it all in, the discomfort that had been plaguing him began to ebb. Could this be where he truly belonged after all?
“Ye have rendered me speechless, Father. I’ve longed my entire life to be accepted and cared for in this way.”
The duke’s eyes shone. “Care is too meager a word for my feelings. I want to do everything possible to make you happy here.” His expression brightened. “What would you enjoy? I know you wish to create more art. Perhaps we might build a studio of your own, in the gardens, with a view of the fountain. Would you like that?”
Lennox felt rather like he had already overindulged at a sumptuous castle feast and was being offered even more fine wine, more rich food. Yet how could he explain that to his father? “It’s very kind of you to think of it.”
“Perhaps you might travel to Italy after your marriage, to see the magnificent art that exists there.”
The duke didn’t have to include Betsy by name; Lennox knew what he meant. She floated back into his thoughts, willing to be his after one afternoon’s acquaintance. He could see why all of them believed this was a perfect plan. It was easy to envision himself living in this grand estate years from now, married to Betsy, their fair-haired children running about, the stable filled with horses. It would be an enchanted life remarkably similar to the one Andrew and Micheline enjoyed.
Nora appeared in his mind then, luminous, filled with passion, needs, and aspirations of her own. She loved him, yet he couldn’t imagine her in this setting. Even if she were not carrying another man’s child, Lennox knew she could never be happy here. She had said as much herself.
“I know it is a great deal to take in,” said the duke, watching him. “I beg you only to think about it. I know you may have had other dreams…” He lifted his brows, as if indicating that he too remembered Nora.
Lennox felt tears prick his own eyes. “Aye, but some things can’t be forced.”
“I also hope you realize that marriage for people like us cannot be based on romantic notions of love, which fades with time. We have a duty to those around us and who come after us to marry for more solid reasons.”
Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5) Page 24