Undone By The Duke

by Willingham Michelle

  “But what of your family? Have you a wife and children?”

  “Neither. Though I intend to marry and get an heir soon. I’ll need someone to inherit my many houses.”

  A wry smile crossed her face. “You speak of a wife as if you’re going to buy a horse and breed it.”

  “Is there a difference?” he remarked wryly. “I’d wed the next woman who walked through that door before I’d let my cousin inherit.” He’d avoided marriage for years, especially after the death of his parents. The whispers of scandal were only fueled by his presence, and it was easier to concentrate on managing the estates. He’d buried himself in travel and adding to his holdings, blocking out the shadows of guilt. Word had spread of his increasing wealth, and most of the ton would have no trouble overlooking his darker past in the hopes of a gilded future.

  Mrs. Larson chose that very moment to enter the parlor. “Would either of you care for more tea?”

  Victoria burst into laughter. “The next woman?” she teased. The humor in her eyes transformed her. Without the haunted shyness on her face, her beauty took on a vivid quality that he’d never expected. Jonathan didn’t share in her laugh, but instead locked his gaze upon her features. He let his imagination wander, remembering what it was like to see her golden brown hair falling over her shoulders, down to slender hips.

  Her soft smile faded abruptly, as if she’d read his errant thoughts. She stood so quickly, she nearly tripped over her gray skirts. “Thank you,” she said, accepting a steaming cup from Mrs. Larson. “Tea would be wonderful.” She glanced down at him and added, “It’s a weakness of mine, I know. It’s impossible to get tea in the Highlands, so whenever Mr. Sinclair goes to London, he brings some to us.”

  Mrs. Larson brought out cream and sugar and refilled Jonathan’s cup. Before she departed, Victoria reminded her, “Send Mr. MacKinloch to Eiloch Hill for Mr. Smith’s belongings, if you would.”

  “Eiloch Hill?” The housekeeper paused at the door, muttering curses in a blend of Gaelic and English.

  “It was not Mr. Smith who set fire to those houses, Mrs. Larson,” Victoria reassured her. “It was under the earl’s orders.”

  “Oh, I’ll not be blaming him for what happened to those puir people. But strike a bargain with the Devil, and ye’re like to sprout horns in unwanted places.” With a huff, the housekeeper turned her back and moved on.

  When she’d gone, Victoria sent him a regretful smile. “I fear, with the mention of that house, your hopes of wedding Mrs. Larson are sadly not meant to be.” She reached for his cup and refilled it. “Do you take sugar?”

  “Three lumps, if they’re not too large.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You must like it sweet.”

  His gaze settled upon her countenance, moving over the slim curves hidden beneath her gown. “Sometimes.”

  Her face flushed as she caught his meaning. When she stirred in the sugar and lifted the steaming cup to him, he didn’t take it. “My hands aren’t very steady. You’ll have to help me drink,” he said.

  She blew upon the hot liquid, using one hand to support his head while he took a sip. After she took the cup away, he caught her hand. “Thank you for staying with me last night.”

  Her face flushed, but she gave a nod. Raising her gray eyes to his, she added, “The woman died without suffering. Her sons were beside her, and you gave them a gift when you gave up the medicine.”

  She made it sound as if he were a saint, when nothing could be further from the truth. It discomfited him to have her hold him in such esteem. “I fear others will speak ill of you for staying at my side last night.”

  Her countenance held a sad smile. “Your fear is misplaced, for I chose to stay.” She folded her hands in her lap, casting a glance toward the dining room. “You own Eiloch Hill, the land where these people were evicted. If you want to repair damage, try helping them.” She pointed to the dining room, her face sober. “They need it far more than I.”

  Chapter Six

  “THERE’S SOMEONE tae see you, sir,” Mrs. Larson said, as Jonathan attempted to sit up. “One of your servants, I believe. From Eiloch Hill.” She muttered something about evil spirits and motioned for the man to enter.

  He was relieved to see Giles Franklin, his footman. Franklin hurried forward, bowing low. Before the man could utter a word, Jonathan turned to the housekeeper. “That will be all, Mrs. Larson.”

  He motioned for Franklin to come closer, pressing a finger to his lips. Mrs. Larson looked disappointed, but disappeared into the hallway.

  “Your Grace, I am terribly sorry about all of this,” the footman apologized. “The snow made it difficult to track you, and after the burnings, I feared the worst. Carlson didn’t… that is, he—”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Jonathan had suspected as much. “And what of the others?”

  “Others?” Franklin appeared confused at the question.

  “The remainder of the staff you were supposed to hire. Did they not arrive?”

  His footman shook his head. “No, Your Gr—”

  “Do not call me that here,” he interrupted in a low voice. “Call me sir, if you must.”

  “Sir,” Franklin amended. “But no, the staff did not arrive. It seems that, well, no one wants to work at Eiloch Hill. They claim it’s a cursed house.”

  Ridiculous superstitions again. “Then hire Englishmen, if you must.”

  “Of course, sir. It’s just that, with the snow, travel is difficult right now. But I have a horse, and if you should care to leave, I could arrange it.”

  “Not yet.” His leg hadn’t healed enough to travel, and with no staff awaiting him, it would be far more difficult to convalesce. “I’ll remain here a little longer.” He stared at Franklin. “When they sent Mr. MacKinloch to you, did you reveal my rank?”

  His footman turned crimson. “Forgive me, sir. Perhaps I should have, but… it did not seem safe. After I found Carlson’s body and learned that you were wounded and taken to this household… it seemed imprudent to trust a Scot.” His gaze dropped to the floor, and he whispered, “These men are so poor, I feared they might try to hold you as a hostage if they knew who you really were. I told the servants you were the youngest son of a knight.”

  Jonathan breathed a little easier at his footman’s confession, grateful that the man had kept his silence. “You were right to keep my identity a secret. I presume you brought the clothing I requested.”

  “Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can bring you?”

  There was, but it meant sending his footman to London, which would take over a week. For now, he thought it best to remain here.

  “Lock up the house and bring everything here,” he added. “Then I want you to go to London and acquire an adequate staff to maintain the house.” Reaching down toward his leg, he added, “And bring back laudanum.” Though the medicine hadn’t eradicated the pain, at least it had granted him a little sleep.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The footman brought the clothing forward and added, “Would you like me to act as your valet, Your—that is, sir?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” It wasn’t likely that the new breeches would fit until the swelling had abated in his leg. “You may go now.” He waved his hand in dismissal, and his footman departed.

  A few minutes after the man had left, Victoria appeared in the doorway. “Will you be returning to Eiloch Hill, Mr. Smith?”

  “Not yet. It seems there was some difficulty in acquiring a staff to maintain the property. Some superstitions, I believe.”

  Miss Andrews paled and nodded. “Several men were hanged upon Eiloch Hill, including Dr. Fraser’s father. Their bodies were left as an example, and no one wants to go near the house.”

  Her explanation made sense. Still, Jonathan preferred keeping a local staff instead of bringing in outsiders. “I’ve sent Franklin to London, to bring back a land steward and a few others to begin restoring the property,” he told her. “If you don’t mind my stayin
g here a little longer, that is.” He didn’t feel at all capable of traveling yet.

  “You may stay as long as you wish.” But she remained far away from him, her shoulders pressing against the doorway.

  “It’s not my intent to make you uncomfortable. But I am grateful that you’re here. It’s extremely tedious, being unable to walk or move,” he admitted. “Except for the odd moment when Mrs. Larson comes in to open the windows, remove the mirrors, and cover the portraits. I half expect to find iron nails instead of silver spoons to stir my tea,” he said. “In case any wayward faeries slip into the house.”

  “She means no harm.” The faint smile at her lips gave him a slight hope, and she took a step closer. “Is your fever any better?”

  It wasn’t, but he wouldn’t mind having her hands upon him again. She smelled good, and he liked having her near. “You may inspect me, if you wish.”

  Tentatively, she approached him, as if he were a wolf about to feast upon her. He remained still, waiting until her hand came to touch his forehead again. The cool touch of her fingers was merciful, and she admitted, “You’re still hot, but it doesn’t seem as bad as last night.”

  He caught her hand in his, searching for a reason to make her stay. The laudanum had begun to soften the edges of his pain, but he didn’t want to succumb to sleep. Not yet.

  “I need a distraction,” he muttered.

  “W-what do you mean?” Her mouth twisted with worry, and he drew her hand to his face, leaning back. He shouldn’t be enjoying teasing her, but he’d come to like this woman. And watching her was far more interesting than staring at four walls.

  “Have you a chessboard?”

  She nodded, and the relief on her face nearly made him smile. “But I don’t play. My father does.”

  “Bring it,” he suggested. “I’ll teach you how. It’s easy enough to learn, but it takes years to master the strategies.”

  “Perhaps later. I really do have to finish my sewing,” she protested.

  Jonathan ignored her, continuing, “While you fetch the chessboard and pieces, I’ll change my shirt. I wouldn’t mind some water and a basin for washing.”

  “Should I send Mr. MacKinloch to help you?” she offered.

  “I believe I’m capable of managing it myself.” He’d only been wounded below the waist, so it should be simple enough.

  Victoria retreated from the room while he reached for the bundle of clothing Franklin had left behind. When his hands untied the knot, a wave of dizziness made his head ache. It seemed he’d underestimated the power of the laudanum. He steeled himself against the discomfort while he undressed and chose a clean shirt. From his haggard appearance, he didn’t doubt that he would frighten any woman at all, especially Miss Andrews. He hadn’t shaved in days.

  A slight motion drew his attention, but he didn’t turn around. She was standing there, watching him. He knew it from the rustle of skirts. When she didn’t speak, a wicked urge came over him.

  So, she wanted to have a look at him, did she?

  It was terribly wrong to spy upon a half-naked man. Victoria held the wooden box containing her father’s game board and chess pieces, but Mr. Smith was not yet clothed. He was holding his shirt in his hands, while his bare back faced her.

  The color of his skin was golden, contrasting against the white sheets. His broad back revealed strong shoulders with carved ridges, tapering down to his ribs. She imagined touching those shoulders, running her hands down his back.

  Her gaze drifted upon Mr. Smith as he pulled on his shirt and cast a glance behind him. In the shadows, she was certain he couldn’t see her watching. But her heartbeat quickened, nonetheless.

  You’ll never have a man like him, her fears taunted her. Especially once he knows the truth about you.

  The brittle edges of her courage crumbled a little further. Of course he would never want a woman too afraid to venture outside. It was foolish to even dream of it.

  She glanced behind her at the front door. Though it was only wood and brass, it might as well have been made of steel. Behind it lay hills and glens covered in glistening snow. She wondered if she would ever step outside again or feel the warmth of sun upon her face. Would she ever feel the kiss of rain on her skin or walk barefoot in the grass?

  She wanted to, so desperately. But more than that, she wanted to seize control of her life, to push back the fear and be the girl she’d once been before.

  Victoria clenched the boxed chess set, gathering her courage to step back inside the room. Mrs. Larson followed behind her, bringing a kettle of warmed water, soap, and a towel. With a sharp look toward her, the housekeeper chided, “Miss Andrews, ye should nae be here while he washes.”

  Before she could answer, Mr. Smith interrupted, “I quite agree. I’d never forgive myself if the sight of my wet face sent her into maidenly shock.”

  “Ye are a wicked man, sir. Teasing a lady so.” The housekeeper huffed and set down the basin, pouring the hot water and handing him the soap. “Someone ought tae be washing out yer mouth, I’d say.”

  “I presume you’re volunteering for the task?”

  Before the pair of them could start a war, Victoria stepped between them. “Mrs. Larson, that will be all.”

  “If ye had any decency at all, ye’d send for Mr. MacKinloch to be your valet,” Mrs. Larson informed him. “Lady Lanfordshire will be hearing about this.”

  And Victoria could just imagine what her mother would say. Even so, it seemed ridiculous to leave the room while Mr. Smith did nothing more than wash his face and hands.

  “I like your housekeeper,” he remarked. “She’s not afraid to speak her mind. Even if she does put nails in my food.”

  Victoria turned her back to allow him privacy while she opened up the chessboard set, placing the black and white pieces upon the board. He gave her detailed instructions on how to line up the pieces, but she hardly detected a word of it.

  She heard the light splash of water and imagined the scent of male skin and soap. Her mind conjured up the vision of what it would be like to watch a husband perform such intimacies in the morning. And it was nicer than she’d thought it would be.

  Her conscience warned her against these thoughts. With every moment she spent at this man’s side, her proximity to temptation increased. He made her want all the things she believed she’d never have.

  When the pieces were ready, Victoria turned back to him, unable to resist the urge. His face was damp, his cheeks smooth. A droplet of water rolled down from his temple, over one cheek. Her hands itched to touch his skin, and she prayed he could not read her thoughts.

  “When you look at me like that, I don’t want to play chess anymore,” he said quietly. His voice allured her, the deep tones sliding past her inhibitions, guiding her closer.

  “What do you mean?” She placed the chessboard on a table between them.

  His hand reached out to cup her cheek. Against her skin, she felt the warm moisture of his hand, and she caught her breath. “You know precisely what I mean, Miss Andrews.”

  She could give no answer to that.

  “I won’t give you any idle promises,” he admitted. “Nor will I try to win you over with meaningless words.” His thumb touched her mouth in the softest gesture. “But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that you fascinate me.”

  She jerked back from him and knocked over the queen. “Don’t say such things. You don’t mean them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because a man like you has no cause to be interested in a woman like me. I’m a nobody.” She righted the fallen queen and took a deep breath. “Let us continue our game and then I must attend to my sewing.”

  He propped himself up with one arm, sending her an intense look. “Be assured, I’m not a man who has pursued a great deal of women.”

  “You’ve drunk too much laudanum,” she argued. “You’re only looking at me because you’re ill. If my sisters were here, you’d—”

  “Stop belittl
ing yourself,” he ordered. “Let us play our game.”

  He gave her the basic rules, but few of them made sense. She decided to mirror his actions instead, watching as he moved a pawn two spaces forward. “I like looking at you,” he said. “Your eyes and your face are quite pleasing.”

  Instead of being flattered by his words, she felt dismayed by them. She knew what she was—passably attractive, but certainly not beautiful. “You’re trying to distract me to win the game,” she said.

  “I don’t have to distract you. I’m already winning,” he said, as he captured another piece.

  “I’m not a woman you can ensnare with words. I know full well that you’ll be leaving,” she countered, moving a pawn on the board.

  His hand paused upon a black rook. “I will, yes.”

  “And I’ll only be hurt if I allow myself to feel things I shouldn’t.” She made another move, seeking an escape from his attack. “Therefore, it seems best if I remain only your caretaker.”

  “That’s not a good move,” he informed her, touching the knight she’d just placed. “Check.”

  They played for a while longer before he won the game at last. Victoria was about to remove the pieces when he caught her hand again, threading his fingers with hers. “Do you find my attention offensive?”

  “N-no. Not at all.” Quite the contrary. She was fascinated by his sunburnt hair and the green eyes that burned into hers. The very touch of his hand sent her heart racing, but she couldn’t understand what he wanted from her.

  “Good.” He rubbed the soft part of her hand, still staring at her. “I’m going to kiss you one day soon, Miss Andrews. When you least expect it.”

  “Juliette,” Beatrice called from the doorway. “We’re leaving for Madame Benedict’s. Aren’t you coming with us?”

  Her daughter sat upon the floor of the nursery, watching as her youngest cousin shook a rattle with one hand. Charlotte’s seven-month-old son had been an unexpected blessing, one they’d never believed would happen, since she’d been barren after years of marriage. With his dark hair and gray eyes, he resembled his father. His sunny personality had captivated everyone—especially Juliette. She’d spent every waking moment playing with the boy.