“I do not know what I could teach you,” Marigold said. “Your kindness already awes me.”
“You deserve every kindness.” He kissed the top of her head. “My situation involves people who deserve nothing from me.”
“Could it be that they have suffered unbeknownst to you? Some people mask their pain.” She pulled back to look into his eyes. “Kindness should be extended to everyone, but the chance to offer compassion is a gift.” Glancing at her books, she added, “You did say you love giving gifts.”
“How did you know exactly what to say?” he asked and pecked her lips.
She blushed at the praise. “I do not think I said anything profound.”
“Oh, but you did. And you did it kindly instead of telling me I have been a self-centered fool.”
“I would never think that of you,” she whispered.
“Do not make me some saint,” Randolph cautioned. “I have made mistakes. I have done wrong. More than an innocent woman like you could know. You would beat me with that skillet, if you knew.”
He tried to jest, but Marigold saw a lingering pain behind his eyes. One day, she hoped he would share his burdens with her. “Will I see you at the ball?”
“Would I want to miss a chance to see you dance?”
“I do not know how.” Nor would her cousin allow her.
“That has not stopped you before.” He smiled. “You had not encountered a thief or an intruder before, yet you improvised.”
“True.” Marigold smiled. “I suppose one must when on an adventure.”
“Absolutely.” He grinned and gathered her hands, then bowed over them.
“Good night, Mr. Randolph,” she said shyly.
“Call me Douglas.” He placed a kiss on the back of each hand.
Marigold blushed red. “Good night, Douglas.”
He turned her hands over to kiss each palm before releasing them. Just before leaving, he looked back at her with a smile.
It took hours for her heart and mind to calm after their encounter. Somewhere in the early morning hours, she wondered how he had known her true name and that the Kincaids were her relations. She supposed the Duke had told him.
Chapter Six
For the next few days, Marigold worked doubly hard in the house. Her female cousins had not taken kindly to her being invited to the ball. The logic, she surmised, was that if she did not complete her tasks, she could not attend. At night, she worked on refashioning one of her mother’s gowns she found in an old trunk in the attic.
The day before the ball, Priscilla and Edith drove into town for more ribbon. Augusta pleaded a headache and stayed at home. In the kitchen, Marigold brewed lavender tea for her cousin. Carrying a tray with biscuits as well as tea things, Marigold almost dropped them when the kitchen door swung open just as she approached.
“Pardon me!” Marigold was quick to exclaim.
“It was my fault entirely.” Augusta laughed.
Awkwardness fell between them, and Marigold shifted the weight of the tray. Her cousin’s eyes finally landed on the items.
“Is that for me?”
Marigold shyly nodded.
“You are always so kind,” Augusta said. She took the tray and set it on the kitchen table. “Come with me.” She grabbed Marigold’s hand.
They arrived in the back parlor, and Augusta shut the door. “Papa has left on an errand, and we have some time before Mama returns.”
“To do what?” Marigold asked.
A very long time ago, she and Augusta had played together. When Priscilla realized the governess taught all her charges together—including one destined to be a servant—she had them separated.
Augusta blushed and looked at her feet. “I thought I would give you a dancing lesson.”
“Oh!” Excitement filled Marigold. “But you had better not. I do not wish for you to get in trouble, and Priscilla says I will not dance anyway.”
“If you had rather not…” Augusta wiped at her eyes. “Yes, I can understand you would not accept anything from me. How you must hate me.”
Marigold claimed her cousin’s hands. “I would love a lesson,” she hastened to say. “And I do not hate you.”
“I never liked how we were told to treat you,” Augusta said in a quiet voice. “But it is so hard…”
Nodding, Marigold squeezed her hands again. “I understand. It is not easy to stand up against a loved one.”
“Yes,” the word whooshed from Augusta as though she had been holding her breath.
“Perhaps if we make it quick,” Marigold said.
“Tomorrow, if a gentleman asks you to dance, I do not think Mama can say no for you. It would look too peculiar to bring a lady who refuses to dance.”
Tingles spread over Marigold’s body. Would she dance with Douglas? She did not know that a servant would be in the ballroom, but perhaps they might find a secluded corner to talk, if not dance.
“You are blushing,” Augusta said with a grin. “Is there a young man you are sweet on?”
Marigold shook her head, but her cheeks flushed even more. “It is nothing.”
“I won’t press for your confidence,” she said. “Let us waste no more time.”
Augusta began humming a tune and directed Marigold how to stand and step. They stopped the lesson when neither one could proceed without a fit of giggles. When they recovered, Augusta explained she would now teach a waltz.
Marigold blushed furiously to consider herself in a man’s arms the way Augusta poised them. You did not think twice being held by Douglas. That was...different, she told herself. It felt like she should have always been in his arms. Even now, she longed for his embrace.
“There,” Augusta said at the end of their third attempt. “If your partner is an excellent lead, I believe you know enough to fake it.”
“Thank you!” Marigold threw her arms around her cousin. “I had worried so much about embarrassing Nicholas and Priscilla.”
The clock chimed the top of the hour, and before long, the others would return home.
“I must tell you something,” Augusta said. “There is a gentleman who I think will make me an offer soon.”
“My congratulations.” Marigold beamed.
“And when we are wed, I want you to live with me.”
“Oh,” Marigold looked at her hands. She had thought when her cousins married they would hire new staff or take one of the current maids. “I do not wish to take a position from Becky or Ruth,” she answered.
“No, not as a servant!” Augusta chided. “I would introduce you into Society. I have not protected you as I ought—no, do not defend my cowardice. When I am mistress of my own home, I can ensure you have the placement you deserve.”
The sound of a carriage in the drive signaled the end of the tête-à-tête.
“Tell me you will consider it,” Augusta said.
Marigold nodded and dashed to the kitchen. She had never believed that she might be rescued from her position in Nicholas and Priscilla’s household.
Emotions swirled in her breast for the remainder of the day. Dare she hope for a better life? How terrifying. This home was all she had known. Then, she heard Douglas’s voice in her mind, telling her to consider the adventure. She had never wanted to be in Society, but she would relish the freedom from degradation. On the other hand, there was a whole world of rules and expectations about connections. Would accepting her cousin’s hospitality end her friendship with Douglas? Marigold dared not even think of the M word.
The morning and afternoon of the ball passed in a flurry of activity. Despite the days of practicing hairstyles and perfecting accessories, Priscilla ordered her daughters to be remade from head to toe several times. They had settled for masques of feathers. Blue for Augusta, purple for Edith, peacock for Priscilla.
At last, they were dressed and prepared with just enough time remaining for Marigold to dash upstairs and hastily dress. Her attire was nothing compared to the finery her cousins wore, but so fa
r above her usual clothing that she felt like a princess. Having no mask, Becky managed to make some face paint. Marigold loved the final effect. She looked like herself, only enhanced.
Dottie cried when she came up to peek at Marigold. “You look so much like your mother!”
Beaming, Marigold was sure she had been paid no higher compliment. Spirits high, and hoping for a stolen dance or moment with Douglas, she rushed down the stairs to her waiting family.
“Come along,” Nicholas said, and left for the carriage.
Marigold hung back, used to leaving last. Augusta squeezed her hand as she passed.
“Just a moment, Edith,” Priscilla called as her younger daughter began to leave after giving Marigold a dirty look. “We must help your cousin with her costuming.”
Begrudgingly, Edith turned back.
“See here,” Priscilla flicked one of Marigold’s sleeves. “Masquerades call for Van Dyck. We should see the chemise underneath.”
“Allow me to help,” Edith said with feverish glee. She launched for Marigold’s sleeve and ripped it off.
A gasp tore from Marigold’s lips, and she stepped backward, but Priscilla grabbed her arm.
“Those are my pins,” she said about the jeweled hair pins Becky had rescued from the rubbish bin, and yanked them from Marigold’s hair.
“And my beads!” Edith wrenched away the delicate glass beads that trimmed Marigold’s neckline.
They continued to rip and tear at embellishments, not caring that the thin fabric, so in style twenty years before, tore under their violence. In no time at all, Marigold’s dress looked utterly indecent to wear in public. Nicholas’s voice called from the entry, and they pushed Marigold aside. Relieved to be free of their clutches, she ran through the connecting doors to the dining room and out into the garden, sobbing.
***
Douglas paced his grandmother’s ballroom. Strike that. He paced his ballroom. There was no going back now. No hiding in the Highlands and pretending he did not exist. His blue blood had found him at last. While he had expected to feel tortured at this occasion, he realized peace. Douglas could still recall Marigold’s wise words and feel the softness of her lips, the taste of her mouth.
No, he was not pacing about the mansion because he could not tolerate the mocking display of hypocrisy. Marigold had convinced him that he could look to the future and forgive the pain of the past. Becoming Duke did not mean he forgot his upbringing or rejected his mother. More than this, Marigold had shown him how he might use his position to help and please others.
The last few evenings, he had gone out with his grandmother and made acquaintances with the area’s so-called high society. Inverness was not Edinburgh or London, and was remarkably thin when it came to titles and very wealthy gentlemen. While Grandmama had desired Douglas to spend time getting to know Lady Adeline and other ladies she deemed suitable, he had spent time meeting men. First, he wished to amass capitol and interest in his steamship venture. Secondly, he was considering gentlemen who might suit Marigold. Of course, none of them bloody deserved her, but maybe they could make her happy.
Although his was a masked ball, Douglas was sure he would recognize her anywhere. None of the ladies present had Marigold’s lithe but curved frame or her height. She tucked under his chin so perfectly.
Her strawberry blonde tresses did not gleam in any of the candlelight. The ladies present moved to entice and draw notice. They danced with sure steps. Marigold had been trained to be unobtrusive, and she didn’t know a single step to a dance.
Frustration nipped at him. Where was she? He scanned the ballroom again. If her cousin had not brought her, so help him…
“You seem to be looking for someone, Your Grace,” Sir Stirling said at his side.
“Do you see Nicholas Kincaid?”
“I am less likely to find him than you are. You have the advantage of a few inches.” The gentleman chuckled.
“Aye,” Douglas returned.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the door. Trust blasted Kincaid to dare arrive late to the new Duke of Inverness’s ball! One, two, three ladies followed behind. Without conscious thought, Douglas’s legs carried him to the scrawny man in long strides. Hearing steps at his heel, Douglas glanced back to see that Sir Stirling followed.
“Laird Kincaid,” Sir Stirling said when they reached the group.
“Sir Stirling,” the man sneered.
The group peered at Douglas with interest. “Stirling, I do not believe I have met your acquaintances.”
“Certainly. Inverness, allow me to present Laird Nicholas Kincaid, his wife, and daughters Augusta and Edith.” Sir Stirling addressed Douglas, then turned to the family, who had collectively paled. “Sir, ladies, may I present the Duke of Inverness.”
Douglas bent just slightly into a bow, his motion jolting the others into returning the civility with far more awe.
“I understood your cousin would be coming,” Douglas said.
Given the way Kincaid’s eyes darted around the room, he heard the threatening tone in the Duke’s voice.
“She felt unwell,” his wife supplied.
“Lady Kincaid.” Douglas’s gaze snapped to hers, and he had the unholy desire to throttle her, woman or not. He settled for a nod. She beamed at the perceived compliment.
“Yes, Marigold is forever running ill,” the younger daughter sniffed.
She scanned Douglas’s attire from head to toe, pausing over specific features, and when her eyes returned to his, desire flamed them. The sheltered maiden would have little knowledge of sexual temptation. She saw riches and his title and practically salivated with lust of a very different sort than Douglas had ever known.
The elder daughter twisted her gloved hands and averted her eyes. Pink tinged her cheeks.
“Augusta is quite the beauty, is she not?” Lady Kincaid said with a coy glance between him and her daughter. “She is a lively dancer, as well.”
“Mama, please—” Augusta said.
“Nonsense, I am sure the Duke would be pleased to dance with you.”
Feeling he had been pushed into a corner he had neatly avoided the last several nights, he did his duty and requested Augusta Kincaid’s hand in a set.
“I would be most pleased,” she murmured as her younger sister nudged forward, clearly hopeful of a similar request.
“And Edith is—”
“If you will excuse me,” Douglas said before he could be entrapped in another dance. As he brushed past Kincaid, who trembled at the contact, he whispered, “Shall you honor your debt, or shall I inform the world why Miss Marigold really cannot attend?”
Without waiting for an answer, Douglas walked away. His blood boiled. His mind raced with images of Marigold locked away in the attic or cellar. Not giving a damn about what his guests might say, he hurried to find his butler, James still on his heels.
“Wilson, call for the carriage.”
“It is gone.”
“Gone?” he and James echoed together.
“Her Grace ordered it some half hour ago.”
“Take mine,” Sir Stirling said.
Douglas was unsure why he offered such help, but was grateful for his generosity.
“Forgive me, sir,” Wilson said. “Your wife has asked for the carriage. I believe she is in the ladies’ withdrawing room. She felt unwell. Should I send a maid?”
Instantly, Douglas saw the man transform from dangerous knight to doting husband. He began to apologize.
Douglas held up a hand. “Think nothing of it. See to your wife.”
As Sir James walked off with the butler, Douglas let out a long exhale. What had he planned to do? Storm over to Kincaid’s house and knock down every door until he found Marigold? Then, what? Bring her to his home and expect no one to say a thing? Her reputation—already damaged if anyone learned the truth of how she had spent the last twenty years—would be ruined. She would never find a suitable husband. No one would believe he had only a fr
iendly interest in her. And they would be right, of course.
Returning to the ballroom, Douglas was stopped many times for introductions and conversation. When he made it back to the chamber, it was nearly time for his set with Augusta. She danced with a gentleman of modest estate Douglas had met a few nights ago. Even to his untrained eye, they appeared in love. At least, he did not have to worry about the daughter having any hopes of gaining his hand in marriage.
Douglas could not say the same for nearly any other guest. A middle-aged man and his daughter approached. Taking the bait, he escorted the terrified miss to the dance floor while imagining a different scene. In another world, instead of strangers and awkwardness, warmth and closeness welcomed him. Instead of vacant-headed misses wrapping their arms around his pocketbook, Marigold wrapped her arms around his neck.
As his dance partner made an identical remark about the ball that five or six other ladies had already mentioned, Douglas reminded himself he was now a duke, and this was his lifestyle. If life in poverty had not destroyed him, neither would this nothingness consume him.
Chapter Seven
Marigold buried her face in her hands as she stood in the frigid air. Why, oh why, had she dared to hope? Had she been a stupid ninny to believe in the goodness of others?
“Why do you cry, miss?”
The unknown and unexpected voice made Marigold jump. She whirled toward the speaker. An old lady in a ragged cloak approached. The wind tugged at her garments.
“Come,” Marigold sniffed. “Let us get you inside and warm.” She put her arm around the lady’s shoulder to help support her as they walked.
Inside the kitchen, Marigold seated the woman near the fire and set water to boil to make tea from used leaves. She sliced up some bread and slathered butter on each slice.
“Do you have a place to sleep?” Marigold asked the woman.
“Do not worry about me, child.” The woman leaned forward. “Let me see you.”
Marigold twisted her hands during the woman’s inspection, but did not flinch.
“Yes, I see your mother in you.”
“You knew my mother?” Marigold gasped.
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