by Eva Devon
Hmmm. So, he didn’t consider women to be inferior which was a marvelous thing. In her experience, men generally did look down on their female counterparts, indulging rather than truly listening to them. Still, Blackburn might feel that way about some things but what about passion? Or was he part of the vast majority that believed women were the bastions of morality? She stared him in the eye. “Then do you approve of women having as robust desires as men?
“Certainly,” he said putting down his cup and standing. He positively towered over her. His face was so bloody serious as he added, “As long as they are appropriate.”
For one brief moment she considered looking up his kilt. He was certainly close enough. But even she deemed that horrendously rude. . . Still, his legs were so gloriously firm. “That doesn’t sound particularly French,” she said.
“Well, I’m not French.” He held out his hand. “I’m Scottish. And my days in that country are long done, much like their monarchs and rapscallion life. Now, come the ground is cold and we should head back.”
“What was it like?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He lowered his hand and stared down at her, his face almost blank, but not quite. Some emotion threatened just beneath the surface. He hid it with the slight narrowing of his gaze “What was what like?”
“Versailles. Before the fall. Was it as marvelous as they say?” From the further narrowing of his eyes, she hesitated. “Do forgive me, if I shouldn’t have asked.”
He glanced up to the sky, his face growing shadowed and then he looked down at her again. The look in his deep blue eyes stole her breath away.
“Lady Cavendish, I have never known a more beautiful and scandalous place. Every moment was stunning, every gesture a delight, and it was all a perfect mask hiding the horrors of the people just outside the gilded gates. We sang and drank and danced as the peasants starved. I regret my part in that macabre farce.”
She bit her lip, stunned by his honesty. And touched. So many never mentioned the conditions of the people when the Revolution was discussed. “I admire you for your sentiment.”
He blinked, his only present indication of emotion. “You do?”
She nodded. “It shows what you are.”
A dark brow raised, challenging her. “And that is?”
She smiled up at him. “A good man.”
He was silent then gave a nod to acknowledge her compliment. “I’ve worked hard to be such.”
From the clarity of his statement it was easy to surmise he wasn’t going to abandon his efforts any time soon. Those unspoken words hung between them. Did he think she didn’t work to be a good woman or that her behavior was the opposite of his? He did think her scandalous. He’d made that clear before. And it was clear he had no admiration for a touch of scandal. The rather unpleasant thought settled in her heart. “We should be going.”
Duncan glanced about, hands clasped behind his back. “Where is everyone else?”
She laughed despite herself. “A bit of amour alfresco, no doubt.”
“But it’s freezing,” he protested with a surprising amount of shock considering he’d lived in Versailles.
“When did that ever stop an impassioned pair?” she pointed out.
“Point to you, madam.” He drew in a deep breath, clearly mystified. “You are frank.”
“Would you rather have me lie?” She thought of all the times as a girl that she had pretended that people weren’t entirely proper. For years, she’d acted as if she hadn’t known what ladies and lords were slipping into each others bedrooms at the many house parties she’d attended. “For that’s all those rigid manners are so often. A lie.”
He stilled. “If you choose to see it that way.”
“I do,” she said tightly, suddenly feeling a deep irritation at his righteousness. “Better to speak ones mind and admit we are creatures that love and feel and long to feel joy. It is what I do.”
“Better to do the right thing,” he contradicted.
A frustrated half groan passed her lips. “Were you raised by a parson?”
His gaze narrowed. “Quite the contrary.”
She stood. Without his help. It had been such a pleasant morning she was truly disappointed it had taken such a turn. There was one thing she couldn’t quite escape. “You don’t think much of me, do you?”
“Lady Cavendish. . .”
“No,” she cut in quickly, tired of his judgement. “You think I’m a damned Mary Magdalen sort of person, determined to drag honest men like you into sin. Well, that’s not the case. I have no desire but to see people happy. And in my experience, righteous parsons do far more damage than people like me who believe in affection and joy. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I will find my friends who are also likely doing the wrong and happy thing. Thank you, Your Grace for our outing.”
“We still have to walk back,” he said, his expression incredulous.
“So we do. And it will be best spent in contemplation of our sins, or lack there of, don’t you think?”
With that, she turned on her heal and marched off. She’d had enough of parsimonious prigs in her life, thank you very much. And just because this one was very handsome didn’t mean she was going to let him get away acting a superior bastard. No, by god, she would not.
*
Two days of self contemplation had driven one thing home to Duncan.
He was an arse.
They’d been having a perfectly pleasant time and he’d had to go and moralize. He had no idea what Imogen’s story was. And there was no getting around the fact that he had indeed implied that she was a bad person for behaving outside the bounds of societies’ dictates. He had the unpleasant feeling that in fact, she was a damned better person that most, despite her scandalous behavior.
Didn’t his people love her? Och, aye. And that kind of love wasn’t easily inspired. The biddies who spent hours on their knees in kirk, wearing naught a bauble, and preaching Christ’s suffering did nothing to bring light and help to the people about them.
Then there was Imogen, who’s dancing eyes, kind nature, and sense of fun seemed to uplift everyone she met. . . Except himself. Apparently, even she couldn’t save him from a good dosing of sanctimonious idiocy. But what was he to do? She was at complete contradiction to what he envisioned a good woman (or man for that manner) to be.
It wasn’t even just his interpretation of a good woman. Society proclaimed it so. She was in many ways everything that a woman should not be. Independent, outspoken, sensual. . . He was drawn to her for all those things. He couldn’t deny it.
Nor could he deny we was a duke with a father who’d nearly ruined the family and its good name with his scandalous ways. My god, if the secret had got out? Well, perhaps they would have weathered it but the Blackburn honor would have born a mark which would have ensured that generations would have to practice moral perfection as he now did.
One did not easily survive the open knowledge of his father’s horrifying, diseased end.
Even so, perfection was wearing, bleak, and frankly Duncan could feel slight cracks in the facade he had so carefully created years ago. That young man that had sang and seduced hungered to escape the prison he had created deep within his soul. He wouldn’t free him. He couldn’t. But the fact that he had to keep himself on a short leash was no reason to treat Imogen with such rudeness.
And so, he found himself once again at her door, hat in hand.
No one had ever managed to get him to do such a thing before. Not a soul. Nor had he ever been in the wrong so often before. . . Or worse. He cursed to himself. It was becoming a genuine concern that because he had been heir to the dukedom and then the duke that no one had ever had the courage to point out to him before that he was not as entirely right as he assumed.
He knocked the brass knocker against the brightly pained red door, his heart hammering with a shocking amount of trepidation.
Several steps echoed on the other side and he straightened, an
ticipation heady within him. Somehow, that Sassenach woman had found a place in his admiration which would no doubt astound her given his behavior.
Quite simply, he cared about her opinion of him.
The door opened to reveal an old fellow, silver haired, and dressed in simple livery. His wiry brows lifted. “May I help you?”
“The Duke of Blackburn.”
The old butler blinked. “He doesn’t live here.”
Duncan gritted his teeth. “No. No. No. I’m the Duke of Blackburn.”
“Beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
Well, at least the old fellow wasn’t entirely without sense. “I’m here to see Lady Cavendish.”
“She isn’t in,” replied the butler, still standing square in the open door, blocking any sign of admittance.
“She isn’t?” Duncan scowled. Was she avoiding him? He couldn’t blame her. He’d avoided her in the past. Undeniably, she had good cause to avoid his grumpy, unpleasant person. “When will she back?”
“Oh, she’s here, Your Grace.”
Once again, when it came to these English people, Duncan decidedly felt at sea. “I don’t follow.”
And worse and worse, was he truly being kept waiting on the doorstep? He? A duke? Had this particular butler no ideas of precedence? Dukes did not stand waiting. Anywhere. For anyone. But for Imogen, on this particular occasion, he would. Despite the fact the air was blasting down off the North Sea through the the oaks and over the loch. . . And right up his kilt.
The butler coughed, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly before he lifted a handkerchief to his red nose. “She’s not in the house.”
Duncan was very tempted to repeat the phrase drilled into him by his old nurse, Who’s she? The cat’s mother? Who the devil had servants that spoke of their masters in such plain terms?
Lady Imogen did. Of course, she did. For she was an entity unto herself. “If she’s not in, how is she here?”
“She’s out back playing to the animals”
Playing to the animals. It was tempting to ask what the devil the man meant, but he was giving up. Perhaps he’d fallen into a Jonathan Swift novel and Lilliputians were about to leap out of the bushes. Who knew? But he was not going to struggle any longer. “Out back, you say?”
“Yes,” the butler leaned forward and pointed towards the side of the house. “Just around there. Did Your Grace wish to wait inside?”
At last, the man was asking a sensical question, and usually Duncan would have answered with a resounding yes. However, curiosity had a solid hold on him. What and how did one play to animals? The butler couldn’t actually mean the four legged variety, could he? So, he shook his head. “I’ll find her.”
“Very well, Your Grace. Only, I advise you not to startle the animals. It upsets them and Lady Cavendish.”
Then door shut with a resounding thud that knocked several icicles to the ground and onto his shoulders.
Duncan stared at the red panel, then letting out a sigh, he brushed the ice from his person, turned on his booted heel and headed for the back.
The hunting lodge was large, but no where near as large as his castle. It took him no more than a few minutes to follow along the tall, ivy covered side of the building until he could indeed hear the faint strains of Greensleeves on the air.
It wasn’t possible. The butler couldn’t have been literally correct, could he? Duncan strode on, half in mind to come upon a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, fairies and animals dancing as Imogen, Queen Titania like, played a tune upon a piano forte.
He shook the fanciful idea away.
As soon as he turned the corner of the building and arrived at the back of the lodge, he stopped dead in his tracks. For there was a small building that could have been transported right out of Marie Antoinette’s village at Versailles. As if a German fairytale had landed right in the Highlands, the two storied building had all open doors on the first story, rather like a stable. Lantern light poured through the openings to give off a muted gold glow.
Soft hay was strewn over the floor and over the ground near the entrances. From said building, the romantic though slightly inaccurate tones of another medieval air were being played. He let out a laugh. He couldn’t stop himself. Lady Imogen Cavendish was clearly a woman that a man would never be able to anticipate.
Reminding himself to not startle the animals, he proceeded silently until he stepped onto the fluffed straw and peered in through one of the doors. His jaw dropped. Surprise, given each new astonishing moment in Lady Cavendish’s presence, shouldn’t have been possible. And yet, he was. Who wouldn’t be?
There, in four stalls were six deer, all standing quite peaceably, their liquid dark gaze focused on a figure in the corner.
Imogen sat, cloaked in green wool and dark brown fur, at a small piano forte, her fingerless gloves dancing over the keys, occasionally landing in cracks.
It the most bizarre and eccentric thing he had seen since he’d clapped eyes on a woman with a live bird inside a gilded cage pinned into her wig at the Paris Opera. Still, he was mesmerized.
There was something ridiculously peaceful about the scene. He waited in the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame, allowing himself to simply look at her in a way he’d been unable to permit himself.
The glow of the lamps gave her golden hair the gilded sparkle of starlight and a soft smile played at her lips, clearly content.
Contentment. It was an emotion he wasn’t sure he had ever experienced. It was a miracle he could recognize it in someone else. It didn’t seem right that a woman so embedded in scandal could be so calm, so pleased. Not when he struggled everyday to do the correct thing and felt so often a riot of emotion within.
Her pale fingers came to a rest on the keys. “Are you going to announce yourself, Your Grace?” she asked without turning.
“You’re damned odd, lass,” he said abruptly without thought, something only she seemed to be able to induce in him.
She turned slightly on her stool. “You’ve only just deduced such a thing?”
He shook his head. “I knew you were different, but I had no idea how eccentric. You don’t happen to have a few bats loose in your belfry, now do you?”
“Oh several, I imagine.”
“If you do, it only seems to add to your charm.”
“Ah. Flattery I see.” She nodded. “It does do a lady wonders.”
Wasn’t it just the other day he’d been discussing compliments and his general rule not to give them? Well, damn and blast. She deserved them. He meant them too. Imogen Cavendish was devilish charming. There was no getting round it. “I’ve come with an invitation for you and and your party as a sort of amends for yesterday.”
“Indeed?” she asked with a slight coolness.
“Yes. I’d like you all to come to the castle for the evening.”
Imogen beamed as if coolness was so foreign other she couldn’t stay thus for long. “I cannot possibly refuse. We are all far too curious about your castle. And I’m glad to hear you wish to be friends.”
Friends. Was that what he implied? He supposed one might deduce that from his invitation. But all he trulyfelt was relief that she wasn’t treating him like an icy blast of North wind.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Please,” she rose, her green, full silk skirts, a slightly darker shade than her cloak, swished about her legs. “You can meet my charges.”
He stepped over the threshold, his boot crunching on the fresh hay. “How have the creatures come to be in your care?”
“I pay the local lads and lasses, as you’d say. Any creature they find in duress comes to me until they are ready to face the world again.”
“That is highly admirable.”
“Thank you.” A soft look, one of quiet reflection came over her features. “Someone should look after broken things.”
There was a poignant note in her voice. One that begged the question and yet it would have been the height of rud
eness to ask how she could possibly acquainted with such things. Fortunately for him, he’d been rude so many times, he supposed once more wouldn’t be the end of the world. “How do you know about broken things?”
She lifted a delicate blond brow. “Oh, Your Grace, I must look a bit like a sugar coated soufflé, but even I have known life’s cruel brush.”
He clewed his throat. “I never said. . .”
She raised a hand. “But you thought.”
It was true. He had assumed she was rather useless, purely ornamental, and not worth a jot of his time. . . Before. Before he had discovered that she was a woman of so many facets one might decide she was a diamond of the first water. Not the diamond for him of course. But for many. “I am an arse,” he said, speaking what he’d been thinking for two days.
“Your Grace!”
“Can I not be frank?” He shrugged. “I’ve behaved quite thoughtlessly with you time and again. For some deplorable reason, you either bring it out in me or simply bring the fact to my attention. Your own frankness was refreshing.”
She glanced down before meeting his gaze, an errant lock of hair teasing her cheek. “It took you nearly two days to find it so.”
Damnation, it was so tempting to reach out and stroke that tendril back from her face, to touch her cheek but he couldn’t. Or he shouldn’t. “That only proves how much of an arse I am.”
“No,” she said firmly. “You’re not. You’re a good man, trying to do the right thing and perhaps you are a shade judgmental. But then again, you’re a duke.”
A laugh rolled from his throat. “Is that why?”
She nodded. “Most dukes have terrible character flaws.”
“You do know no one has ever said such a thing to me. At least not since Nanny.”
“Nanny and I would no doubt have gotten along marvelously.” She held out her hand. “Now, can I show you my menagerie?”
“I should like nothing better.”
“Nothing?” she teased, lowering her hand to her side.
He shook his head with a teasing warning. “Don’t tempt, my lady.”
She gave him a saucy grin. “Ah, but wasn’t it ordained in the bible that a woman is temptation, Your Grace.”