by Eva Devon
“Not that well,” she said, flatly.
“Oh fine. Fine!” boomed Aston. “I know you’re all dying for me to do it and are too modest to ask.”
Cordelia snorted.
Duncan’s dark brow shot up. “What?”
“I am the best player in the room, old boy.” And with that, Aston headed for the piano, plunked himself down on the bench then ran his fingers over the keys in a grandiose fashion. He then flashed them all a cheeky grin. “What shall we have? A reel?”
And Aston began a sprightly tune, his whole body animated by the music.
Without waiting, Kate grabbed ahold of her husband and Cordelia followed swiftly with Hunt. The two couples faced each other and began the patterns of the dance.
Aston leaned back. “Where’s my drink? Surely, I should be kept in drink for my labors?”
Just at the moment two servants in full livery strode in. Without any sign of astonishment at the couples dancing or the disappearance of the rug or the wild playings of an earring flashing duke, the servants made their way into the room. The first, after one nod from Blackburn, headed for Aston.
The other towards herself with Duncan in tow.
She chose a glass of champagne from the extended silver tray, then held the crystal flute filled with bubbling liquid up toward the chandelier, admiring the glass in the warm light. When Duncan paused beside her, she had to bite back a laugh. The man looked as if he was doing everything possible not to humph or scowl. “Things not going quite as you’d planned?”
“No,” he said simply, taking his own glass from the servant.
They were silent as the servant left them alone watching the merriment. Her own toes were tapping to the music. She loved to dance. But Duncan had yet to ask, and despite her enjoyment of the music, she was getting a sinking sensation.
“You do dance, don’t you?” she queried.
“No.”
She fought a groan. Good grief, could the man be any more of a curmudgeon? He’d done so well in inviting them for an evening party. But clearly, he had intended on only drinks and supper, not a direct flight into the Highland Fling. She took a swig of her champagne and eyed her friends.
They were so happy, the two couples as they bounced up and down, laughing. And it was absolutely endearing to see the two men, all powerful dukes, both over six feet, broad shouldered, and formidable dancing light on their toes, just to make their wives smile.
And it hit her.
She wanted that. Oh how she did!
Over the last year, she’d been growing more and more discontent with her whirlwind life. Oh, she didn’t wish to simply sit in a corner, embroider, pat a husband’s hand, and produce children. No, that would never be she. But she did long for love. The kind of love Cordelia and Kathryn had. Until she’d seen both those happy marriages over the last year, she’d never really let herself believe that such a love could truly exist.
In fact, she’d been determined to believe that such things only occurred in the plays and operas she so enjoyed and the delicious novels she devoured weekly. But she couldn’t pretend any more. Love, just like in the stories, was before her very eyes.
There was also the fairly consuming fact that she wanted a child. As Kate and Cordelia’s middles expanded, she couldn’t help but. . . No. She wouldn’t think about. She refused to be sad this evening. Quickly, she shook the thought of a babe nestled in her arms away before tears could form.
She snuck a glance at the Duke of Blackburn.
He was a man that would marry. He’d have to marry. Perhaps. . . Perhaps. . . She barely dared think it. Perhaps he could marry her. Imogen took another swallow of champagne. It was a ridiculous thought. Such a man would head to London or Edinburgh and find a girl of eighteen, innocent, and completely moldable for his duchess.
Ridiculous, or not, she’d now thought it. The image of the absolutely stunning, powerful man as her lifelong companion gave her a deliciously warm feeling. There was just one thing. Something had turned him against joy. It might have been what happened to all those he’d known in Versailles, but she was sure that wasn’t it. It had to be far closer to home to make him so eschew merriment.
If she had to guess, it was the gossip Kate had hinted about regarding Blackburn’s father. Any other man of her usual acquaintance would be unable to stand beside her in silence, holding his champagne untouched, watching the dancers. The men she knew would have already drank half their bubbly, grabbed her hand, headed for the dance floor, and made several shockingly delightful remarks.
She was certain that somewhere, deep down, that was exactly what the Duke of Blackburn longed to do, even if his rather stoney, regal face suggested the opposite.
“Do you like the champagne?” he asked, staring straight ahead.
“It’s particularly fine.”
“Thank you.”
She took a long swallow, finished her glass, and waved it at the servant bearing his tray.
Duncan made the oddest sound. “Another?”
“There can never be too much of a good thing, and since you don’t seem inclined to dance. . .”
He cleared his throat. “Alas, my dancing days are numbered.”
She nodded, took another glass of champagne and tapped her toe to Aston’s reel. Suddenly, the music stopped and Aston took a long pause then began a waltz. With a rather grand and romantic sweep of his arms, the infuriating duke filled the air with the most romantic melody.
The two couples seemed to melt with contentment as they came into each others arms and began swooping about the room to the lilting sounds.
Imogen let out a sigh. “When was the last time you hosted a party?”
“I host many engagements.”
She fought a groan. “No. Not engagements. A party?”
He looked at her and then a decided look of discomfort shadowed his features. “Is it that bad?”
For a moment, she considered being proper and lying. Such an action would do him no good though. “Yes,” she said bluntly.
A dry laughed rolled from his chest, and his eyes usually so serious, glowed with amusement.
She nearly shivered at the delicious sound. “How I wish you would do that all the time.”
He arched a brow. “Laugh?”
“I cannot tell you how much it changes your countenance. . . Or how it makes me feel.”
“If I could, I would do so again, for clearly it’s made you forgive my poor hoisting skills.”
She tilted her head back and eyed him. “I shall have to make it my purpose then, to make you laugh.”
His eyes darkened to the color of sapphire. “I think that a very bad idea.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I’ve laughed enough this life,” he said, as if were some mantra he’d oft repeated to himself.
She sniffed at this ludicrous and melodramatic claim. “One, my good duke, can never laugh too much. It does wonders for the complexion.”
“It might surprise you, but I’m not overly concerned about my skin.”
“You’re skin is marvelous,” she observed, delighting in the fact that she was no doubt about to make him squirm again. “Wind blown, hardy, and it graces an exceptionally handsome face.”
He drew in a belabored breath. “I am trying with every ounce of will power that I possess not to revert to a grump.”
“I admire you for it.” She extended a gloved hand to him, half breathless with anticipation. “Now, dance with me and you shall have successfully rejected the last remains of your grump.”
“Ah,” he countered. “But you see madam, I treasure some of the traits that come from my grumpiness. So, in this I cannot help you., I can assist you in more champagne and,” he eyed her extended hand then held out his arm, “a walk?”
A walk? With any other man, she would have known exactly what a walk meant. With Duncan, she had no idea and so she took his hand deciding to be ruled by curiosity.
He took two more glasses of champagne.
“You’re behind me, Your Grace.” She eyed one of the flutes. “Better toss one back quickly.”
He smirked. A surprising reaction. “One would never wish to leave a lady feeling on her own.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Of course not. Clearly, you must practice your good manners.”
“Indeed, I must.” With one quick gesture, he brought the flute to his lips and swallowed.
Good grief, he was beautiful. Head tilted back, swallowing the sweet nectar, he looked the perfect devil, even if he insisted on acting the saint.
As soon as he’d taken the last drop, he swept her out into a slightly shadowed side hall and her breath caught in her throat. If she thought she’d stepped back into medieval times before, now she was truly there. The corridor was stone, adorned with faded tapestries of unicorns and animals from far off countries. The ceiling over head was made of dark timber and paned glass windows lined the wall to the left, looking out to the night.
They walked slowly, her heart hammering. It was such a romantic place, she might have imagined herself in one of her favorite novels.
“Where are we going?” she whispered.
“Just a moment.”
It was so strange to walk in silence but she followed his suit until at last they came to a large turret room with windows on all sides. The walls were so thick that beautiful blue velvet seats had been installed along the stone sills.
“Look out,” he said gently.
Holding her glass carefully, she edged to the window seat and did as instructed. A gasp of wonder escaped her lips. The loch was hundreds of feet below, the waves crashing on ancient rocks and above, the star lit sky kissed the wild bens across the water. It was breathtaking. She could only imagine how many of the Blackburn dukes and duchesses had stood in this very spot overlooking their majestic land.
“You like it?” he asked.
“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,” she said quite truthfully.
“It’s my favorite spot in the castle.”
“And you shared it with me?” she asked, full of confusion and hope.
He had the strangest, almost confused look upon his face. “Yes.”
She traced her free hand over his arm. “Thank you.”
He jerked back from her intimate gesture. “I want us to be friends,” he stated.
He was so afraid. Of what, she wasn’t entirely sure, but she wished she could free him from it. “As do I.”
He gave a nod. “Good.”
“But you took me out here alone,” she observed.
“Because Aston is pounding that piano like a madman and I couldn’t hear myself think.”
Her heart sank just the tiniest bit. Another day, she wouldn’t have thought any thing of it. Clearly, he wasn’t the man for her. Oh, he might desire her. But that was it. Still, she met his gaze and challenged. “Is that the only reason?”
“Lady Cavendish. . .”
“Imogen,” she cut in, refusing to let him reject her intimacy.
He nodded, a soft smile playing at his lips. “Imogen, I. . . You do things to me that I can’t allow.”
She raised her brows playfully. “I do? How terrible of me.”
“Och, lass. I cannot be acting like a lecher in a tavern.”
“I can’t imagine you acting like a lecher in a tavern. But a rake?” she pursed her lips and gave him an exaggerated once over. “That, I think I can imagine.”
His eyes narrowed and any warmth that had been there vanished. “I beg your pardon. . . I don’t. . . I don’t feel at all well.”
Her playful demeanor dimmed, replaced by a sudden feeling that she’d hurt him. “Duncan?”
“I. . .” He stepped back. “I. . . We should be getting back. . . Forgive me, but I’m suddenly finding this hall to be particularly cold.”
Him? Cold? The man who strode about the highlands in December in a kilt and swam the sea loch? She didn’t think so and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to challenge his blatantly false excuse. She wasn’t one to force a man to keep her company, so she pinned a smile to her lips. “Then lets go back. We can’t let them have all the fun, in any case.”
He nodded. “And surely, one of the other gentlemen will dance with you now.”
Her heart sank. One of the other gentlemen. The Duke of Blackburn couldn’t make it much more clear. He had no wish to be close to her. Not now. Most likely not ever. Imogen swallowed then squared her shoulders. She’d come far too far to let a cantankerous, parson of a Scot ruin her good humor. No, she’d be merry. After all, she always was.
Chapter 10
1 week later
Christmas was in two days time. Once, it had been his favorite time of year. Duncan scowled at the fire place, caught himself, then kicked the iron grating. A log shifted, rolled, and sent a spray of glowing embers up the chimney.
He was in a foul mood. A mood black enough to put out the many candle lights dancing about his empty drawing room. He was alone this year. His sister had gone to visit friends in Edinburgh. He’d allowed it. She needed more company than an old grump of a brother. And well, he’d already seen to every aspect of the fete for the people on his estate tomorrow. Now, there was nothing left to do but stare at the fire, read, and have a glass of spiced wine.
Normally, nothing would have filled him with a greater sense of well being. Nothing save that damned woman. It had happened. That night he’d taken her to his favorite place in the castle. The way she’d looked at him. It had struck him to his core. By god, she’d looked at him as if she’d pinned all her hopes on him and that was not what he wanted. He’d briefly contemplated, in the darkest recesses of his fantasy, a mere dalliance. And she? Well, she’d looked like she wanted to link arms with him and join the other dukes and duchesses in their mutual esteem.
He was not about to do something that foolish with an Englishwoman. A scandalous Englishwoman at that. So, he’d bid them all adieu at the end of the evening and avoided them since. Every moment he’d taken himself out of Imogen Cavendish’s presence had been long and shockingly dreary.
In all normal events, he loved the gloom of a Highland winter. He loved the fires, the dark hours, the howling wind and falling snow. For some unfathomable reason, now those hours seemed to stretch on in interminable fashion filled with thoughts of golden hair, a mischievous smile, sparkling green eyes, and the warmth that only a kind woman could bestow.
There was a soft knock at the door.
His heartbeat quickened. Had she come to call? He’d avoided the calls of herself and her party the last days. It had been the only thing to do. He didn’t wish to give her the wrong impression. He wasn’t paying court to her. He couldn’t. Every time he’d pretended to be out on estate business, he’d felt the worst sort of blackguard, for the lass had been nothing but kind to him as had her guests. Well, kind for perverse English dukes.
His butler entered. “A note, Your Grace.”
A note.
His foolish and perverse hope fell. What kind of a man was he in any case to be wishing for such a thing as another visit when he would just turn the lass away? A mean one. A mean, stubborn old grump. That’s what she’d say. She’d be right, but he had to make a proper choice for his duchess.
The butler brought the note over to him on a silver tray. The delicate scroll of his name against the cream paper, indicated a lady. He took it then waited until the butler had quietly left. Until he was utterly alone. Again.
As he held the parchment in his fingers, it struck him that he was alone far too often. And almost always on Christmas. It was his one failing as a duke. He never had parties at the castle on Christmas day. Now, it was true he hosted a party in the village for the locals, but he’d never invited local nobles to his ducal seat to celebrate. The season had just seemed empty of joy since his mother’s death a few years ago. Perhaps that was why it had been so easy to let his sister leave a little over a week ago.
He stared down at the note, fill
ed with a strange mix of pleasure that she’d written him and doom, knowing he’d have to throw the thing on the fire. In one quick movement, he broke the wax, and snapped it open. There was one line. One damned line. A line he could never ignore.
I never thought you to be a coward, Duncan.
The Sassenach
A coward was he? Duncan stared down at those delicately inked words and ground his teeth together. He’d tried to do the right thing. He’d stepped away when he’d seen that spark in her eyes. A spark that signified more than desire. But no, she couldn’t let well enough alone. She’d challenged him.
To his astonishment, a faint smile played at his lips. After all, he might have been a mean old grump, but he was not a mean old grump that would back down from the gauntlet she’d so clearly flung down.
*
It had been a bold and somewhat ill advised thing to do. Imogen realized that now, standing in her parlor, the sound of boot steps pounding down the hall outside. But she’d not been able to countenance his absence. The fool man had had the most wonderful time with her, she was sure of it, and then he’d vanished. Like the wee folk he’d talked of so fondly.
The door handle turned and she squared her shoulders, but nothing could have prepared her for the door swinging open and the Duke of Blackburn striding straight into the room unannounced.
His eyes the color of rushing, cold water, a blue so intense, she could lose herself if she wasn’t careful, stared unflinching. “Were you a man, madam, I would call you out for such an epistle.”
She lifted her chin. . . She refused to be intimidated. “Since I am a woman, can you not think of a more pleasing response?”
A sound of exasperation growled from his throat. “That. That is why I have avoided you and your whole damned party.”
“My whole damned party returned to London five days ago. It is only I you have avoided like the plague.”
He hesitated, but the sense of masculine power didn’t fade. “Your party is friendly enough, much to my surprise, so I must admit then that it is you that I have soundly avoided.”