Wish Upon A Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 3)

by Eva Devon

  Her mare, Buttercup, stood patiently, head drooping with absolute trust as the duke neared her. In fact, Buttercup looked like she might melt with utter bliss as the duke stroked behind her ear then her chin. Blinking softly, long lashes delicately wafting through the cold air, Buttercup had been absolutely seduced.

  “She doesn’t always like men,” Imogen said, astonished.

  “Smart mare. Men can be aggressive idiots when it comes to fair creatures. And male or female, horses are knowing creatures. Brute strong or sweet as spring, like this girl here, never be mistaken, horses are from the fairy world. Their spirits ken things that we cannot.”

  She didn’t miss that as he spoke of something that moved him, his words slipped into the deeply appealing tones of the Highlands. If given the choice, she’d love to hear him speak thus forever. It sounded so perfect, so natural. As if he was being finally true to himself.

  “Right then,” Duncan urged. “Up you get.”

  “I need a mounting block.”

  With a look that was positively ruinous, he leaned down and murmured. “Do you not think I have the strength for it lass?”

  She felt her cheeks go hot. Hot! She, a woman who had been exceptionally naughty! How was it he made her feel like a girl just fresh from the convent school? She gave his hand a squeeze. “Er. Why, of course you are.”

  “Give me your leg.”

  “What. . .” Before she could finish, he’d already bent, cupped her calf and shin in his big hand and was tossing her up onto the saddle.

  A thrilling feeling whooshed through her belly. He made her feel as light as air and delicate as a feather. She’d felt many things in her life, but delicate had never quite been one of them.

  He stroked Buttercups neck in slow, soft, sure strokes. “Now take the reins.”

  She glanced down at the strips of leather, blinking. “Of course.” She took them between her fingers, grasping with her palms and thumbs. She wasn’t a complete ninny. She knew how to hold reins properly.

  “Now relax.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He smiled. “You’re as tense as a strung bow, Imogen.”

  “Surely not?” Was that a defensive note in her voice?

  “You see Buttercup’s ears?” he said gently.

  She glanced to the horse’s ears which were pointed back and slightly down. “Yes, what of them.”

  “She senses that you don’t trust her,” he said soothingly. “And that this isna’ something you enjoy.”

  “How?”

  “I told you. Horses are of fairy.” Duncan all but cooed at the mare. “They ken things. . .”

  “We don’t. Right. Right.”

  And at that moment Buttercup tossed her mane, then rested her head on Duncan’s shoulder with a soft blow of her lips.

  “You see, she knows that I have only utter admiration for a beautiful, soft lass.”

  Imogen sniffed. Had she just been compared to a horse? Though, it was true, Buttercup was beautiful. . . for a horse. She shifted on the saddle, her feet still dangling. “Well, how do I relax then.”

  “Everyone is different lass, but you must think only of Buttercup and your surroundings. Not balls, or gowns, or even your menagerie.”

  “What about fine dukes in their kilts?”

  Duncan laughed. “Fine dukes in their kilts is the only exception. Now, let’s go.”

  “But my feet aren’t in the stirrups.”

  “Nor should they be, just the now. You learn to relax, and I’ll manage Buttercup.”

  She wanted to tell him she was perfectly able. But the truth was, she’d never been good with horses. Not since she was thrown when she was 8 years old into a blackberry bush.

  Duncan took the reins at Buttercup’s mouth gently in his hands and he didn’t even tug on them, merely began to walk, and Buttercup followed as if she’d follow Duncan to the ends of the earth.

  Did he have this effect on all female creatures? Cordelia and Kate didn’t count. They were married. But even they had noticed how irresistible Duncan could be. She fought a sigh. Last night had been remarkable. He’d been so powerful, so masterful. And he’d given her such intense pleasure she didn’t know if she’d eve be quite the same,”

  “You’re not paying attention, lass.”

  She cleared her throat. “My apologies.”

  “Now, just look around you.”

  He should have sounded arrogant what with his orders, but he didn’t. He sounded as if he was trying to share something important to him. Most gentlemen she knew cared about horses but only for their morning ride, or the races. Duncan seemed almost akin.

  She forced herself to glance away from him and Buttercup’s ears. They were walking at a decent pace over the heather towards Duncan’s estate. The wind was low, not yet blustering as it could be in late morning and the sky was ripe with the call of winter birds. In the distance, she could hear the stream that raced over her land and onto Duncan’s. It called like a silver song, happy, tempting, and absolutely mischievous, like one of the wee folk the locals and Duncan insisted upon.

  “You’re smiling lass and you’re absolutely relaxed.”

  She blinked. Her lips were curved and she could feel now that the tension had slipped away from her. She really had no idea how long he’d been leading her. It couldn’t have been minutes or hours she’d felt so at peace. Given the terrain, it had been at least an hour!

  “So I am,” she admitted.

  He gave her an approving nod. “Which is grand because I hear my ride approaching.”

  There it was, the sound of approaching hooves.

  Just over the slight hill, came the figure of a massive stallion, for that was all it could be what with its wide chest and height, and a young man walking beside the animal carrying a large basket.

  Duncan gave a wave and the stallion nickered and tossed his mane.

  Truly, was Duncan magical himself? For as far as she could see despite his seemingly prickly nature, most fell under his spell.

  “Now, I’m going to leave you here with Buttercup for a moment, for if King gets a whiff of Buttercup here without my hands to guide him. . . It could be quite a wild ride for you.” Duncan threw his head back and laughed before he placed a large palm on her thigh. “And you’re tense again, lass.”

  “Yes, well I did rather have the image of going arse over tea kettle with your stallion in pursuit.”

  “King is as gentle as a lamb when in my hands. It’s why young James isna riding him but leading him, no doubt feeding him apples and carrots all the way to appease the great beastie.”

  “Great beastie?” she echoed with an arched brow. “I thought they were fairy.”

  “Och don’t you know, the fairies and the beasties are all in cahoots together with us poor mortals at their pleasure.” Duncan gave her a cheeky grin then left her alone atop Buttercup as he strode over to King.

  What the devil had happened to her grumpy, scowling duke? And he couldn’t possibly believe all this tosh about beasties and fairies and cahoots could he? No, he was just having her on, what with her being a Sasennach from London.

  She watched Duncan as she exchanged a a few words with the young man, James, then held her breath as he swung up onto the stallion. She knew it was utterly girlish, but she couldn’t help the absolute thrill that rushed through her as he charged over the heather on his steed, his kilt draped over his thighs. Truly, all he needed was a broad sword.

  After riding in large circles at break neck pace, Duncan brought King around and began a slow walk up to them. It was remarkable the difference. Just moments ago, the stallion had been all flashing sinew and whipping mane. Now, the massive animal that dwarfed Buttercup seemed positively docile with Duncan at his reins.

  “Right then, still on for our adventure?”

  She swallowed. She supposed this meant she’d be riding on her own now. She wondered if he could tell how foreign it was too her. Nodding tightly, she smiled a tight lipped smile,
doing her best to infuse it with anticipation.

  Duncan shook his head. “Lass, you’re as transparent as water.”

  Before she could make an indignant reply, he urged King closer until the stallion was nuzzling Butercup’s neck with a surprising gentleness. Wordlessly, Duncan slipped the reins from her hands. “You just hold on. Pay attention to your surroundings. Relax.”

  And with that they were off.

  Relax indeed! She’d be lucky if she didn’t fall flat on her bum! Still, Duncan had challenged her and she was never one to back down from a challenge. Imogen took a deep breadth and focused on that which was closest, the madman, Duke of Blackburn.

  *

  Duncan had no good reason as to why he was taking the English lass way up into the Highlands, farther than he would ever take a walking party, especially on a December day. But he wanted to show her the hidden glen. He refused to think of what might drive him to do such a thing. Surely, it was simply that he wished the sassenach temptress, the woman who had ignited a fire in him unlike any he’d ever known, to know how beautiful his land was. He might not go to the opera every other night, or a soiree, or be dripping in culture, but he had land that was so beautiful one could scare draw breath for wonder.

  Aye. Even he, after more than thirty years, could still feel his heart and soul sing with the power of this land.

  Imogen was silent.

  What if she wasn’t moved as he? What if like all other town women, she was bored by the jagged, heather covered hills and silver water running down from the snow capped ben?

  He fortified himself, ready for her to make some silly, sassenach statement and turned to look at her.

  Aside from the fact that her knuckles were white, her entire body radiated amazement. So much so that a tear had slipped down her cheek. “Imogen?” he whispered.

  She reached up and dashed the tear away. “Do forgive me, how foolish of me.”

  “How is it that Scotland can move you, an English lass, to tears?”

  She shook her head, her blond hair a riot after the ride. “I don’t know. It has seized my heart you see. The Highlands are my heart.”

  How lucky those Highlands were. His own, Highlands. If only he could have her heart. If only he could allow it.

  Her gaze pinned him, her eyes so intense he almost gasped. He’d shown her the most special place on this earth to him, and she had been brought to tears. By god, she was a woman who couldn’t ever be dismissed as simply a temptress, or a sassenach. She was an incredible woman. In that moment, he hated himself. Hated his damned body for desiring her so much. Because he could not keep her. Not a woman with so much sin in her past. No. He could barely trust himself to do the right thing. And look at him. He wasn’t even doing the right thing for now. When he chose his duchess, he had to choose a woman who would never tempt him into sin, a woman who would keep on the straight and narrow for his family honor and for his clan.

  So, when the time came, how on earth was he going to let her go? He’d have to. He must. But for now, she was the dearest gift his lonely heart could have ever received.

  Chapter 12

  It had been decades, quite literally decades, since he’d had such a merry Christmas Eve. His father had destroyed every Christmas, either by spending it with tarts in Edinburgh, or by getting so drunk he couldn’t stand by dinner time. Those years had been harrowing for himself, his sister, and his mother. And the last few years had been marred by his mother’s illness. Yes, every Christmas since his mother’s death had been small, quiet, reserved. He couldn’t bear the idea of celebration.

  Until Imogen.

  Those two words seemed to sum up so much of his recent life.

  Until Imogen.

  He caught himself smiling and for once had no desire to stop himself. He didn’t care if he didn’t look serious. By god, he was happy. The Christmas punch was waiting for the traditional poker to be plunged into it and Imogen sat at the piano forte plunking out slightly inaccurate but beautiful Christmas carols. Every time her fingers hit a crack, his heart squeezed, not with irritation but fondness. Imogen wasn’t perfect. She was in many ways the opposite of it. . . And yet, somehow, that very thing made her the most perfect woman he’d ever met.

  From her always riotous curls, to her fingers that didn’t obey her commands (as she claimed) at the piano, to the way she gobbled cake, Imogen was perfection. Not to mention the way she curved her body against his during the long, cold winter night, sharing her warmth, her passion, and her generous spirit.

  Quite simply, he had never, in his entire adult life known such joy.

  It was damned unfair that he couldn’t have it forever.

  As he sat, pleasantly close to the crackling fire, the door opened and Imogen’s lady’s maid entered followed by several other servants that Duncan had seen and spoken to but had never given a great deal of thought.

  Three footmen carried trays laden with iced cakes, sandwiches, and other varied fancies and several decanters of wine. The parlor maid, and under maid in their pressed uniforms, bore baskets laden with brightly colored presents and simple boxes.

  Duncan stared at the parade, entirely unsure what to make of it. It was far too much food for just Imogen and himself and before he knew what was happening the odd old butler and one of Imogen’s lads who worked with the animals were dragging in a tree.

  A tree. Why the devil were they bringing in a tree?

  Imogen jumped up from the piano, clapping her hands. “Marvelous! It’s time!”

  Time for what, he wanted to demand, but even he knew that would only result in merciless teasing from Imogen. So, he remained silent, seated and somewhat paralyzed.

  The full skirts of Imogen’s emerald gown billowed about her legs as she rushed to the footmen and helped them place the food on a side table.

  “Where shall we put the tree, my lady?” the butler asked.

  “What do we all think,” Imogen returned, turning to her her servants.

  Duncan blinked, stunned she’d say such a thing. He wasn’t certain if in the entirety of his life if he’d ever heard an aristocrat ask a servant’s opinion.

  The young boy, his cheeks bright red from the cold outside, shoved his cap back with a mittened hand. “In the corner, me lady! By the window, so we can see it outside too!”

  Lady Imogen beamed at him as if he was the cleverest person she’d ever met. “What a brilliant suggestion, Malcolm. Does everyone agree?”

  The servants nodded, some applauding.

  In fact, the general air of the several servants was incredibly high. He shifted uncomfortably, not having any idea how he should behave. “What is the tree for?”

  Imogen grinned.

  “It’s to decorate,” piped young Malcolm and then his already red face turned crimson. “Your G-grace.”

  Duncan winced. The poor lad looked ready for a slap. Did he indeed seem so grim? “How fascinating. How does one decorate a tree?”

  Imogen gave Malcolm an encouraging nod.

  “Well,” began the lad, “Lady Imogen says we put all sorts on it. Candied fruit, and bows, and little bells. It’s what they do in Germany. . .” He glanced back to Imogen, pulling on his hands. “Is that right?”

  “Very! I couldn’t have explained it better myself!” Imogen cheered. “And Malcolm didn’t you find something especially special for the tree?”

  Malcolm stared for a moment then smiled. “I did!”

  The boy turned and ran out into the hall.

  Duncan lifted a brow. It was the strangest thing and yet even he couldn’t quite escape the feeling of anticipation in the air.

  “Wine,” Imogen declared. “Everyone needs a glass of wine for the decorating.”

  And to Duncan’s astonishment, she went to the table and began pouring out glasses of deep red wine into simply cut crystal goblets. . . For the servants. As she filled a glass, she passed it back to a waiting set of hands.

  “You’re mouth is open, Your Grace,” she sai
d lightly.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he replied quickly. He cleared his throat. My god, was he a complete snob? Wasn’t he supposed to be the laird of his clan? Here Imogen was, a complete stranger, a sassenach, treating her servants like friends. So before he could seem any more of an arse, any more than usual, he strode to her and took a glass of wine she’d just poured, reminded himself to smile, and handed it to one of the maids.

  The red headed girl curtsied. “Thank you, Your grace”

  “You’re welcome. . .” Then to his own chagrin he realized he didn’t know her name, even though he’d been in and out of the lodge several times in the last few days. “What is your name?”

  “Mairead, Your Grace.”

  “Mairead.” He drew in a deep breath. “Has everyone a glass of wine?”

  There was a collective murmur of enjoyment.

  Imogen placed a hand on his arm, her approval so rich, he could feel it in the comfort of her gentle touch. “Perhaps you can help the maids with the packages?”

  “Certainly.” He grabbed a glass of wine, took a large swig, savoring the burst of plum, cherries, and spice on his tongue. It was damn fine wine.

  Just as he headed over to the baskets filled with various sized boxes, some with brightly colored ribbon, others plane, young Malcolm came running back in at full speed.

  “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, skittering to a halt.

  The general company of servants turned to Malcolm, their excitement filling the air.

  Duncan paused, curious as to what could cause so much excitement.

  Imogen crossed slowly to the boy and knelt, her skirts fluffing about her.

  There, in Malcolm’s mittened hands, was a small bird’s nest.

  Imogen cupped her delicate hands around the boy’s. “Now tell us the story.”

  Malcolm glanced around at all the adults then stared at Imogen as if she were an angel straight from heaven. “Well my lady, I was doing my usual rounds, looking for hurt animals or traps set by people not meant to be on your land, and I came upon this lonely thing. It had fallen from a tree. It was all sad upon the ground. And the old people did used to say it was good luck to bring a bird’s nest in doors. So, I thought. . . I thought. . . I heard about the tree and thought maybe the fairies would bless the house.”