by Eva Devon
John placed the tray down near the fire, gave a small bow and said, “There’s a note, Your Grace.”
Duncan rubbed a hand over his face, striding to the coffee. “Thank you, John. Off you go.”
As soon as John had exited, Duncan studied the note. He was unaccustomed to epistles at an early hour. A grin pulled at his lips. Imogen. Her slightly bold yet wild, feminine hand graced the cream parchment. Without even bothering with the coffee, he broke the wax, curious to see what adventure she might be proposing.
My Dearest Duncan,
Thank you for our few days together. They have been marvelous. I’ve loved teasing you and knowing you. But alas, I’ve realized, I really must return to London.
I’m not good for you. . . Or in truth, you are not good for me. You make me wish for things I can’t have. Its time for me to return to where I belong and you to return to the duty you hold above all else.
May you be happy, dear friend,
Your Sassenach
Duncan stared at the dark scrawls penned over the notepaper. He had no idea for how long. Several moments at least. Finally, he could hear his own heart pounding and he realized he was holding his breath. She was gone. She’d left him. Alone. The light that had begun to warm his life was now extinguished and for one long, horrible moment his throat closed. His eyes stung. He started for the door. He had to stop her. To make her see reason. But just as he placed his fingers on the door handle he paused.
What the devil was she on about? Not good for her? What the devil could she possibly mean by that? He was a good man, a man above reproach. Until he had come into her company he had behaved in an exemplary fashion. He had succumbed to his desire for her, but she. . . She!
Duncan ground his teeth together, balled the note in his fist and strode to the fire. He never should have allowed himself the luxury of her company. She’d distracted him. Teased him, as she said. She’d teased him right into forgetting the man he was supposed to be. By god, was that how his father started? A pleasant affair here and there and then. . .
Duncan swallowed. He wouldn’t think about it. He couldn’t. If he allowed himself to vividly recall the horrific, sobbing shell of a man that had been his father at the end, he wouldn’t be able to face the day.
Staring into the flames, he cast the note against the crackling logs. The paper curled, blackening then licking red. The ashes scattered amidst the burnt wood. She was right. They’d had a lovely few days. It was never meant to be more. Just because she’d asked him to marry him, didn’t mean they ever could. That had to be why she left. She’d wanted to be a duchess. Like her friends. And he’d turned her down.
An affair had not been enough for her as she’d so fervently claimed.
A woman like Imogen couldn’t possibly want a grump of man for any other reason but his title and well the lass, kind though she was, had cast her chances to be a duchess to the wind along time ago when she’d chosen a life of scandal. He supposed it was rather bold of her to try for him.
It wasn’t hurt that hammered away at his heart. It wasn’t. It was relief.
So, he’d thank god she was gone. What he needed now was a swim. Only the cold of the loch would ease the sudden unrest in his chest. Yes. The sooner he returned to routine the better. And he could go back to being the duke he’d always meant to be.
Chapter 14
2 months later
“You’re scowling, brother.”
Ducan’s scowl deepened then he snapped his paper down and glared at his sister. “The devil I am.”
Lady Rosalind lifted a black brow and gave him what he could only call the eye. That particular look ran in the women in his family. His grandmother and mother had had it. It was an ability to look at one with such disbelief it verged on disgust. If it had taken physical form, it would have been a slap upside the head.
“Fine,” he acceded. “I am, but I’m prone to scowling. It’s my nature.”
“It isna, Duncan.” She tsked. “It’s not your nature at all. It’s only a role you’ve taken on since becoming the high and mighty Duke of Blackburn. I remember what you were like when you were a boy and when you’d come home from your romps in Paris.”
He snapped his newspaper open, lifting it so he didn’t have to see any more of the eye. “I disagree with your childhood recollections. I have always been a serious sort.”
Ros snorted. “Then who was it who flew my knickers from the flag pole?”
“I was twelve!” he protested, tempted to lower his newspaper, but realizing he’d then have to get into a full row.
“And extremely mischievous,” she said, undaunted by said newspaper. “But something has you all in a twist. If I’d known you were in such a mood, I never would have returned home.”
Finally, realizing she wasn’t likely going to let it drop, and driven by curiosity over her last comment, he peered over the edge of his paper. “Why did you come back from London again?”
He adored his little sister, but her sudden presence was not particularly welcome since he was in an awful humor. Had been for two months now. And she wouldn’t let such a thing pass without much comment. Perhaps he could urge her to hie off. After all, Scotland before spring was not a particularly joyous place, in any case.
“None of your business,” she said mysteriously.
“If not mine, then who?” he pointed out. She’d always told him everything as far as he was aware.
Ros shrugged her shoulders and looked to the windows overlooking the loch. “I had a mood for the Highlands is all.”
“Seems to me you’ve come running home with your tail between your legs.” He narrowed his eyes, a sudden suspicion taking root. “Those damned Londoners give you a hard time?”
He folded his paper, suddenly feeling the urge to protect his baby sister, an emotion he could easily come to terms with. Thumping a few Englishmen would be just the thing. “If so, I’ll go down there and thrash every last one of them to. . .”
“No!” she exclaimed, her cheeks blazing red. “It wasna the people. They were fine enough. I just hated the dirt and smell and noise and. . . and. . .”
“You know what they say about ladies who doth protest too much, don’t you Ros?”
There it was. The eye, again.
“Duncan, I’m going to ring your neck.”
“Just try lass,” he drawled. “Would you like some tea? I hear tea does wonders for ladies in distress.”
“Ha! Tea!” she exclaimed. “Something stronger, I should think.”
Duncan eyed his sister wondering what the blazes had happened since she’d left just before Christmas and something had most certainly happened. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. She even looked different. It had been two months since he’d seen her, she’d gone to Edinburgh, then on to London with friends. Just yesterday, she’d shown up, boxes in tow, and the eye flashing almost every other minute. Truthfully, he was concerned she was on the verge of atypical feminine palpations.
“Since when did you start drinking things that were stronger?” he demanded. “You mean ratafia or a bit of port, don’t you? That’s it.”
“I bleeding well mean brandy.”
Bleeding? “And when did you start using language that would make the vicar blush, lass? You are a lady.”
She snorted. “I’m an adult.”
“You’re nineteen,” he pointed out. His sister might not be in the nursery but she was still little more than a child in his eyes.
“Which makes me an adult,” she sallied.
“Och!” he let out an exasperated noise of ascent. “You’re going to drive me mad. Have your damn drink.”
“Would you like one?”
He stared at the decanter across the room. “No,” he said firmly despite the fact that he wanted one very much but he was going to be a good example even if it killed him.
“You’re going to let me drink alone?” she asked as she crossed to the grog tray.
“I am, you drunkard
,” he teased. “I’ll not join a nineteen year old lass in a tipple. You shan’t be able to say I did naught on your road to ruin.”
“Duncan,” she said clearly, almost pointedly. “I am not on the road to ruin.”
“Glad I am to hear it.” He hesitated. Rosalind had always been a strong lass, prone to impulsive action, and wild emotion. His opposite in every way, really. But he couldn’t help a sudden and rather alarming concern.
“You look like you’re choking on something,” she observed.
“You’re alright, aren’t you lass?” He cleared his throat, unsure how to even ask such a delicate question. He wanted her to know that no matter what her predicament, she could always trust him. “You know you can tell me anything?”
Her face softened and for a moment it seemed that instead of the willful gleam in her eye, their was the faintest hint of tears. Before the moment could stretch any further, she shook her head, dark curls flouncing and pouring out the brandy. “You needn’t worry. But I’m leaving in two days time for Italy.”
“Italy?” he echoed.
“Yes, home of the Emperors.”
“I know about the blasted Emperors.” He shifted on his seat, wishing that relationships with little sisters weren’t so complicated. It would have been marvelous if she could have just stayed a little girl forever. This young woman business was going to be the death of him.
“You only just returned,” he said. “And I’ve been rattling around this place like a marble in a box.” He pursed his lips, suddenly very much liking the idea of not being so entirely alone. “We could keep each other company.”
She laughed. “Och, Duncan. I don’t know what you’ve been doing these last months, but your company seems as amiable as a wet blanket.”
He frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“Only that you don’t seem terribly happy. Or. . . You seem even less happy than usual.”
He squared his shoulders, resentful she should be so intuitive. “I’m perfectly content.”
Rosalind raised her glass. “Liar.”
He opened his mouth to give her a good set down and realized such a thing would be entirely out of order. “I had a spot of bother with one of our neighbors.”
She leaned forward, eager for a bit of gossip. “Who?”
“Lady Cavendish,” he mumbled. “If you must know.”
Ros waggled her brows and took a sip of brandy. “But I met her in London!”
“What?” he yelped, dignity abandoning him.
“She was utterly charming.”
“She is not.” She was. He knew it. Hell, how could anyone not know it. Imogen was charm personified.
“Well, everyone else seemed to think so.” Rosalind suddenly smirked and her gaze narrowed with cunning. “She was most curious about you.”
“Indeed?” he asked, infusing his voice with as much disinterest as he possibly could.
She took a sip of her drink. “Mmmm. She asked if I’d seen you recently. I told her no.”
“And?” he asked, doing his damnedest to be subtle.
“And what?” She blinked innocently.
“How did Lady Cavendish seem?”
Ros’s lips turned in a mischievous grin. “In very good health.”
“No! Not like that.”
She raised her brows. “Not like what?”
He cleared his throat and pretended to study his paper. “Did she seem disappointed that you didn’t know about me?”
“Not at all. She said you were no doubt very busy categorizing and ordering all the sheep in the Highlands to stay in line.”
“She said what?”
Rosalind shook her head woefully. “Lady Cavendish was quite sweet about it, but she had you perfectly.”
“I do not keep sheep in line,” he roared.
Rosalind gave him another dose of the eye.
“Stop that,” he ordered.
She didn’t. In fact, she seemed to intensify her gaze.
“Fine.,” he snapped. “Fine. I do like to keep things in their proper place. But she had no right to say such a thing.”
“I don’t know.” Rosalind sloshed the brandy around the tumbler like an experienced drinker. “She seemed rather fond of you.”
Duncan eyed his sister’s action but couldn’t quite think of anything but Imogen. “She did?”
Rosalind nodded.
Duncan glanced back down at his paper, not seeing a damned word. “And was she in the company of any gentlemen?”
“Oh, several.”
He nearly shot out of his seat with the rage that burst through him, but he forced himself to appear calm. “The Duke of Darkwell perhaps?”
Rosalind shook her head.
“The Duke of Hunt and his wife?” Duncan asked hopefully.
Ros pursed her lips and shook her head again.
“The Duke of Aston surely?”
Rosalind’s eyes widened and she brought her hand quickly to her mouth as she suddenly coughed. “W-who?”
“An arrogant ponce, but never mind him then.”
Rosalind nodded enthusiastically. “Forgotten.”
“So. . .” Duncan began with forced ease. “These men. . .”
“They swarm about her like bees to honey,” she supplied merrily.
“Damnation,” he growled.
Rosalind laughed. “Oh dear. Brother. You like her.”
“I do not.” Duncan balled up his paper and threw it to the floor. “Damned irritating woman.”
“Lady Cavendish?”
“She has a few good points. Very pleasant looking. She has a lovely smile, I grant you. And green eyes that fill one with the warmest feeling. And she always has a teasing word. . .”
Rosalind let out a sigh. “Why are you here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why aren’t you in London trying to win her back?”
Duncan stared at his sister for a long moment, contemplating blustering his way through her observation, but he let out a rough breath, shoulders sagging. “She was never mine. She cannae be mine.”
“Why?”
Duncan stared at his sister for a long moment. “You ken why, Ros.”
“Because of papa?”
Duncan gave a tight nod.
“How you could ever think you’d be like him is beyond me.” Ros’ face warmed softened with sympathy. “Your heart is a kind one, Duncan. Nothing like Papa’s. There isn’t a selfish bone in your body. In fact, you’re always self sacrificing to the point of your unhappiness.”
Duncan gave his head an adamant shake. “She can’t be mine.”
“Why not?” Ros challenged. “She’s beautiful, titled, monied.”
“She’s a scandal.” He had to remember it. Otherwise, he’d be on his knee in a moment begging her to be his duchess.
“She’s the toast of London!” Rosalind exclaimed. “Almost everyone adores her and those who don’t aren’t worth knowing.”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
Rosalind paused, then said, “So, you’re fine with some other man having her for his own?”
Duncan narrowed his eyes. “I think we should change the subject.”
“I think you should head to London immediately.”
“Thank you for your thoughts.” And with that, he grabbed his newspaper from the floor and smoothed it open. He commenced pretending to read with as much conviction as he could muster whilst absolutely fixated on the image of Imogen dancing and teasing other men. Was his sister right? Could he dare? He’d been so determined that he couldn’t have her and yet Rosalind was virtually pushing him out of the castle. As he sat there thinking of Imogen, one word began repeating over and over in his head, some ancient clansman seeming to come to the fore of his consciousness. That word grew and grew in power and intensity until finally he threw the newspaper down on the floor again and stormed out of the room.
Mine.
He could no longer ignore it. He’d tr
ied for eight weeks and every damn moment had been beyond miserable. His body had known it from the first time he’d seen her. Only his mind had argued but now, there could be no argument. From the intense jealousy and desire to go to London and murder every man who even deigned to touch Imogen Cavendish’s little finger, there was only one thing to surmise.
He strode into his room, yanked open his closet and started pulling out traveling clothes. A slow smile pulled at his lips. A vision of Imogen, naked before him came to his mind. Mine, that voice within growled again.
There was nothing for it. He’d always been a man who claimed what belonged to him.
A knock on the door stopped his hurried movements. “Enter,” he called.
The young footman, John, popped slipped into the room. “You’re sister said you required my assistance.”
Duncan stared. “Did she, by god?”
John nodded, his face a trifle pale.
“Start packing, John,” Duncan said, thrusting a handful of shirts at the young man. “We’re going to London.”
Chapter 15
Imogen pushed at her hair, the full curls were falling a bit, even though her maid had spent a good hour fluffing and pinning. No doubt, it was the weight of the diamond hummingbird pinned at the back. She drew in a deep breath, her corset straining her ribs and she searched the room for a footman. She was in desperate need for more champagne. The night was venturing into the tediously boring. Well, most nights were these days.
It wasn’t the ball. Her Grace, Hyacinth Eversleigh, Dowager Duchess of Hunt, threw the most marvelous events in London. This one was particularly lavish as her daughter, Gemma, was being launched into society. Hyacinth was a particular friend, both of them being rather free minded when it came to ladies and amorous adventures. Even so, she had avoided the dowager duchess and her vivacious daughter.
In fact, she’d been avoided people she knew lest they inevitably ask what was bothering her. It seemed she hadn’t been quite her usual self in months. Parties had always been her forté. Apparently, no longer though she did keep trying.
Despite the raucous laughter, bright music, and ladies in multicolored gowns and men in bejeweled jackets and tight breeches spinning about her, her heart felt rather bleak. She bustled across the crowded room, turning this way then that to avoid the full skirts of the ladies, occasionally pressing a hand to her tilting hair.