Loving a Lady (Brotherhood of the Black Tartan Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  He had adored the throaty timbre of her voice as she spoke about her life. Her care for her tenants had been a pulsing force in the air. So many landowners never bothered to see their tenants as actual people. And yet, Violet did.

  She refused to simply make the easiest decision and instead sought to make the best one.

  He had thought her utterly remarkable. And so he had urged her to act.

  Had he pushed too hard? Had he, in his wish to help, been too adamant?

  But . . . she clearly did not dislike him. Why she had dragged her palm over his hand, reaching for that handkerchief—

  Unfortunately, just the thought of it was enough to tighten Ewan’s breathing and render him light-headed, a blush climbing his neck.

  Dammit.

  “Ahhh,” Andrew sat back.

  Rafe’s eyes flared wide.

  Neither of his friends misunderstood Ewan’s hesitation.

  Their somewhat stunned silence only caused his cheeks to burn brighter. He could nearly feel the mortification oozing from his pores, emotion painting his skin.

  He might as well have trumpeted his infatuation from a rooftop.

  “I can understand the appeal, Ewan.” Rafe reached for more whisky. “Ye have good taste in women.”

  “Aye.” Andrew nodded. “About time ye showed some interest in a fair lassie—”

  “Please, say no more, the boths of ye.” Ewan scrubbed a hand over his face. Why did blushing have to be so damn uncomfortable? “Ye needn’t bother to castigate me for my stupidity. I ken well that I am an eejit tae even look at such a high-born lady.”

  Silence hung for a moment.

  Andrew spoke first, laying his words ever-so-carefully. “As a titled peer in her own right, Lady Kildrum can marry where she chooses. I would applaud the lady for having the good taste tae regard ye as a potential suitor.”

  “Aye,” Rafe agreed. “I would, as well. But in my experience, high-ranking ladies often feel the pressure of society even more keenly. So in this case . . .” His voice drifted off.

  They said nothing more.

  Not quite a condemning silence, Ewan acknowledged. But definitely a pause ringed round with all the societal impediments and impossibility of Ewan contemplating anything more than casual friendship with a lady like Violet.

  “Let us drop the topic.” Ewan eagerly reached for the whisky. Could he get drunk enough to forget the scalding embarrassment of this conversation? “I ken what I am and what I am not. I know that I will never be a gentleman.”

  “Don’t dismiss yourself so quickly.” Andrew waved a hand. “Being thought a gentleman is merely so much physical trapping. A well-cut coat. An elegant bow. Now being a gentleman in truth—a man who is truly noble of heart like yourself—that is much rarer.”

  “Aye,” Rafe agreed. “The best of humanity runs in your veins, Ewan.”

  Now Ewan was blushing due to his friend’s kindness.

  But their pause around Violet had been telling. Their hesitance more than anything underscored the futility of his admiration.

  “Though I appreciate your kind words, youse and I both know that it takes more than a noble heart to be considered a gentleman.” Ewan paused. “At least, as society sees it.”

  “Ye always seem tae be operating under the assumption that your upbringing somehow lessens ye.” Rafe folded his arms. “I ken that there are segments of our society that try to convince ye of it. But in reality . . . it simply isn’t true.”

  “Aye. The belief in yourself starts here.” Andrew tapped his temple. “We cannot let ye believe ye are less than any of the rest of us.”

  Ewan darted a glance back and forth between his friends. “Be that as it may, I have to live within this society.”

  “True,” Andrew agreed. “And ye are wise tae be careful with Lady Kildrum. I dislike the thought that a high-born lady might be trifling with ye.”

  Rafe took a healthy swallow of whisky. “I don’t recall Lady Kildrum being the sort to play games.”

  “Regardless,” Andrew added, expression serious. “Lady Kildrum is fortunate tae have your regard.”

  “Amen.” Rafe lifted his glass in a salute.

  “Do ye want us tae put in a good word for ye?” Andrew tossed his head toward Rafe with a sly grin.

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Rafe grinned. “Explain the advantages tae her ladyship—”

  “Please, no!” Ewan all but shuddered, holding out a staying hand, that blush roaring back. “Her ladyship can make her own decisions. And we all know that she would be wise to not choose me.”

  After all, hadn’t he told her about his history with prizefighting in an attempt to send her scurrying back to her gilded mansion, happily rid of him?

  And yet, Violet had absorbed his story as if he were discussing Eton and attending balls in London, not his own hard-scrabble existence.

  Talking with her was like hearing his own heart vocalized. And given the furtive glances he caught from her, he couldn’t stem the thought that perhaps Violet might feel the same way.

  Of course, at the end of the day, she would still be a countess, and he would still be . . . what? A former crofter and prizefighter with a penchant for painting?

  “In the meantime—” Andrew clinked his glass with Rafe’s. “—I am looking forward to seeing your work not only accepted to the Royal Academy but hung ‘on the line’ this year.”

  Ewan managed a weak smile of his own in return.

  He understood his friends’ twofold message loud and clear:

  One, do not give too much of your heart to Lady Kildrum. She is a countess and will not stoop to return your affection.

  Two, focus on your art and the things you can control, like submitting a painting to the Royal Academy Exhibition.

  On that point, Ewan wasn’t nearly so confident of his abilities. Anyone with a dab hand could recreate a scene. True art took much more.

  If you wish to be great, find the courage to paint your demons.

  Was Ewan ready to allow the pyre of his past to consume him?

  Death wasn’t the only way someone was lost.

  The belief in yourself starts here.

  But . . . witnessing Mrs. Massey’s struggles had shone a light into that period of his past.

  Ideas and images raked him. Scenes that were not quite so painful, more like flotsam and jetsam torn from the ragged bits of his trauma.

  Perhaps he didn’t have to drag his psyche through the painful inferno of his memories.

  Perhaps something smaller would suffice.

  He spent the rest of the night attempting to convince himself.

  15

  Violet sat in her study, a pile of books before her, listening to the new lambs baa in the west pasture and wind rustle through the enormous pines lining the front drive.

  This was good. Quiet. Bucolic.

  No distractions.

  She pulled a book toward her.

  A General View of the Agriculture of the County of Berwick, with observations from a Distinguished Lord advocating improvement.

  That didn’t sound . . . too terrible, right?

  She could do this.

  Even though Ewan had left for Aberdeen two days before, his charge lingered with her—

  Discover what Violet Kerr likes and dislikes. Other answers will likely follow.

  Those words on Ewan’s (admittedly fine) lips had been a call to action. A challenge to explore.

  As had his description of drawing for the first time—

  I realized that up until that moment I had been merely existing.

  Nothing could have described her more fully.

  Since Dahlia’s death, Violet had existed. She breathed and moved through her day.

  But she had ceased feeling truly alive.

  Ewan had found his Muse . . . the thing that illuminated his world. He knew what he desired.

  What is it ye desire tae do?

  His words rang in her ears.

  Viole
t didn’t know. She didn’t know what she desired.

  She had lain awake in bed the night before, pondering the conundrum. And somewhere between moonrise and the clock striking three in the morning, she had an epiphany.

  Her guilt and regret over Dahlia had caused her to shy away from the wishes of her heart. After all, her foolish, romantic heart had led Dahlia to disaster.

  But . . . Violet had finally understood a critical fact: Her fear of making another disastrous decision and the lack of knowing her own heart had combined to create a sort of paralysis.

  If she was pondering managing the vast tack, she needed to know if she liked such a thing. Surely, her stewards would help her, as Mr. Shambles currently did, but a responsible landowner would be knowledgeable and resourceful. She did not want to shirk that duty. So if she assumed the tack, she had to be ready to act.

  But . . . did she wish to do that? Was that what she desired her future to be? She knew it would involve more than just choosing between oats and potatoes. She would be called upon to make all sorts of choices.

  How hard can it be? All I have to do is decide if I like agriculture.

  She opened the book and began to read.

  Or rather, she tried to read.

  But her thoughts were pesky marauders, leaping from place to place, running between the words on the page and causing the whole to blur into one dark mass.

  It was just . . .

  Who was that dark-haired, gray-eyed woman in the painting in Ewan’s studio? Who was she to Ewan? Clearly someone important, as hadn’t he said something about being drawn to the power of her memory?

  Did Ewan have a tragic love story in his background? A childhood sweetheart who had died of consumption, perhaps?

  Violet could see it now. The once vibrant girl slowly wasting into a waif and Ewan bringing paintings to her bedside to cheer her up, wiping away tears of sadness when he left, his heart breaking—

  Gracious! Violet shook her head.

  She had likely been spending too much time with her sisters as of late.

  She looked back down at the agricultural text before her.

  Focus, Violet. You can master this.

  Right. She forcibly cast all thoughts of handsome painters out of her mind and concentrated on her reading.

  Ten minutes later, she thoroughly understood why so many gentlemen commented on the tedium of estate management.

  Five minutes after that, she was convinced her shepherds had attached some sort of noise amplifier to the lambs. How could creatures so small make such an out-sized racket? She could scarcely hear her own thoughts.

  Twenty minutes later, she jerked awake with a start, her cheek resting on the cool desktop.

  Ugh.

  This was not going to plan.

  Massaging her temples, she took in a deep breath, attempting to recenter her focus.

  I can do this.

  She pushed the first book away and reached for another one.

  An Inquiry into the Causes that have hitherto retarded the advancement of Agriculture in Europe, with particular emphasis on farming outwith landed estates.

  Her eyes crossed before she even reached the end of the title.

  Worse? It was Volume XII.

  How could there possibly be twelve volumes worth of information to discuss?

  She sighed and reached for another one.

  A Country-man’s Rudiments; or advice to the gentleman farmer of East Lothian.

  Mmmm.

  Maybe this one would be better?

  She read for a bit. It wasn’t entirely terrible. Like this chapter here:

  “On the best Method of raising Elms; manuring Fallows for Wheat; and preventing the ravages of the Fly on young Turnips.”

  It should have been ghastly boring, but the method of raising elms was actually quite brilliant.

  What would Mr. Shambles think of it? Did they need elms? Could they be used as a wind break for tender crops, as the author asserted?

  She had no idea.

  Heavens, there was so much to learn.

  Maybe she should just lease the tack, pay off the Manna Loan, and give over her lands to tacksmen. After all, it had been the way of the Countesses of Kildrum for nigh upon a century, had it not?

  And she could do that.

  She likely should do that.

  But . . . it felt like giving up. And just because that was how things had always been done, didn’t make it the best path going forward. When faced with a choice between potatoes or oats, she would like to make an informed decision, not simply rely on tossing a shilling.

  She flipped to the next chapter and continued reading about elms.

  She was researching the best way to sow new trees when a knock sounded on her study door.

  “Lord Graham to see you, my lady,” Irvine announced.

  “Lord Graham, to what do I owe this honor?” Violet asked, walking into the drawing room.

  Lord Graham turned toward her, a welcoming smile on his lips.

  “Lady Kildrum.” He bowed, courtly and elegant. “How could I stay away from your charming presence?”

  She motioned for him to be seated, and they conversed about pleasantries for a moment.

  Yes, the weather had been quite nice as of late.

  Yes, his mother was in good health.

  Yes, her father and sisters were well, too.

  Lord Graham sat back, crossing one elegant leg over another. “And what of your uncle and his . . .” He waved a hand in the air, as if searching for the words. “. . . pet, artistic pugilist? Are they yet in residence in Old Kilmeny?”

  Violet’s jaw dropped.

  Pet. Artistic. Pugilist.

  Lord Graham at least had the decency to look marginally regretful over his tactless description.

  “If you are referring to Mr. Campbell, then yes, he is still assisting Sir Joshua.” Violet kept her tone even but her eyes surely snapped with censure.

  The very nerve!

  She declined to add that Mr. Campbell was in Aberdeen at the moment but expected home later this evening.

  What drove the pettiness of Lord Graham’s words? How ungentlemanly of him to make such a remark about her uncle’s guest, particularly to one so beneath Lord Graham’s own station in life. It spoke of a meanness of spirit that Violet did not like.

  Silence descended.

  Lord Graham shifted in his chair, an agitated sort of motion that was unlike him.

  Good. He should squirm.

  A footman brought in a tea tray with some sandwiches and biscuits. Violet poured for both of them, her temper cooling along with the tea. Perhaps her own personal feelings for Ewan were bleeding over into her reaction to Lord Graham’s words.

  “Lady Kildrum,” he said, reaching for a triangle of shortbread, “I must offer my apologies—”

  “There is no need, Lord Graham,” Violet sighed, sliding a cucumber sandwich on her own plate, feeling somewhat mollified at his attempt to apologize. He did possess admirable qualities. “We are friends, are we not?”

  “Yes, but I fear I have given offense. I had not realized you had a specific friendship with Mr. Campbell.”

  Lord Graham laid his words carefully, but Violet heard echoes of his mother’s censure in them.

  Violet forced herself to think before speaking next. She had to tread carefully.

  If Lady Graham discovered that Violet had been speaking with Ewan alone and unchaperoned the repercussions would be swift and severe. Her reputation would be in tatters and her sisters’ prospects significantly damaged.

  “Mr. Campbell is a guest of Sir Joshua, and I therefore feel it is my duty, as a lady of this estate, to ensure that all who abide here are treated with kindness.”

  Lord Graham smiled. “Such consideration toward those of the lesser classes is a credit to you, Lady Kildrum.”

  Lesser classes?!

  “Indeed. Well . . .” Violet floundered, her ire rising once more. She swallowed the insults stinging the tip of
her tongue and managed a tight breath. “Let us speak no more of it. Here, I will introduce a new topic: Do you have an opinion as to the best way to sow elms?”

  Lord Graham startled, swallowing a bite of biscuit abruptly, sending him into a coughing fit.

  “P-pardon?” he said once he had recovered. “Sowing elms?”

  “Yes. I have questions about the process.” Violet explained what she had been reading. “Why must the trunk knots be placed in furrows four feet apart—”

  “Lady Kildrum,” Lord Graham interrupted, his expression both baffled and amused. “Why should the topic of sowing elms ever be something to which you would subject your beautiful head?”

  Violet froze. As in, actually froze—hand mid-wave, mouth open, eyes wide.

  She snapped them all shut.

  When she re-opened her eyes, Lord Graham had the same bemused expression on his face.

  “I spoke with your father earlier this week,” he said. “He has given me his blessing.”

  Shock jolted Violet’s spine at the abrupt change in topic.

  Of course, she knew this was where their friendship, such as it was, had been heading.

  Lord Graham took her silence to be encouragement. He set down his teacup and leaned forward in his chair.

  “You must know how much I ardently admire you, Lady Kildrum. You have been the object of my affection for many months.” He slid off the sofa, dropping to his knees, his eyes sincere. “Would you make me the happiest of men and agree to be my wife?”

  Violet found herself unequal to meeting his gaze.

  I thought I had more time, a panicked part of her whispered. I cannot make this decision quite yet.

  She lurched to her feet and crossed to one of the enormous paned windows overlooking the back terrace. She folded her arms across her chest, staring sightlessly at the gardeners trimming hedges in the Italianate garden.

  She sensed more than heard Lord Graham approaching behind her.

  “I know you well enough to understand that you would not play ridiculous games with my affections. Any hesitation you show will be real and true.” He gave a mildly self-deprecating laugh. “As such, I cannot say that your current reaction encourages me.”