Tempting the Laird Page 14

  * * *

  TWO DAYS LATER, everyone had gathered in the Dungotty drawing room late in the afternoon for tea when Rumpel raced into the room in the manner someone might approach a commander to report that he was surrounded on all sides and his surrender was demanded.

  “Good God, what is it, Rumpel? You look like you’ve been chased by the devil himself!” Uncle Knox said.

  “The Duke of Montrose, milord. He’s at the door.”

  Catriona’s heart seized. Uncle Knox brought his feet down from the ottoman so hard that his teacup rattled. “At the door!” he exclaimed, and hastily stood.

  “Here! Without invitation?” Mrs. Templeton cried.

  “Bring him in, bring him in,” Uncle Knox said, gesturing grandly.

  Catriona didn’t know what to do with her teacup. She set it aside and stood, and ran her suddenly damp palms down her skirt.

  “Sit, Miss Mackenzie,” the countess whispered.

  Catriona sat.

  A moment later, the sure footfall of the duke sounded in the corridor. He entered behind Rumpel, who announced, “The Duke of Mon—”

  “Yes, yes, we all know who he is,” Uncle Knox said. “Your grace! How good of you to come!” He reached for the duke’s hand and shook it heartily. “Shall we pour you tea?”

  “No, thank you,” he said. He clasped his hands at his back, and his dark eyes made a swift tour of the room, landing on Catriona for a brief moment. “I have come on behalf of Miss Eula Guinne, my ward. I should like to extend an invitation for you and your party to dine at Blackthorn Hall Thursday next at seven.”

  Catriona’s heart skipped. She looked around the room, at the varying expressions of surprise and confusion.

  “All of us?” Uncle Knox asked.

  “Not me,” said Lord Furness, who had not bothered to rise from his prime seat at the window. “I mean to return to England as soon as Wednesday.”

  Good riddance, Catriona thought.

  Montrose ignored Furness. His gaze flicked over her, and he said, “All of you, aye, if you are so inclined.”

  No one spoke. Uncle Knox looked around expectantly at his guests.

  Montrose glanced down. “Perhaps you need time to consider your plans,” he said, and looked up. “If you will deliver your reply by way of messenger...?”

  “Yes, by all means,” Uncle Knox said. “Thank you very much, your grace.”

  “We are honored,” Lady Orlov said.

  He nodded. He glanced at Catriona once more. She looked helplessly to her uncle, silently willing him to say something a wee bit more encouraging to the duke.

  He must have read her thoughts, because he said quickly, “You may expect our reply within the day, your grace. We’re a bit at sixes and sevens, what with travel plans and so forth.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re certain you’ll not take tea?”

  “No, thank you. I must take my leave.” He gave Catriona one last look, one she was certain everyone noticed, one that slipped into her body and spread like melting honey. “Good day,” he said, and turned on his heel and strode from the door.

  No one spoke until they heard the front door open and his footfall fade away. Only then did Catriona leap from her seat and run to the window in time to see him ride away, his horse thundering up the drive.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” Mrs. Templeton said. “I thank you, Norwood, for not accepting for us all. I should not like to dine at his house.”

  “Why not?” Lady Orlov asked.

  “His reputation, obviously,” Mrs. Templeton said.

  “The invitation has come from Miss Eula Guinne,” Uncle Knox pointed out. “I would suspect as Chasity and Catriona are the youngest of us, he should like their company for his young ward. But he could scarcely extend the invitation to the two of them without extending it to us all.”

  “We will not attend,” Chasity’s father said firmly.

  Chasity gasped. “What? But I want to go, Pappa! Catriona will attend, won’t you, Catriona?”

  “I, uh...aye, I will attend,” she said, and felt her cheeks reddening, as if she’d just admitted to them all that he’d kissed her.

  “Haven’t you spent enough time at Blackthorn Hall?” Mrs. Templeton asked snidely.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Templeton, for your thoughtful attention to my niece’s whereabouts, but she is a woman grown, and if she cares to dine at Blackthorn Hall, then by all means, she should dine there.”

  Mrs. Templeton reddened.

  “Will you attend, Uncle Knox?” Catriona asked.

  “Alas, I have made prior plans,” Uncle Knox said.

  “Please, Pappa,” Chasity begged. “It’s not the duke who invites us, but Miss Guinne. He’ll not even be present, I am sure of it.” She looked to Catriona for confirmation. Catriona winced.

  “I think it abominable that he would invite anyone to dine, given his history,” her father retorted, and he looked to his wife for confirmation. She winced, too. “What?” he demanded. “What would you say, madam?”

  “I would say that I see no harm in it,” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said.

  “No harm! You think the man is a murderer, or have you forgotten? And you would send our only daughter into his den?”

  “But we’ll be with her, as will Miss Mackenzie. And you mustn’t forget that he is a duke.”

  Lord Furness gasped. “Madam! Do you intend to seek a match between your daughter and that foul man all for the sake of his title?”

  “Miss Mackenzie thinks him innocent, and perhaps I do, too. And we’ve no other prospects for her at present.”

  “Mamma!” Chasity exclaimed with a look of horrified embarrassment.

  Her husband searched for support of his position in those around him. Finding none, he sighed. “I’ll think on it.”

  “Pappa—”

  “I have said I will think on it, Chasity, and that is the best I can do for you now. I had loftier goals for you other than a murderous Scotch duke.”

  Catriona swallowed down a retort.

  “Well, no one has asked me, and I should like to attend, too,” the countess said. “Vasily?”

  “The earl and I have a prior commitment with a gaming hell, which is infinitely more pleasing than the prospect of sitting about all evening while ladies natter on.”

  “It is decided, then,” said Uncle Knox. “The Wilke-Smythes, Countess Orlov and Miss Mackenzie will be delighted to dine with Miss Eula Guinne. Shall I pen the reply?”

  Mr. Wilke-Smythe sighed with defeat.

  “I will send it, Uncle,” Catriona said, as she needed an expedient excuse to leave this room so that she might think about Montrose. How he’d looked at her. How he’d come all this way to extend the invitation himself instead of sending a messenger. And she would like to do her thinking in peace.

  As it turned out, she thought about it all afternoon, long after the reply had been sent. But when she slipped underneath the coverlet of her bed that evening, she felt a wee bit sour in the belly. She was thinking about something else. Something that made her feel a bit queasy: the notion that Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe could be offered up to Montrose as a suitable bride. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like it at all. No, it was worse than that, wasn’t it? That was how much her feelings about the dark duke had changed—the thought was not to be borne at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THURSDAY DAWNED DARK and gray, the air heavy. Hamlin had walked down to his latest hammering project—the gardening shed—and didn’t like the way the air felt so thick and wet. That generally signaled quite a lot of rain was to fall. It had rained all week, and his lake was swollen, his fountain overflowing.

  Just like the lake in him was swollen and overflowing and in desperate need of release.

  He had read the letter that had come fr
om Dungotty more than once. It was written in Miss Mackenzie’s flourishing script, complete with the same sort of blots and smudges as he’d seen in the last note he’d received from her. It made him smile to know that the one thing the woman was incapable of doing was writing neatly.

  To His Grace, the Honorable Duke of Montrose,

  Thank you for the invitation to dine with Miss Eula Guinne on Thursday evening. Unfortunately, Lord Norwood and Mr. Orlov must honor a prior commitment to a gaming hell, as holding to one’s commitment is the true measure of character. If the Lord shines his countenance upon us, Lord Furness will have returned to England, and Lady Templeton will be assailed with a dreadful headache just as we are to leave.

  Hamlin had chuckled.

  The Wilke-Smythes, Countess Orlov and myself would be delighted to dine with Miss Eula and are quite looking forward to it. Sincerely yours, CM

  So was he quite looking forward to it.

  Hamlin had seen to all the details of tonight’s supper—a roasted goose, asparagus grown in his own hothouse, rice from India. He tried to imagine the events of the evening—a lot of chatter, a lot of wine. He did not relish the idea of small talk with the English couple. He did not want the eager attention of their earnest daughter, or that of the countess. What he wished for was a moment alone with Miss Mackenzie. He told himself he intended to apologize for his boorish behavior.

  But the devil in him knew that he hoped for another kiss.

  Light rain began to fall in the afternoon. Hamlin did some work in his study, then realized he’d not seen Eula all day, which was unusual—she was underfoot more often than not. Then again, she had a pair of new kittens to occupy her, and he assumed that was what had kept her out of his study.

  He went to see about her and found her seated on a bench at her vanity while Miss Burns curled her hair for the evening. He had to admit that in spite of the woman’s thick accent—there had been moments where she’d sounded to be speaking gibberish—she had proved herself a capable lady’s maid. Eula’s appearance had vastly improved as a result of Miss Burns’s attention to her clothing and hair.

  Eula had her head down and was playing with one of the two kittens on her lap. The other would undoubtedly present itself when Hamlin least expected it, darting across his path to attack his shoe like the shadow of the devil.

  “I shall have you in the red drawing room at seven, lass,” he said.

  She glanced up at him and startled Hamlin by her appearance. Her cheeks were red, her eyes shining with fever. “Can you guess which one this is?” she asked, holding up the kitten.

  “No,” he said, and walked to her bench, squatted down beside her and put the back of his hand against her forehead. She was burning.

  “This one is Perry. Walter has gone to hunt mice.”

  “Walter is scarcely bigger than a mouse himself,” he muttered, and glanced at Miss Burns. “She is feverish.”

  “Aye, your grace. She’ll noo’ abide her beid.”

  “She’ll abide it now. Ready her for bed.” He stood up and walked to the bell pull and yanked on it.

  “I donna want to go to bed!” Eula cried out. “We’re to have a party!”

  “No’ you, lass. You’re burning with fever.”

  “No!” she cried, and shot up from the bench, running out of reach of Miss Burns. But she was no match for Hamlin, who caught her easily. “Heed me now, love. Do you feel well enough to listen to adults talk?”

  “Aye,” she said weakly, but sniffed with despair.

  “And do you want to infect our guests with your fever? Would you have all of Dungotty come down with an ague?”

  She groaned and shook her head.

  He bent down before her, pushed her hair from her eyes. “I’ll bring Miss Mackenzie up to see you, aye? You may show her your kittens. But you’re too ill for company and need to be abed.”

  In the truest sign that she was ill, Eula dropped her head and nodded. She didn’t have the strength to put up an argument. “I wanted to have a supper party,” she said, and tears began to leak from her eyes.

  “I know,” he said, and kissed her burning forehead, then picked her up and carried her to her bed.

  Eula had been a different lass since Bain had appeared with the kittens he’d collected from a barn cat at one of the tenants’ crofts. He wished he’d acted sooner in getting the kittens. He wished he’d put aside his notions about what should or should not reside in a house, for it was really a trifling thing, and he’d had no idea a pair of kittens would make Eula so deliriously happy. He had Miss Mackenzie to thank for that, he supposed, as she had helped Eula make her case.

  Eula was just as happy that they were to receive guests. Of course, Hamlin knew she was lonely and lacked diversion, but he’d not expected her to be so jubilant over the prospect of supper guests. But from the moment they’d received the affirmative reply from Dungotty, she’d been breathless.

  “We’ve no’ had guests in forever,” she’d said as she’d twirled around on one foot, watching the skirt of her gown flare out in the middle of his study. “We’ll use the best porcelain, aye? Cousin Glenna used the best porcelain.”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “And the crystal, Montrose.”

  “Your grace. And the crystal.”

  Later, she’d asked him about the silver, and if the dishes would be served by Stuart and a footman, or put on the table in the manner they often dined, which apparently she found wanting in the performance of a supper party. Hamlin encouraged her to discuss her concerns with Stuart directly, but she seemed to prefer to discuss them with him.

  When this event was over and done, his relief from the sheer volume of questions presented to him each day would be great.

  He rounded up the kittens, and while Miss Burns helped to undress Eula, he put the kittens in a wooden box at the foot of her bed. When he went out of her room, Eula was lying on her side, forlornly stroking their fur.

  He dressed for the evening, his mood soured now that Eula had fallen ill. This evening had been for Eula. Well, for him, too, but for her, as well. He worried about the lass, wondered if he ought to send for a doctor.

  He toyed with the idea of sending a message that the supper was canceled. But his desire nudged in hard against his concern for Eula. The only thing he knew with certainty was that he wanted to be in Miss Mackenzie’s presence. He wanted to assure himself that the heat he’d felt in his chest had been real, that she was as comely as she was in his mind’s eye, that the stars shining in her eyes had not been imagined.

  He sent a footman for Bain. His secretary had a keen eye for clothing, and given a different set of circumstances, he would have made an excellent valet.

  Mr. Bain had been away all day and still bore a bit of the windswept look as he chose a gold waistcoat and white neckcloth for Hamlin. Hamlin’s formal tails were still on the valet stand, and Bain began to brush the garment down. “By the bye, your grace, I have heard that MacLaren remains uncertain about his recommendation to Caithness,” he said as he worked on the coat.

  “Why?”

  “He believes your marital history might be an impediment, aye?”

  Hamlin slipped a signet ring onto his finger, mulling over what Bain had just said.

  “Argyll, however, has defended you,” Bain added casually.

  Hamlin glanced at the younger man.

  “He believes that women must be treated with a firm hand, for if they are allowed to follow their inferior instincts, they will inevitably require correction. He advocates that a firmer hand is better than a softer one and will lead to less confusion.”

  The end of Hamlin’s marriage had nothing to do with how firm or soft his hand was—he’d never raised it, would never consider raising it.

  Bain held out the coat for him to slip on.

  “Thank you,” Hamlin said. He sta
red at himself in the mirror. “Who is with Argyll and who is with MacLaren?”

  Bain swept an invisible speck of lint off Hamlin’s shoulder. “Most are with Argyll. One or two are with MacLaren yet.” He stood back to eye Hamlin’s appearance. “There is still time,” he added as he straightened Hamlin’s cuff.

  There was still time to gather the votes, Bain meant, but in actuality, there wasn’t much of it. The vote was a month away.

  Before Hamlin went downstairs, he looked in on Eula. She had refused to eat, Miss Burns said, but she was sleeping, the two black kittens curled against her back.

  Rain was falling harder now, pelting the enormous windows that framed the staircase. Hamlin walked through the dining room to have a look at the table settings, although he needn’t have bothered, as Stuart was impeccable in the service of guests. Hamlin had the distinct impression that Stuart was looking forward to the supper as much as Eula.

  He carried on to the drawing room and helped himself to a brandy.

  Stuart stepped in to stoke the fire at the hearth. “The weather has turned foul, your grace,” he announced.

  Hamlin wondered if anyone would come. He supposed a messenger would have been sent by now if the weather would prevent them from coming.

  It was an interminable wait. Hamlin drank his brandy, tried to read. Seven o’clock came and went quickly. He believed he would spend another evening playing chess alone, but he heard a commotion near the front of the house and made his way to the foyer.

  As Hamlin walked down the carpeted hall, he heard the sounds of the torrential rain and wind through the opened front doors, Stuart’s voice, followed by the rise of a feminine voice. When he entered the foyer, he saw only Miss Mackenzie, and behind her, a carriage pulling away from the portico.

  “Feasgar math,” she said, curtsying. Her eyes, as always, were shining with happiness. Or did he read too much into it? “I beg your pardon for my tardiness, aye? The horses were a wee bit reluctant to step out.”