A Highland Duchess (6 page)

Emma slipped into the bathing chamber attached to the bedroom, performing her morning chores before beginning the uncomfortable task of outfitting herself for the day ahead. Her chemise was still a little damp from the night before but she ignored the discomfort. She left the top three eyelets in her corset unlaced, a small concession to comfort. Her petticoat was damp as well, and looked sadly bedraggled, as did the small at-home hoop she’d been wearing last night. The skirt came next, the black looking almost rusty in the morning light, then the bodice, fitting too snugly, perhaps, because she didn’t tighten her corset as well as her maid might have.

When she was finally dressed, she was left with the problem of her hair. On top of the bureau was a silver handled military brush resting on an ornate silver tray. She’d never used such a personal object belonging to a stranger but had no choice at the moment. There was a mirror above the bureau but she brushed her hair without looking at her image. She simply had to trust in the fact that she was clean and presentable. Any additional concern about her appearance would be vanity, and she’d never been overly vain.

What did her appearance matter? She had no control over it. She could not dictate why her cheekbones were higher than those of her peers and more pronounced, or why her eyes were that shade of blue, odd enough to be noticed in a crowd. She had no ability to change the shape of her nose or the angle of her chin or the curve of her ears. She was, simply put, just who she was.

True, there were times when women of her acquaintance augmented their good qualities, and attempted to confuse the eye so lesser traits were not noticed. A smudge of kohl just below the cheekbones made them look more pronounced. A tiny vertical line of white near the nose made it appear more patrician. There were unguents a woman could use on her lips to make them more prominent, and drops for the eyes so they appeared radiant and sparkly.

She’d never used any of those artifices. This morning she didn’t even have her reticule and the little pot of rose salve she sometimes used to offset the paleness of her lips.

Perhaps it was better that she didn’t look in the mirror.

Whatever her appearance, she was ready, and the ferocious growling of her stomach—rude and unpardonable in the best of circumstances—drove her from the room.

As she closed the door behind her, the maid stepped out from an alcove, smiled brightly, and bobbed yet another curtsy.

“There you are, miss,” she said, and with that, smartly turned on her heel, leaving Emma to follow.

Last night she’d thought this a hallway, but it was a column-lined corridor overlooking a courtyard. She walked to the waist-high wall and looked down.

A walkway of crushed gravel stretched from one corner of the courtyard to the other, creating an X. Where the two paths intersected sat a small round table, its bright white cloth undulating in the soft breeze.

“The master is waiting, miss,” the young maid said, turning back impatiently. Evidently, the master could not be made to wait.

Emma was tempted to inform the young maid about the kind of person she served. A bounder, a cad, and although she didn’t know his behavior well enough to fit the label of rake to him, she didn’t doubt that it applied as well. Any man who invaded a woman’s bedroom should certainly be called to task for his actions.

However, she kept silent, having had years of experience at biting back words that more wisely should be left unsaid, and followed the girl.

The house was not as grand as hers, yet it was certainly not ill-appointed or lacking in beauty. The banister was truly a lovely thing, with its sweeping wood curves and heavily carved balusters. She followed the maid down the stairs, noting the niches along the way that held bits of statuary that looked quite old.

The maid led her down a covered walkway lined with a series of columns, reminding her of the Roman ruins in Bath. She stopped beside one arch and stepped aside, motioning to Emma to precede her.

Secluded from traffic sounds, lined with tall trees swaying in the gentle breeze, the courtyard was a small and perfect green oasis. A profusion of Sweet William, Hypericum, and another bed of strange plants greeted her.

Emma hesitated at one, bending down to examine one of them more closely. A long, strong, straight stem ended in a bulge, and above it bloomed a purple spiked flower.

“It’s a thistle,” he said.

She looked up to find Ian standing on the gravel walk.

“A thistle?” she asked, straightening.

“A symbol of Scotland,” he said. “A little bit of my home, brought to London. Besides, the butterflies seem to like it.”

In the morning light he was even more handsome than he’d been last night, and despite the fact that she was the Duchess of Herridge, she felt unaccountably shy, incapable of sitting and eating breakfast across from this incredibly handsome man. Nestled in her unaccustomed awkwardness was wonder that she could feel so terribly young once again.

“Will you join me?” he asked, leading the way down the path.

On the table two small covered silver domes glinted in the morning light. Beside them sat a book, open but turned upside down, as if her abductor had been engrossed in it prior to her arrival.

Who was he?

He pulled out a well-padded chair that looked as if it belonged in the dining room.

“It’s a bright and sunny day,” he said. “I always think the air so much clearer after a storm, don’t you?”

She only nodded as he assisted her with the chair. Despite the fact that last night had been chilly, this day was temperate, hinting at warm.

“I am torn between wanting to ask if you rested well and being aware that the question is not one normally uses to begin a breakfast between strangers.”

“I slept well,” she said. “Thank you.” In fact, it was odd how well she did sleep. As restful as a baby. There were no sounds from the streets, no cautions in her mind.

“Then as your host, however unwittingly,” he said, smiling, “may I tell you that you certainly look well rested. Quite lovely, in fact.”

She ignored his words, directing her attention to the bright white plate with its gold trim, a pattern she recognized as Royal Dorchester. She had a similar pattern at home.

“It’s unusual to have a garden in London,” she said, when the feeling of warmth had faded from her cheeks. “We have a little plot of land behind the stables, but we use it to exercise the horses when necessary.”

The rather vacuous nature of her comment made her wince inwardly.

He only continued to smile. For some odd reason her gaze kept returning to him and not the table, or the plate, or the scenery around them. She was not even captivated by the pattern of shadows on the tablecloth caused by the swaying branches above them.

Today he was attired in a white shirt and black trousers, the plainness of his attire a perfect backdrop to his appearance. His eyes were brown, so darkly brown they appeared almost black. His features were finely chiseled, and he was tall and lean with broad shoulders. A very impressive appearing man.

“I have always liked this house,” he said.

At her quick look, his smile broadened. “No, I didn’t steal it. This house has been in my family for generations.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he only shook his head, as if to negate her curiosity.

He raised his right hand, and a footman suddenly appeared, as if he’d sprung full-grown from a nearby bush. He carried a small round tray heaped with a selection of toast and rolls. She selected two pieces of toast, and some kippers from the covered container on the table.

After the footman departed, she glanced up at him. “I’ve never had the opportunity to dine alfresco,” she said.

“Did you never have a picnic?” he asked.

“Is that your price for this meal? Details about my private life?”

“Can we not converse?”

“Why should we?” she said.

He shook his head.

“You cannot simply shake your head at me,” she said. “Not when I’m certain there is something you wish to say.”

“Let’s just say that my comment would not have been complimentary.” His smile took none of the sting from his words.

He laid his spoon on the edge of his saucer before slowly and deliberately picking his cup up and drinking from it, all the while regarding her.

She could feel the flush emanate from her toes and travel all the way up to bloom on her cheeks. She picked up her cup, mimicking his movements, studying him with the same intensity.

“You’re quite annoying,” she said, placing the cup down on the saucer.

“Am I?”

He raised one eyebrow in such an imperious gesture that she almost smiled.

She preferred to study a hedge a few feet away rather than look at him again. Whoever cared for this garden had the ability to coax even the boxwood into lush profusion.

“I’ve taken your advice,” he said.

“What advice did I give you?”

“This morning I sent a note to your uncle informing him that you’ll be returned once I have the Tulloch Sgàthán.”

“That’s very bold of you,” she said. “What if he tracks you down first?”

“From what I’ve seen of your uncle,” he said, “I doubt he’ll make the effort.”

“What if he refuses to surrender the mirror?”

“Never underestimate your value, Duchess.”

She’d four years to know the true extent of her worth. It lay in her womb, not in her person.

“I’m nothing without a husband, and with a husband, I was less than nothing. Society does not value women. They value women who accommodate.”

“Did you accommodate, Emma?”

She stared at her plate without speaking for several moments. “Yes,” she said finally.

“I often take my meals out of doors,” he said, returning to the previous topic.

“Therefore,” she said, grateful for his easing her through a difficult moment, “you’ve had vast experience at picnics.”

He smiled, the expression charming.

“My home is near a lake, and on the lake is an island. Ever since I was a little boy, the island has been my refuge, my lodestone, as it were. I can remember eating many a meal at the top of the hill on that island. Inconsequential moments but ones I still recall.”

She cut her toast in half, busying herself with the knife. “So you’ve created an island in London.”

He looked around, as if suddenly viewing the courtyard differently.

“Perhaps I have,” he said.

Breakfast occupied them both for a few moments, the time passing in a surprisingly pleasant interlude.

She glanced at him from time to time, unsurprised that he had excellent table manners. He possessed a quality, something arresting that drew her eyes over and over. Perhaps it was a sense that he knew his place in life and his purpose, had a goal, and was determined to achieve it.

Against that, what were mere good looks?

“Where is your home? Your island?” she asked.

“Where is home to a Scot if not Scotland? But the world comes to London, doesn’t it?”

“The world doesn’t necessarily live here.”

He smiled again, a little effortless charm to mask the fact that he had not answered her question.

“Where in Scotland are you from?” she asked more directly.

“Shall I say the Highlands?” he asked. “And in doing so immediately be characterized as one of those warriors that are so popular of late. I’ll be a laird, shall I?”

“Are you?”

“Scotland has existed all these hundreds and thousands of years,” he said, deflecting her question. “But it’s only in the last twenty that there’s been so much written about my country.”

“The Queen has a great fondness for Scotland,” she said.

He only nodded.

“Am I not to know?” she asked. “Or are you simply trying to be mysterious?”

“Perhaps I’m trying to be more like you,” he said, “revealing little of myself. They gossip about you, you know.”

“I’m the Duchess of Herridge. People will say what they will.”

His hand brushed close to where one of hers rested on the table. When Anthony was near, she only felt aversion, and a sickening kind of fear. Now, her skin tingled and her stomach fluttered. She dared herself to leave her hand where it was. When he made no further move, she didn’t know if she was disappointed or relieved.

The sun warmed the top of her head, and the air was clean and sparkling. The equanimity with which her abductor treated her was unusual, and yet as refreshing as the breeze. She could have been anyone, anyone at all. Not necessarily the Duchess of Herridge, or a woman in mourning. She was simply herself, simply Emma, the person she’d yearned to be for so very long.

She would revel in this freedom for as long as she had it, knowing that it was short-lived. A day, perhaps two at the most, and she would return home, and take up the role that Fate had decreed for her, becoming the widowed Duchess of Herridge until she was married again.

The thought of marriage almost made her ill.