Scottish Brides (10 page)

Which meant that, more than anyone else, she'd been aware of his driving obsession, his desire to be the best, to perform to the highest standards, to achieve the very best in all things—the perfectionism that drove him. And, being her irreverent self, she had never been able to resist teasing him, pricking and prodding him whenever his obssession over-stepped the bounds of her trenchant common sense.

Teasing “Duncan the perfect” had become first a game, then a habit. Through the years, she'd perfected her skills, guided by the insight no other had ever had of him; her ability to successfully strike through his defenses was now the strongest memory either had of the other.

Which explained his black scowl and his watchful wariness. She couldn't, however, explain the tension that held him, the tension that tightened her own nerves, restricting her breathing and setting her skin flickering.
That
was entirely new.

He still stood before her, frowning down at her. She raised a haughty brow. “I gather your last years have been crowned with success; from all I've heard, you've reason to feel quite smug.”

With a light shrug, he dismissed it—the endeavor to which she knew he'd devoted all his energies for the last ten years. “Things fell into place. The future of Ballynashiels is now assured. That was what I wanted—it was what I achieved.”

Rose smiled warmly, sincerely. “You should enjoy your success. There aren't many estates in the Highlands so comfortably underwritten.”

On inheriting both title and estate, Duncan had accepted, as few of his peers had, that the rugged country of the Argyll would not provide more than a subsistence. In typical fashion, driven by his need to excell, he'd taken the bit between his teeth and plunged into business. According to the pundits, he was now fabulously wealthy, with a solid income deriving from trade with the Indies and a sizable nest egg derived from shrewd speculation. Rose was not at all surprised. Knowing as she did his devotion to his heritage, and the inherent responsibilities, she felt a subtle pride in his achievements. At a time when many Highland estates were suffering, Ballynashiels was safe.

For that, she was truly grateful.

Her eyes still on his, stubbornly ignoring the inner voice clamoring that before her stood danger, she tilted her head and let amused underapproaching light her eyes. “So, now Ballynashiels is secure, it's time to get a wife?”

A muscle in his jaw locked; his eyes narrowed.

Duncan fought to concentrate on her words, struggled to find some quip to put her in her place or, better yet, send her fleeing from the house. His reeling mind could supply neither. He'd never before understood what being “bowled over” entailed—now he knew.

And it was Rose who'd done it.

He wasn't sure if he should feel horror at that discovery, or whether, given their history, he should have expected it. From the instant when, bent over the piano stool, she'd looked up at him, his wits had scrambled. Not, perhaps, surprising, considering the view he'd had. He doubted many men could think clearly when faced with a view like that.

Rose, his little thorn, had grown. Bloomed. In the most amazing way.

Since letting go of the doorknob, he'd kept his eyes glued to hers. It hadn't helped. He was acutely aware of the soft curves of her breasts, warm ivory mounds enticingly displayed by the scooped neckline of her morning gown. In soft, palegreen muslin sprigged with tiny gold leaves, the gown clung to shapely hips and long, sleek legs. It took real effort not to drop his gaze and check just how long those legs were; his wayward mind insistently reminded him that Rose had always been tall.

She'd been gangly. Awkward. A scrawny ugly duckling, with huge, soft brown eyes far too large for her face, lips too wide for it, too, wild hair that had usually resembled a bird's nest, straight brown brows too severe for a female and a nose too upturned and far too pert for beauty. And a barbed tongue that had stung him far too often.

Keeping his expression unchanged, Duncan inwardly cursed. Who would have imagined all those oddly disparate parts would, with the years, meld into the vision before him? Her eyes were as before, but now they fitted her face, the perfect vehicles for her always-direct gaze. Her brows were still straight, uncompromising, but their line was now softened by her hair, still faintly frizzy but so abundant and rich in color, it made any male with blood in his veins itch to sink his hands into it. She wore it loosely braided and coiled; he wondered how long it was.

And despite the insistence of his common sense, telling him to move back, to put more distance between them so he could no longer detect her perfume—a subtle blend of violet and rose—if he moved farther back, he doubted he could stave off the urge to let his eyes feast on her figure, no longer scrawny in the least. Every curve was full, ripe, alluring. And those legs—his imagination was already running riot, but he had a sneaking feeling the reality might prove even more interesting.

Even more arousing.

Which was the last thing he needed; he was in pain as it was.

Yet remaining so close to her, within easy reach, wasn't any cure. Her lips, despite her teasing, lopsided smile, were temptation incarnate. No longer overlarge, they were generous—not just feminine but womanly, their full curves promising all manner of sensual delights. And as for the teasing, provocative light in her eyes . . . a burning urge gripped him, compelling him to raise his hand, frame her face and kiss her, taste her . . .

And that way lay madness. This was Rose, the thorn in his flesh.

Her words finally penetrated the fog of lust shrouding his mind; Duncan inwardly groaned. Nothing had changed.

He was acutely uncomfortable, and growing more so with every passing second.

Which meant he was in trouble. Serious trouble.

He'd returned to Ballynashiels with his intended in tow, only to find . . .

“Damn it—why
aren't
you married?” And safe beyond his reach, some other man's problem, not his. “Where on God's earth have you been spending the years, in a convent?”

Predictably, she smirked—a little twist of her lips that could bring a man to his knees—and smoothly glided past him. “Oh, I've been busy enough in that sphere, but there's been nothing that's taken my fancy.”

Duncan smothered a snort; he could just imagine. Rose was an heiress; her suitors had to be legion. He swung to watch her as she halted before the windows—oh, yes, her legs were long . . . long, long, long . . . He swallowed. And scowled. “Your father's too lenient—he should have seen you married years ago.”

She shrugged lightly. “I've spent the last nine Seasons in Edinburgh and Glasgow—it's hardly my fault if the gentlemen haven't measured up.”

Half turning her head, she sent an artful glance his way; it began at his boots and traveled slowly—very slowly—up-ward . . . By the time she reached his face, Duncan felt like strangling her. After he'd ravished her.

Abruptly he swung away, fervently praying that she hadn't noticed his reaction, unfortunately visible given that he was dressed in skintight inexpressibles. Ready to greet his intended.

“I'm going to see Mama.” Glancing back, he saw Rose's brows fly high. “How long are you staying?”

She considered him; he prayed a good deal harder. Then she shrugged. “We haven't decided. At least until Midsummer.”

Duncan frowned. “Your father's here?”

She hesitated, then inclined her head.

Duncan nodded curtly and strode for the door. “I'll see you later.”

He would much rather not see her ever again, but that, he knew, was unlikely.

When it came to Rose, fate had never been kind.

 

“Damn it, Mama!
Why
did you have to invite Rose?”

Duncan shut his mother's dressing-room door with unnecessary force.

Lady Hermione Macintyre, seated before her dressing table rouging her cheeks, blinked at him in the mirror. “Really, dear! What a peculiar question. The Mackenzie-Craddocks have always visited in summer; you know that.”

She returned her attention to her cheeks, unperturbed by the sight of her only offspring pacing like a trapped leopard at her back. After a moment, she murmured, “Besides, I thought you wanted a goodly number of family and friends here, so the arrival of Miss Edmonton and her parents wouldn't appear too particular?”

“I'm perfectly well aware I gave you a
carte blanche.
I just didn't expect to find Rose gracing the drawing room.” Bent over the piano stool.

Lady Hermione sighed fondly. “The dear girl offered to sort the music sheets—they were in a such a muddle.”

“She's done it,” Duncan snapped. And shattered his complacency, and shot his plans to hell.

“I really can't see,” Lady Hermione continued, lifting a brush to her lips, “why you're so exercised by Rose's presence.”

Duncan uttered a silent prayer in appreciation of small mercies. He missed the shrewd glance his mother directed his way.

“Besides,” she continued, ‘‘in the circumstances, I wanted to meet Mr. Penecuik.”

“Penecuik?” Frowning, Duncan halted. “Who's he?”

Lady Hermione opened her eyes wide. “Why, the gentleman Rose is considering marrying. Didn't she tell you?”

Duncan felt his face blank; his emotions blanked, too, as if they'd fallen into a void. Then he remembered Rose's words on marriage. He glanced sharply at his mother. “She's considering accepting him?”

“Indeed.” Lady Hermione nodded. “She'd be a fool not to—and Rose was never a fool.”

“Humph!” Duncan resumed his pacing. After a long moment, he asked, “So, who is he, this Penecuik?”

“Mr. Jeremy Penecuik, son of Joshua Penecuik, who is first cousin to the duke of Perth. Mr. Penecuik the elder is the duke's sole heir, which means, in time, Jeremy will inherit the dukedom. So Rose has quite a decision to make. It's not every day a girl is offered a dukedom with both wealth and establishments intact. Perth is doing quite well, I understand.”

“Hmm.” His gaze on the rug, Duncan paced on.

Lady Hermione laid down her brush and peered at her face in the mirror. “You needn't fear being called upon to pass judgement on Mr. Penecuik. Rose is quite capable of making up her own mind.”

“Given she's twenty-seven and still unwed, I'm surprised you don't think she needs a push.” Duncan glanced at his mother.

Turning on her stool, she met his gaze calmly. “Nonsense, dear. Rose may be twenty-seven, but she's hardly on the shelf. Nor, if I read the signs aright, is she likely to be for long.”

A fist clutched his heart—Duncan told himself it was anticipation, anticipation that Rose would soon be a thorn in someone else's side.

“But that's enough of Rose.” Lady Hermione smiled. “The lady you're considering making your countess will arrive any minute. That's what you should be concentrating on.”

That
was
what he was concentrating on—Miss Clarissa Edmonton's arrival, and all the disasters that might ensue. Very likely
would
ensue now that Rose was here—now that Rose was as she was. She might finally succeed in driving him demented; that had always seemed her principal goal in life.

Teeth gritted, Duncan strode to the window and pushed aside the lace curtain. And glimpsed a flash of reflected light. A second later, he saw a heavy traveling carriage rounding the far end of the loch.

“They're here.”

He delivered the words as if prophesying their doom; his mother calmly turned back to her mirror.

Duncan watched the carriage draw nearer and dismissed the wild plans he'd been formulating to rid himself of Rose and her disturbing presence. Fate had left him no time, no room to maneuver. He was going to have to greet his intended and decide whether or not she was, indeed, the lady he wanted to wife—with Rose Millicent Mackenzie-Crad-dock, ten times more distracting than she'd ever been, looking on. In glee, he had not a doubt.

What he had done to deserve such a fate, he had absolutely no idea.

 

By the time the carriage rocked to a halt before the front steps, Duncan was on the front porch. He strolled down the marble steps and met Mr. Edmonton as he descended.

A short, rotund gentleman, Charles Edmonton shook his hand, his expression noticeably easing as he took in the magnificence of Ballynashiels. Masking his cynicism, Duncan greeted him urbanely, then gave Mrs. Edmonton his arm from the carriage.

A matronly woman dressed in the height of fashion, she looked up before her foot touched the marble; her expression was even more transparent than her husband's. After a quick scan of the long facade, she beamed at Duncan. “I do declare, my lord, your home is quite the most imposing house I've ever seen.”

“How kind of you to say so.” Duncan smoothly handed her on to her husband and turned to give his arm to the vision that next filled the carriage doorway.

A princess in pale blue, Miss Clarissa Edmonton was the epitome of feminine perfection. She was slim and slender, with sleek, pale-blond hair neatly gathered in a fashionable chignon. Of average height, she was classically beautiful, with regular, perfectly symmetrical features set in an oval face. Her complexion was unblemished alabaster, her eyes the same cornflower blue as her gown.

She met Duncan's eyes and smiled sweetly, demurely. Putting her hand in his, she let him help her to the ground. Then she looked at the house. Her perusal took a good deal longer than her parents'; Duncan couldn't help wondering if she was counting the windows.

Then she smiled up at him. “Why—it's so big, I hadn't imagined . . .” A graceful gesture filled in the rest of her sentence.

He returned her smile and offered his arm. “My mother is waiting in the drawing room.”

She was, with at least half the company she had assembled to celebrate the Midsummer revels.