Chapter Four
Duncan hadn’t completely understood the nuances of the interaction between Catherine and her suitors—in some ways, it had seemed as though they were all speaking in an arcane and foreign language made up of nose twitches and pursed lips—but he did understand, and appreciate, the result. They were gone. All of them.
He reached to the plate and helped himself to a cake. It was an odd habit, cake for breakfast, but he was certain he could come to like it. Though he really would have preferred a rasher of bacon. He’d have to talk to Winston about his preferences.
“Hungry?” A warble to his right captured his attention and he turned to Lady Esmeralda who was peering at him down her nose. Which was a feat, because she was rather small for one so fierce. She actually had to tip her head back quite far to affect the result of superiority.
“Aye. I am,” he said as he took another cake.
She sniffed. “And you wonder why they think you a savage.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. He was only eating a cake. Not a baby.
Lady Esmeralda waved at his lap. “Look at all the crumbs you’ve made.”
Crumbs? He deftly swept them off his kilt onto the carpet. He had no idea why she flinched. “In my experience, cakes tend to create crumbs when devoured.”
“A gentleman takes pains to avoid crumbs. Also, a gentleman does not devour anything.”
“A gentleman is probably hungry.”
“It would behoove you to acquire some polish if you intend to stay in London.”
“Would it?” He was fairly certain he’d never heard the word behoove, not even once, in Scotland.
“It would certainly, shall we say, smooth the way.”
Duncan glanced at Catherine, who was speaking to Elizabeth in the foyer. He nibbled on his lip for a moment, then took the plunge. “Lady Esmeralda?”
“Yes, my boy?”
“Perhaps you could help me to be more . . . civilized.”
Esmeralda’s gaze followed his and she smiled. “Perhaps I could.” Her eyes warmed. “I had a Scots lover when I was a gel,” she said. It was difficult to imagine, her being a gel, but he would take what he could. And she did seem to hold that memory in fond regard. “And I see the way she looks at you.”
Duncan gulped. “H-h-how does she look at me?” Good God, he was stuttering like a schoolboy. He really needed to get control of his emotions, or at least his reactions to them. It wouldn’t do for him to become a blathering idiot.
Lady Esmeralda leaned forward and patted his knee. Her hand lingered a tad longer than it should, given the fact he wore no pants. “She is bedazzled.”
Bedazzled? Catherine?
He glanced her way once more. She didn’t seem bedazzled now. In fact, she was staring at him with the grimmest of expressions on her face. She looked like a mutinous child commanded to take a dose of cod liver oil.
But Elizabeth . . .
Ah, fook.
Elizabeth was staring at him as though he’d hung the moon. Or, at the very least, as though she wanted to devour him.
Which was a frightening prospect, to be sure.
She looked voracious.
“She’s always had a certain, shall we say, fascination, for the Highlander.”
Good gad. Was Esmeralda still talking?
“And I have been commanded by the duke to assure good marriages for all the girls.”
His head came around and he gaped at her. “All the girls?”
“There are four.” Her eyes glimmered. “Anne is out of course.”
“Of course.”
“She deplores anything Scottish. On account of an unfortunate kiss long ago, you understand.” This the old woman added in a horrifyingly confidential tone.
“Um, of course.”
“Victoria is far too fanciful for a man of your bearing. She flits about like dandelion fluff speaking of fairies and elves. No, no. It would not work. And Mary is far too young. But Elizabeth . . .” She threaded her fingers together into one fist and brandished it victoriously. “She would be perfect for you.”
“I do beg your pardon.” He had to interrupt. Just had to. “Which duke commanded they marry?”
“Why Caithness, of course. He’s their cousin. Well, that is to say, their cousin several times removed. We were not even aware of the connection until the passing of the Laird of Dirlot, who, as it happens, had papers confirming the parentage of a certain Elizabeth Longshanks . . .” She paused to lean in and whisper, “Natural born daughter of Edward, don’t you know . . .”
“Of course.”
“Who went on to bear the heir of St. Claire. Of course, it wasn’t St. Claire then. It wasn’t for a century or so that the names were changed, and of course, that was part of all the confusion.”
“Of . . . course.” He had no idea what she was talking about, but continued to nod.
“But I digress.” She smiled toothily. “Dirlot had another paper as well, one in particular that connected our branch of the St. Claires with the Sinclairs. Most specifically, Lachlan Sinclair.”
“Duke of Caithness.”
Her eyes brightened. “Oh! Do you know him?”
“I hail from Halkirk, so aye. I know him.” And what a relief. “Though, I must confess, Lady Esmeralda . . . I’m the last man Lachlan would want to marry his cousin.”
May God strike him down for such a lie.
He and Lachlan were good friends and had enjoyed more than one hunt together. But this was a far too convenient excuse to escape this trap.
“Really?” Esmeralda boggled.
“Indeed. He’s displeased with me at the moment, I must say.”
“Displeased?” Her features bunched up.
“My horse beat his in a recent race. And here I am. Exiled.” He shrugged helplessly. “You know how feckless dukes can be.”
Och, God would punish him for this.
Not that he hadn’t beaten Lachlan’s horse. He had. And Lachlan had summarily slapped Duncan on the back and purchased the beast for stud.
“Feckless, indeed.” Esmeralda put out a lip. “What a pity. You would have been a perfect match for Elizabeth.”
“Have you considered Peter?”
“Peter?” Her nostrils flared like a terrier smelling a rat. A fat, juicy rat. “Peter Ross . . . Hmm.” She tapped her chin with a finger.
He should feel remorse for throwing his friend to the wolves, but at this point, Peter deserved all the misery he received. And if it caused Esmeralda and her wolverines to lose his scent, so much the better.
And as it so happened, said Peter appeared just then, looking slightly worse for wear but at least ambulatory.
“Good morning,” he said with a bow and small smile to Lady Esmeralda.
The fool. He had no idea what he was in for.
“Good morning, my boy,” she gushed. “Do come and sit.” She patted the divan to her right.
Peter, to his credit, panicked, but it was far too late for that.
“Elizabeth. Darling. Come here as well. You know Peter Ross, do you not? Sit, gel. Sit.”
As Esmeralda arranged their persons, Duncan smiled at Peter and availed himself of the resulting kerfuffle to slip from the room. He paused by Catherine’s side and murmured, “We should talk, don’t you think?” To his everlasting relief, she nodded. He took her arm and guided her towards the conservatory, totally ignoring Peter’s yelp of alarm.
* * *
Yes. They did need to talk, but Catherine was a bundle of nerves as Duncan led her to the back of the house. She had no idea what he wanted to talk about . . . Or perhaps she did. Her befuddlement was in regard to what her part of the conversation might entail. She had no idea what to say, so she remained silent as they entered the warm, fragrant conservatory. It was a room she had loved since they’d moved here. The bright light and carefully curated flowers delighted her, and there was not a rose to be found. If her life was to end in a room, this would be the room she would choose—
“Have you thought over my offer?”
Well, blast. He had to come straight to the point, didn’t he?
Her ire rose, but she fought to keep it at bay as she stared out the window into the garden, her back to him.
It wasn’t Duncan’s fault all this had happened. Even though it sometimes felt as though everything was his fault.
“I, ah . . . Yes. I have.”
He took her shoulders in a gentle grasp and turned her to face him. “And?”
“This is difficult.”
“I imagine so.”
“Being forced to marry anyone. Much less—” She bit her tongue to keep the words back.
His expression hardened. “Much less a lowly Scot?”
“What?” She gaped at him in shock. And then, against her will, she laughed.
He frowned even more.
“No, Duncan. Much less a man who used to tease me until I broke down into tears. You were a beast to me.”
Her words seemed to stun him. His lips worked. “Well . . . I . . . You . . . It was . . .”
“No excuse, have you?” Really. He didn’t. “What assurance do I have that you will be kind to me now? I could not live with a man who mocked me and tormented me and—”
“Surely it wasna that bad.”
“It was horrid.” It had been. Heartbreaking. Because she’d been besotted by him, stupid girl that she’d been. She was smarter now.
“I dinna realize I had hurt you. I . . . apologize.” He set his hand to his heart and said, “I swear to God, I willna be cruel to you. I’ll never hurt you like that again.”
She almost believed him. But he’d always been a charming sort. Too charming, if she had anything to say about it. She needed more than an apology and a promise. She needed to know . . . “Why?”
He blinked. Seemed somewhat appalled. “Why, what?” His Adam’s apple made a slow journey down his neck and back up.
“Why do you want to marry me?”
“Oh! That!” He huffed a laugh and then sobered. His lips closed as he pondered the question.
And, really? Did he need to ponder the question?
“Don’t you know?” she snapped.
“Of course. Of course I do. I . . . need a wife.”
He nodded and stepped back, looking rather pleased with himself.
She shook her head and his smug smile deflated like a soufflé. “Any woman will do if you simply need a wife.”
“I need heirs. I have an estate now”—she assumed he meant Peter’s—“and I need heirs.”
“Again. Any brood mare will suffice.”
His brow furrowed. “You are hardly a brood mare.”
“Well, thank you very much for that. But you still have to answer the question. Why do you want to marry me?”
His throat worked again. “Isn’t it obvious?”
She crossed her arms. “Apparently not.”
Another thing it was not, was even remotely romantic, but she supposed a woman in her position knew better than to expect such fribbles.
“Well, you are . . .” He waved at her person. Up and down in an illustrative manner that was not illustrative in the slightest.
“I believe we have established the fact that I am a female of child bearing years.” A brood mare, if you will.
“You are more than that, Catherine.” Ah. Now we were getting somewhere.
“Such as?”
“You are elegant. Genteel. Trained in the art of social niceties. You would make a proper wife.”
She sniffed. She was hardly proper. And she certainly did not care to be proper. “There are a thousand debutantes in London who fit that bill.”
He made such a face that she was tempted to laugh. Had she not been so adamant about discovering his true motives, she might have. “Debutantes? London debutantes? What a revolting thought.”
“I, sir, am one such creature.”
“You are nothing like them, my wee Cat.” His adamant tone stirred her, as did his intent stare. She insisted those feelings recede. “You have a highland heart. You love heather. You ride bareback. You run barefoot in the grass at dawn—”
“Good Lord, Duncan. None of those things are proper. And I did those things when I was a child.” She hadn’t known such joy since her father locked her up in Miss Welles’ Finishing School for Girls in Kent. Despite Elizabeth’s friendship, the school had done much to squeeze the wild child from her soul—a loss she felt deeply, even now. But, apparently, she was a proper English lady doomed to marry a proper English lord, and—
But no. She wasn’t. Not anymore, was she?
How strange that this thought filled her with unaccountable joy.
“You are no’ like them,” Duncan, oblivious to her epiphany, continued on. “You are clever and funny and interesting. Those girls have nothing of interest to say.”
“Most likely because I was ruined early,” she said, tongue in cheek. “I did spend my formative years with savages, I’m told.”
It took a moment for him to realize she was jesting, and then his glower turned to a smile. “Aye.”
“So you want to marry me because I am better disposed to tolerate your unrefined manners?” She was teasing him now, but frankly, he deserved it.
His face went ruddy and he began to sputter.
“Or because I can converse with you on lower subjects, such as offal and breeding?”
“Catherine!”
“Or is it—”
“Stop.”
“I would stop if you would tell me why you want to marry me—so much that you would blackmail me into saying my vows.”
“It was never my intention to blackmail you.” He seemed offended at the suggestion.
“Really? What were those threats about Newgate for then?”
His brow lowered. “Those were a statement of fact. And to be sure, I doona want a wife who felt compelled to wed me, one who felt trapped with a lesser soul as a husband. In fact, if that is the case, I firmly rescind my offer.” He stared at her for a moment, his eyes red-rimmed, then whirled around to leave the room.
Oh dear. Perhaps she had gone too far. She had not intended to insult or wound him, or disparage his person.
“Duncan.” Her voice was small, but he heard her. He stopped stock still, but did not look at her. “I do not feel that you are a lesser soul. You have to know better than that. You are and always have been one of the finest men I’ve met.” It cost her to admit that because of the bitter waters between them, but it was true.
He heaved a sigh that shook the room. “I appreciate that, my wee Cat. I do.”
“And I appreciate your offer to save us.” Again, a small voice, words forced out because the sharp barbs on them caught at her throat. Humility was a thorny rose.
“Do you?” He turned then, slowly, and caught her gaze.
“I do.”
“Then you will marry me?” His tone made her heart lurch—suffused with a tenuous hope and wound with a tendril of fear as it was.
She pursed her lips. “Will you propose properly?”
He gaped at her as though she’d just spoken in Chinese. “What?”
She waved to the floor in a dramatic motion. “Some men go down on one knee.”
His smile was wicked. “When I go down on one knee, it won’t be for a proposal, my lass.”
She had no time to prepare for his next move and honestly, could never have expected it. He rushed toward her, whipped her up into his arms and pulled her close.
“Marry me, Cat,” he said. A command. “Marry me.”
And then he kissed her with a savagery that thrilled her to the core. Hot, hard, wild and wet, his kiss made her mind whirl, her body trill, her heart thud in her ears.
And then she realized it wasn’t her heart so much as applause, and Elizabeth’s cries of “Hurrah!”
Because, apparently, they had been followed.