Tempting The Laird. Julia London
we’ve never known a duke to lift more than a cup, have we, uncle?” the niece said, and laughed.
Hamlin shifted his gaze back to her. This woman had not an ounce of conceit in her. Nor an ounce of manners, as one might expect, given that she was the niece of an English earl.
“Aye, well, this duke is no’ afraid of a hammer. Or a cup.”
“Apparently no’,” she said with a pert smile, and her gray-blue eyes glittered like the surface of the lake in bright sunlight. Hamlin was momentarily blinded by it...until he realized that all gathered were waiting for him to speak.
He turned toward Watson. “Go, then, and inform Stuart we’ve visitors, aye?” he said low. He turned to his guests and said, “If you will be so kind as to carry on to the entrance. My butler will show you in. I’ll join you shortly.”
“Thank you, your grace,” Norwood said, and gestured for his niece to come along.
Hamlin watched her ascend to the driver’s seat once more, then stepped out of the way of the cabriolet, which proved to be a wise decision, for the niece started up the team with such enthusiasm that they practically launched into space with the small carriage flying behind them.
Hamlin looked around at his men. They were all staring at him as if they’d seen a comet. “Aye,” he said, in taciturn agreement. No other words were needed—to a man, they all understood that what they had just witnessed was not the natural way of things.
STUART, A PRIM and proper butler, as thin as a reed, his neckcloth tied as tightly as a garrote, showed Catriona and her uncle into a small drawing room with brocade drapes, furnishings upholstered in silk and a wall of books. A clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes for them.
“He means to make us wait,” Catriona said as she made her third restless trip around the room.
Uncle Knox had made himself quite comfortable on the settee and was currently examining a porcelain figurine of a small Highland fiddler. “Well, darling, we did make a rather unfortunate mistake in thinking him someone other than the duke.”
“Who could blame us?” Catriona asked. “He looked like a carpenter, he did.” A strong, strapping, handsome carpenter. His eyes were as black as his hair, his lashes as black as his eyes. His shoulders were as broad as a horse and his hips as firm as a—
“We should not judge a man by his appearance,” her uncle absently opined.
It was too late. She’d judged him by his appearance and had found him ruggedly appealing. “No,” she agreed. “But might we judge him a wee bit? He doesna look a murderer, does he?”
“I hardly know, darling. I am not acquainted with any murderers. I’m uncertain what to look for, precisely.”
Well, she’d never known a murderer, either, but she was convinced the duke did not look like a murderer. He looked like someone who ought to be wearing a crown, or leading an army of Highland soldiers, or breaking wild horses. He had a commanding presence—even more so once she’d realized with a wee thrill that he wasn’t a tradesman after all, but a duke and all that entailed—but not for a moment did he look the sort to murder. Catriona would be bitterly disappointed if she discovered he was.
She made her fourth trip around the room. She’d never been very good at waiting. In fact, she had coaxed her uncle into calling at Blackthorn Hall today because she couldn’t bear to wait another moment to discuss the abbey, which Uncle Knox was reluctant to do. He wanted her to put it out of her mind for a time, and enjoy her visit. But Catriona could not put it out of her mind for any length of time, really, and certainly not without something to divert her instead. So she’d cajoled him into calling on the mysterious Duke of Montrose.
She paused at the shelving to examine his books. The duke had a collection of tomes concerning history, astronomy and philosophy. No plays, no sonnets. A serious man, then. Daisy brought Catriona novels from England, tales of chivalry and love and adventure on the seas. Did the duke read nothing for pleasure? Was the man who inhabited that physique opposed to the simplest diversion?
“Sit, Cat, my love. You’re wreaking havoc on my nerves.”
“I canna sit and wait like a parishioner for the end of the sermon,” she complained.
Just then, the door swung partially open. A russet-haired head popped around the edge of the door about knob high. The head slid in just so that two brown eyes were visible. And then the door slowly swung open.
Uncle Knox gained his feet, clasped his hands at his back, then leaned forward, squinting at the creature who peeked around the door. “Good day,” he said.
The child moved, presenting enough of her body to know that it was a lass who eyed them. The other half remained hidden behind the door. “I’m Eula,” she said. “Who are you, then?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Eula,” Uncle Knox said. “Lord Norwood.” He bowed. “And this is my niece Miss Mackenzie.”
Catriona curtsied.
The lass looked at Catriona, her gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the hem of Catriona’s gown, which had been embroidered with vines and bluebirds. “Did you come to call on Montrose?”
Uncle Knox exchanged a look with Catriona.
“That’s the duke,” the lass said. “He lives here, too.”
“Aye, we have,” Catriona confirmed.
“Are you his friends?”
“Not as yet,” said Uncle Knox. “But we do mean to change that.”
The girl slid all the way into the room, her back to the wall. “He doesna have any friends,” she said, staring at them suspiciously.
Uncle Knox covered a laugh behind a cough.
“Aye, we’ve heard it said,” Catriona agreed.
The lass pushed away from the door and came closer to Catriona, peering at her curiously, her gaze taking in every bit of Catriona’s gown, her face, her hair. “You’re verra bonny.”
“Thank you kindly,” Catriona said. “So are you, Miss Eula. Do you live here, then, with his grace?”
She nodded. “I’ve my own suite of rooms.”
“How wonderful. I should imagine them quite grand, aye?”
“They are,” the lass agreed matter-of-factly, and traced her finger over the figurine that Uncle Knox had been examining. “I have two rooms, I do, but one is for sitting, and one for sleeping. That’s the way of proper ladies.”
“I see,” Catriona said.
“Eula.”
The deeply masculine voice was quiet but firm, and Eula was so startled that she knocked the figurine to the carpeted floor. Catriona bent down and picked it up. She smiled and winked at Eula before she rose, and returned the figurine to the table. She looked over the lass’s head at the duke. He’d donned a proper coat, but he was still lacking a collar or neckcloth. And he had not, she noted, combed his thick, black hair.
“You’re to be at your studies,” he said coolly.
“But we have callers,” Eula said.
“Rather, I have callers. You have studies. Go on, then.”
“Aye, all right,” Eula said with dejection, and began to slink to the door, but at the pace of a slug, pausing to examine the tassel on a pillow, an unlit candle. When she at last reached the door, she glanced back.
“Feasgar math,” Catriona said with a smile.
The lass’s pretty brown eyes widened with