Tempting The Laird. Julia London
rather like her,” Eula said.
Of course she did—Eula was a wee minx herself, and with no woman to properly guide her, she was turning into a coquettish imp. “Where is your maid, then, lass? ’Tis time for your bed, I should think.”
“Already?” Eula complained.
“Already.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
“You look very fine, Montrose,” she said, eyeing him closely.
“Your grace,” he reminded her.
“Your grace Montrose,” she returned with a pert smile. In the mirror’s reflection, Hamlin caught Bain’s slight smile of amusement.
“Off you go, then. I’ll come round to see you on the morrow, aye?”
“Good night,” she chirped, and skipped out, intentionally poking Bain in the belly as she passed him.
When she had gone out, Hamlin undid his neckcloth and began to tie it again. “You’re convinced, are you, that given all that has happened, I still stand a chance at gaining a seat?” Hamlin asked bluntly.
“No’ convinced, no, your grace,” Bain said. “But if anyone will consider a change of heart, ’tis MacLaren. He would keep the seat close to home and his interests rather than stand on principle.”
Apparently, Hamlin was the unprincipled choice for the seat. He mulled that over as he retied his neckcloth. He was not shocked that MacLaren might advocate for him for less than principled reasons—a seat in the Lords wielded considerable power in Scotland, and Hamlin would be expected to return favor to whomever had supported him. But he wasn’t convinced that MacLaren’s lack of principle would extend all the way to him. He could very well have another candidate in the wings.
Never mind all this dithering about the evening on his part. He’d sent his favorable reply to Norwood on Bain’s recommendation and would attend this bloody dinner. He was, if nothing else, a man of his word.
His butler appeared in the doorway and stood next to Bain. “Shall I have your mount saddled, your grace?”
It was a splendid night for riding, the moon full, the path through the forest that separated Blackthorn Hall and Dungotty pleasant and cool. But before Hamlin could answer, Bain lifted a finger. “If I may, your grace.”
Hamlin nodded.
“To arrive on horseback to an important supper such as this might give the appearance of having suffered a diminishment in your standing. I’d suggest the coach, then.”
A diminishment of standing. Is that what was said of him now? Hamlin sighed with irritation at the lengths he had to go to present himself to a society he’d once ruled and that had been quick to turn its back on him. Before he’d been married, invitations to Blackthorn Hall had been sought after throughout Scotland and even in England—the prospect of marrying a future duke, particularly one with the revered name of Montrose, had brought the lassies from far and wide. Hamlin had had no firm attachment to any of them, and he’d agreed to marry the woman his father had deemed suitable to carry the Montrose name and bear its heirs.
After his marriage, Hamlin and Glenna hosted dinners and balls for the country’s elite in his ailing father’s stead, as was expected of him, the heir. And when his father died, and the title had passed to him, Hamlin had stepped into his father’s shoes. He and Glenna had dined with peers, appeared in society when it was expected. He opened a school and presented funds to a theater troupe. He sat on councils and hunted game and joined men at the gentleman’s club in Edinburgh to complain about the government.
He had performed the duties of a duke in the same distant manner as his father had before him. Not because he was the same distant person his father had been—Hamlin liked to think himself as warmer than his father had ever been—but because he was already having trouble with Glenna and he didn’t want anyone to know.
The trouble with Glenna was not apparent to anyone else before the disaster fell that ruined his life and his spirit, and left him desolate and questioning everything he thought he’d ever known about himself or this world. What had happened at Blackthorn Hall was a disgrace to any man.
That astounding fall from grace was the reason he’d taken Nichol Bain into his employ. The first thing Bain had said to Hamlin the day they met was I am the man who might repair your reputation, I am.
Normally, Hamlin would have taken offense to that. But he was intrigued by Bain’s lack of hesitation to say it, and he was acutely aware that his reputation was in critical need of repair. This was, in fact, the first invitation he’d received in several months.
“Aye, Stuart, do as he says, then,” Hamlin conceded. “The coachmen and the team will no’ care to stand about waiting for a lot of fat Englishmen to dine, but that’s their lot in life, it is.”
* * *
THE EMBLAZONED MONTROSE coach drew to a halt in the circular drive at the Dungotty estate, and two footmen sprinted to attend it. The door was opened for Hamlin, a step put down for his convenience to exit the coach. The front door likewise opened for him before Hamlin could reach it, and a man wearing a powdered wig and a highly embroidered, fanciful coat stepped forward, bowed low and said, “Welcome to Dungotty, your grace.”
“Thank you.” He handed the man his hat as he stepped into the foyer. The grand house had had a bit of work done to it since Hamlin had last seen it, which he recalled was at least a decade ago, before his marriage. Marble flooring had replaced wooden planks, and an expansive iron-and-crystal chandelier blazed with the light of a dozen candles overhead. The stairs leading to the first floor were dressed in expensive Aubusson carpets, the railing polished cherry.
Hamlin removed his cloak, handed it to yet another footman and wondered just how many footmen an English earl actually needed for summering in Scotland. He’d seen more tonight than he had on staff at Blackthorn Hall, which was twice the size of this house.
The sound of laughter suddenly rose from a room down a long hall. Hamlin immediately tensed—it sounded as if there were more souls laughing than the four he expected, which were the MacLarens, Norwood and his niece.
“This way, if you please, your grace,” the butler said, and walked briskly in the direction of the laughter, down a corridor and to a set of double doors. He placed both hands on the brass handles, paused and gave his head a bit of a shake, then practically flung the doors open. He stepped inside and loudly cleared his throat. Standing behind him, Hamlin could see a number of heads swivel around. Damn it to hell, he’d been waylaid by that old English goat. There was a crowd gathered in this room.
The butler bowed and said quite grandly, “My Lord Norwood, may I present his grace, the Duke of Montrose.”
Hamlin moved to step forward, but the butler was not quite done.
“And the Earl of Kincardine,” he added, just as grandly.
Hamlin waited a moment to ensure that was the end of it, but as he moved his foot, the butler added with a flourish, “And the Laird of Graham.”
Well, that was definitely the end of it, as he held no other titles. But Hamlin arched a brow at the butler all the same, silently inquiring if he was done. The butler bowed deeply and stepped back.
Hamlin walked into the room and looked around at the dozen souls or more gathered. He made a curt bow with his head, and almost as one, the ladies curtsied and the men bowed their heads back at him.
“Welcome, welcome, your grace!” Norwood appeared through what felt a wee bit like a throng, one arm outstretched, the other hand clutching a glass of port. He was dressed in the finest of fabric, his waistcoat nearly to his knees and as heavily embroidered as the butler’s. They shared a tailor, it would seem.
“We are most pleased you have come. May I introduce you to my guests?” Norwood said, and gestured to the MacLarens. “Mr. and Mrs. MacLaren, with whom, I am certain, you are acquainted.”
“Your