A Scottish Rose for the Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

Music spilled from the great ballroom like perfume. It was sweet, heavy, and suffocating. Lady Isla Drummond stood at the threshold in a gown of palest green silk, feeling the lace collar scratch her throat as though it meant to choke her. The chandeliers blazed above, hundreds of wax flames shivering in the heat of the crowd. London’s finest shimmered beneath them, all smiles and calculation.

Her brother’s voice, clipped and low, pressed against her ear. 

“You will smile when introduced, Isla. And you will not mention horses.”

“Even if the subject is brought up to me?” she asked with wide, innocent eyes that did not fool her brother.

“Especially not then. You know nothing about horses except how pretty they look.”

She turned her head slightly, just enough for him to see the edge of her smile. It was sharp as the spur she would never use on a horse.

“As you command, Your Grace. I shall speak of embroidery and moonlight, and die of boredom before the second waltz.”

The Duke of Strathmore sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He is forever sighing these days. There was a time when he would not. When he was fun to be around.

He offered his arm and a glare, then led her forward. Heads turned. Whispers rippled. The unmarried Scottish duke had arrived. He escorted his sister, about whom little was known. Isla knew that this ball was effectively her debut, at least to the English. She felt a giant as she walked alongside Alistair. They were taller than the average guest, both of them, with the characteristic auburn hair of the Drummonds. Not to mention the broad shoulders and athletic frames.

So advantageous when it comes to riding horses across heath and moorland. Somewhat redundant in a ballroom. I do hope I will not be paired up with a veritable pygmy.

A bowing line of gentlemen awaited introduction. She endured them with the practiced politeness of one who has tamed more dangerous creatures. The first, a baronet’s son, frowned at her broad accent and every other word was pardon.

“Your accent is rather pronounced,” the gentleman ventured stiffly.

“Aye,” she said, letting the rolled r curl like smoke. “It tends tae thicken when I’m comfy with a person, eh?”

He lasted two more minutes before pleading thirst and was replaced by a brave soul who swept a bow and complimented the combination of her pale skin and bronze hair. She smiled and curtsied in response.

“I am the Viscount of Oxley,” the gentleman said.

Isla brightened. “Oxley? Your stables are famous. You are probably the only man here I am interested in talking to. Tell me, how have you found the breeding of your thoroughbreds with Arabian stock?”

Oxley was left flat-footed and open-mouthed.

“It is a matter I leave to my stable manager,” he said, faintly.

“Oh,” Isla said brightly, then looked around. “Is he here?”

Oxley disengaged with a blink and a shake of the head. Alistair glared at his sister from the depths of a conversation with a gray haired gentleman with a red and white uniform who was weighed down as heavily by whiskers as medals. Isla smiled back brilliantly, moving away through the crowd.

Do these places have to be so thronged! A rowth o’folk as grandma would have said.

The thought of the fearsome Scottish matriarch who had been the de facto Laird of Strathmore for so long brought a tinge of sadness. Alistair took after their father including his seeming desperation to be accepted by the English. Mhairi Drummond had not. 

I am proud to take after her.

By the time the third potential partner claimed her hand for the quadrille, her brother’s jaw had set like stone.

Well, I did not want to be here Alistair.

A brave soul offered to dance with her, eyes shining into hers as she accepted. She glanced at Alistair who was leading a young woman with curling dark hair to the floor. He gave Isla a short nod and a brief smile. 

Don’t count your chickens Alistair.

When the violins began, she counted the measures, then misstepped deliberately, just once, heel to boot to ensure the unfortunate man would not ask again. The gasp from the surrounding ladies gave her a perverse flicker of satisfaction. By the fourth dance she had succeeded in reducing her brother to a glowering, silent stare. Even when her meandering path through the crowd brought her close to him, he barely acknowledged her. 

A hollow victory. I have escaped attachment but have earned the enmity of my brother. 

Isla looked away from him, pretending to be blithely unaware. Alistair was the closest thing she had to a friend in London, hundreds of miles from the country she was accustomed to and comfortable in. 

If only he did not insist on … on trying to manage me. I would be much better behaved.

The air inside Ravenscroft House had grown dense with powder and perfume. Conversation clattered like hailstones and jewels winked cruelly in candlelight. The room smelled of wealth and wilted roses. Another dance ensued and was endured. Isla found herself distracted enough to make a good job of the steps.

Suddenly, Isla felt trapped. The room, with its high ceiling and distant walls, seemed to be shrinking. The crowd pressed close and from all around she felt curious eyes and sharp whispers. Every eye she met was yanked away from her gaze to return once her back was turned, she was sure. Alistair was making his way towards her, a man his own age, with black hair and a Roman nose above a square jaw following behind him.

“Isla. A commendable job at a waltz, finally. I’m glad you found your feet and did not put our family to shame,” Alistair said with joviality and barely a hint of his native accent.

“I was distracted,” Isla said. “I will do better next time.”

“I do not see how that could be possible,” said the dark-haired man with an obsequious smile, choosing the most obvious meaning for Isla’s words. Alistair barely held onto his smile, reading the secret meaning and not liking it.

“Allow me to introduce the Earl of Coventry …” Alistair said, turning to the man and holding out his arm towards Isla. “Coventry this is —”

“Would you both excuse me,” Isla said, putting her hands to her stomach. “I am feeling rather unwell.”

Alistair winced as though struck.

“I’m sure some deep breaths and polite conversation would do you the world of good,” Alistair said, “rather than discussing breeding horses.”

“Breeding horses? Good Lord!” Coventry said.

“I thought it highly appropriate given that we are all here to discuss breeding thoroughbreds,” Isla retorted.

“Are we?” Alistair replied with a dangerous look.

“Yes, who will marry whom and provide an heir to whom,” Isla said.

Coventry’s chin lifted so that he looked down his nose from a great height. He looked as though he had smelled something he did not care for.

“That is a rather … unique perspective,” he said. “I say, Your Grace, I would you excuse me for just a moment …”

Alistair smiled politely and tried to persuade the Earl of Coventry not to run away without appearing to suggest he was doing any such thing.

Sorry, Alistair, but I will not let you arrange a marriage for me.

Isla had spotted a side door, tucked away behind a fluted column on which stood a spray of carnations. While her brother was distracted she made a dash for it, hauling it open and throwing herself into the quiet coolness beyond. The corridor in which she found herself was mercifully dim. Her slippered steps echoed on marble, then flagstone. The music of the ballroom faded to a distant pulse. The scent changed from wax and lavender to hay and leather. She followed it as though it were a promise. Outside, night had settled soft over the stable yard. The lamps cast long bars of gold across the cobbles. Within the nearest stall, a horse shifted and snorted. It was a dappled mare, ears twitching in Isla’s direction. Isla drew a deep breath of the warm, animal air and felt herself begin, finally, to breathe.

“Easy, lass,” she murmured, running a gloved hand down the mare’s neck. “We’ll both survive this London madness yet.”

The animal calmed, stretching its nose towards her as she stroked its neck. A voice answered from the shadows. 

“She minds you well, my lady.”

Isla started. A tall man emerged from the far stall. He was in his shirtsleeves, lacking coat or vest. His hair was a dark mane that fell straight from his temples. A lantern set into the recess of a window, next to the stall, revealed an angular face with high cheekbones that gave his eyes a tilted appearance. He might have been an eastern prince except that he held a currying brush in his hand and his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow.

The face of a barbarian lord and the dress of a working man. How curious.

His manner, however, was unhurried, sure, and entirely unbothered by her intrusion. There was none of the bowing and hurried obsequiousness of a servant.

“I didna hear you there,” she said, lapsing into Scots without realizing. “You move like a cat, a big yin, the kind that eats lesser folk for breakfast.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. Isla felt her cheeks flush and was glad of the shadows that cloaked her embarrassment.

But why should I be? That is the natural speech of my country. I will not be ashamed of it. How dare he laugh at me! 

“Then it’s fortunate I’m already fed. Forgive me, this lady was sweating after a ride, and I thought to see her comfortable before the night’s chaos resumed.”

He indicated a black head that was looking over the stall door at him. Shining obsidian coat, intelligent eyes and standing at sixteen hands tall. Isla’s mouth fell open before she caught herself. The mare was beautiful. She instinctively went to have a closer look but it brought her equally close to the beast’s carer. Isla stopped, suddenly aware of the man’s height and broad shoulders. Dark eyes regarded her from the shadows, pinning her to the spot and making her pulse race.

Get a hold of yourself woman. Eyes are eyes and men are men.

“Ah,” she said lightly, trying to reduce the man’s stature in her own mind. “A philosopher of horseflesh. I like that better than the philosophers inside.”

He inclined his head, turning back to the horse, continuing his work with efficient strokes. His hands moved with a soldier’s economy and an owner’s casual possessiveness. There was no sign of a servant’s servility. 

“Were you cavalry by any chance?” she asked.

His eyes, dark as wet slate and momentarily catching the light by a movement of his head, lifted briefly to hers.

“Not cavalry, no,” he said, simply.

The movement of his arm was so disciplined, the strokes even and strong, that Isla got the sense that this was a man used to rigid discipline.

“No?” she asked, leaving the opportunity for him to say more.

He turned back to the horse.

“No.”

That cryptic answer only sharpened her curiosity.

“You’ve the manners of a gentleman for a groom,” she said with a note of sarcasm.

“And you,” he returned, “the spirit of a Highlander … for a debutante.”

Her brows rose. “A Highlander? Is that a criticism?”

“An observation.”

“I am proud to be Scottish.”

“And I a groom.”

She saw then the finely made coat, laid carefully over the door of the stall. Black with silver buttons, otherwise unadorned but clearly not cheap.

“A finely dressed groom.”

“You always judge by appearances? What should I judge if I were to do the same?”

The audacity of it stole her breath and then, absurdly, she laughed. The sound startled the horses and echoed off the rafters, freer than anything she had uttered all evening.

“Be careful,” she said, smiling despite herself. “My brother would have your ears for speaking so.”

“I’ll take the risk.” He set the brush aside, leaning against the stall door with casual grace. “Besides, I doubt your brother frightens easily. Nor do I. Or you for that matter.”

Isla turned away, tugging at her glove. 

“You presume a great deal for a stable hand.”

“And you for a lady who has wandered away from where she belongs.”

That earned him a glare and a curt toss of her head. “And where would that be, good sir?”

“Spoken like a true Scot,” the man laughed, the sound like the tumbling of rocks down a mountainside.

“Wid ye hae me blether tae ye like this then? And wit makes you think I’m no anything but a true Scot?” Isla replied, emphasizing the dialect she had learned from stable hands and which numerous governesses’ had failed to stamp out of her.

The man grunted, continuing his work. Then said,

“Paréceme que la dama protesta en demasía.”

Isla stared with mouth open. 

A man does not hide behind a foreign language unless he wishes to say something insulting and not be understood. That is rude and … and … what did he just say to me?!

She fumed, refusing to ask but unable to turn away without knowing. She had spoken in understandable English. Well, English that could be understood with a moment’s thought. She had not been so rude as to hide her meaning entirely. He did not look at her. He did not acknowledge her anger or even glance to see if his supposed insult had landed, if insult it was.

 “I note you did not answer my question. Well, I will take my leave and return to where you think I belong. Your technique leaves something to be desired by the way. Goodnight.”

His currying technique was perfect but it was all Isla could think of in the moment. The man chuckled which was like a lighted taper thrust into the smoldering tinder of her temper. She pivoted toward the door, skirts swishing indignantly and her foot caught a coiled rope on the floor. There was a sharp tug, a startled cry, and the world tilted. She struck her head against a stout beam that ran from ceiling to floor. Within her head there was a sound like a cracked bell. Stars burst behind her eyes.

The last thing she saw was the dark figure lunging forward, his face suddenly stripped of mockery, calling her name. Or perhaps she was dreaming for she had not given it. Darkness swept him to a point of light. Then it drowned her.