Page 6 of The Duke's Improper Bride
Twenty minutes later, clouds rushed in, dark and pregnant with the threat of rain. Nora rushed inside her family’s home, closing the heavy oak door behind her to face her mother standing guard in the hallway.
“I was wondering when you would return,” Nora’s mother said with an annoyed tone. “Always walking. One of these days you’re going to catch your death outside.”
She almost had, some ten years earlier.
Nora arched her brows, acknowledging her mother’s constant disappointment. She untied her bonnet with chilled fingers. They would remain chilled for some time. Esslemont was a sixteenth century relic, stone upon stone. The house was bathed in darkness despite the grand foyer that soared up some three stories, exposing ancient oak beams. The house was a labyrinth, steeped in the history of her ancestors and the pride and joy of her father since he was never blessed with a son.
A fact he liked to remind Maeve and Nora both of equally since they were small.
“Mr. Knight is here to pay you a call.” Her mother leaned in to whisper, “He has been waiting for some time. Come now, hurry.”
With a flutter of hands, her mother and the maid fought to free Nora from her cloak.
Nora didn’t wish to see Stuart, especially not so early in the morning. He might fool her mother, but she was not so innocent to believe he kept early hours. Most likely, he hadn’t been to bed yet. Most likely, he had imbibed in too much brandy. Though he would do his best to conceal it. His charm was almost always liquor-induced.
Mrs. MacAllen’s fretting hands patted Nora’s frizzy hair. “You look a mess. Can’t you at least tie your hair back before you go walking?”
The answer, though Nora’s mother didn’t wait to hear it, was yes, she could be bothered. But when Nora hiked those mountains, she was as good as free from all the rules, the judgements, and misplaced pity. Tying her hair back would have been relinquishing that small taste of freedom over her person.
“Heaven help us, this will have to do. Now come along.”
Nora quirked an eyebrow in annoyance as her mother turned and huffed down the hallway toward the morning parlor.
“Come along, Nora Jane MacAllen!” Her mother stomped when she discovered Nora still lingered by the doorway. “I swear you were put on this Earth to punish me.” She dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. “Lord knows why Mr. Knight wants you as his wife. Your father’s money helps, but there’s no hiding the fact that you’re simpleminded. Come on. Hurry.Hurry!”
Mother never talked to Maeve this way. In fact, Mother never spoke this way to Nora before her accident.
Nora cursed under her breath, thankful that her boots clicked against the polished floors and hid her improper words. They made for a horrible escape in the early dawn hours, but at least they helped hide her sass.
Mr. Knight waited by the fire, stopping his conversation with Maeve as Nora and their mother entered the room.
“Good morning, Miss MacAllen,” he said, sliding away from Maeve. “You’re looking well.” He reached for Nora’s hand, which she gave, reluctantly.
Nora swiped nervously at her windswept hair with her free hand. The number of lacy doilies covering the furniture in this room made her uneasy. Draping lace over a sagging velvet couch might make it in style, but it did not hide the fact that there was nowhere comfortable to sit.
“You’ve been walking again,” he noted. “Your hands are still chilled.”
“Yes,” she answered, praying to remain calm. If she could collect her nerves, she may have a fighting chance in joining polite conversation this morning. It was when Nora grew nervous that her problem grew worse.
Mr. Knight dropped his hand from hers before she sat in the empty armchair by the fire. She found herself wringing her hands. Then she remembered the new tenant by Mrs. White’s cottage. She had never seen a painting that conveyed such feeling, a hand that moved so quickly to capture a fleeting moment with near perfection. It appeared as if he did not use sketches or studies, he painted with emotion.
She wished to see the finished painting holding her image, if she ever had the opportunity.
No. She did not wish to see that man again.
Lie.
“Maeve, come help me with the ledgers.” Mrs. MacAllen pulled the keys at her waist for emphasis.
“I’d rather stay, Mother. And speak with Nora and Mr. Knight. He was telling me the most delightful story of London.”
“London?” Their mother grimaced. “That city will corrupt you. I won’t have my daughters marrying any Englishmen. Come along.”
Stuart guffawed before asking once more if Maeve could remain behind. But it was no use. Soon, the room was cleared, and Nora faced her future husband alone. She swore she was more alone with him than by herself on the mountaintop.
“Dear,” Mr. Knight said. He brushed his fingers against the edge of the tea table, stacked with freshly baked scones. “Nora, I couldn’t help but come for a visit. You haven’t returned my letter.” He sauntered over to her.
She rushed to her feet, opening her mouth to speak but the words never came.
