Page 2 of The Scottish Duke
It was as if Providence, well aware of her barely contained curiosity and fascination, had provided her with a way to see the Duke of Kinross up close. Granted, it would only be for a few hours on a June night in the Scottish Highlands, but who was she to deny Providence?
“You look beautiful,” Nan said, nodding. “The gold makes your brown eyes sparkle. And the white wig accentuates your complexion.”
“Could I pass for one of the guests?”
Nan sighed again. “Yes, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
“My father was Robert Gordon. I’m the equal to most of them there.”
“But it isn’t because of most of them that you’re going, is it? It’s to see the duke. We both know how foolish that is.”
Lorna reached over and hugged Nan, depositing a fair share of flour onto the other girl’s shoulders. Apologizing, she pulled back.
“Don’t worry, Nan. I’ll go and pretend to be someone else for a few hours. Then I’ll return and be a well-disciplined upper maid, I promise.”
Nan didn’t appear convinced. Nor was Lorna, if she were to tell the truth. It was going to be so difficult to be herself after tonight.
The last thing Alexander Russell, the ninth Duke of Kinross, wanted to do was mingle with his guests. He could put the time to better use. Nor did he have friends among the throng. Acquaintances, perhaps, but few could be called more than that, especially after this afternoon when he’d been subjected to a humiliating rout.
Nevertheless, Alex forced himself to enter the ballroom, pasting a smile on his face that hid his true feelings.
The ballroom had been polished like a seldom worn crown. The three rows of four brass and crystal chandeliers illuminated every inch of the massive room, reflecting light off the windows and making the floor shine.
The jewels in the crown were the women, most of whom had taken to the idea of a fancy dress ball with enthusiasm, choosing costumes ranging from stunning to amusing, with a few ridiculous examples in between. A half-dozen hapless husbands were dressed to complement their wives’ choices, but most men were attired in black evening dress.
At least twenty-five of them had witnessed his drubbing this afternoon.
Tonight’s entertainment was the last time he’d have to stand here and smile fatuously. He couldn’t wait for them all to be driven back to the train station tomorrow morning, en route to their various homes. The Scottish Society for Scientific Achievement could go to hell, and with it their annual medal.
Someone in this room was a traitor. Not to country, even though they might well stoop to that. Someone here, being feted and entertained, had betrayed him. That was the only reason Simons had won the damn medal. Alex’s research was nearly word for word with the other man’s. His own subjects were more numerous, however, numbering in the thousands to Simons’s hundreds. Even Simons’s conclusions, enumerated on the last page of his paper, sounded too close to his own words. But his findings had been submitted to the society a good three months before the other man’s. Three months, yet Simons had been the one critically acclaimed.
Someone must have leaked the results of his research. Either a member of the society attending this ball—the last event of a torturous week of hosting at Blackhall Castle—or someone to whom he’d confided about his work.
“You must learn to trust people, Alex,” his mother had once said to him.
He couldn’t remember why she’d offered up the sentiment, but he could remember the occasion. They’d been standing in Blackhall’s chapel and watching as the bronze plaque had been affixed to his wife’s last resting place.
He could also recall his response. He’d turned to her and said, “Why?”
She hadn’t an answer, which was a pity. Perhaps her words could have softened his emotion. Ruth, the late Duchess of Kinross, hadn’t been faithful, a fact tearfully admitted by her sister Mary.
You mustn’t hate her, Alex. Ruth always wanted admiration. When you were too busy to give it to her, she sought it elsewhere.
His wife would have enjoyed this ball. She would have purchased something ruinously expensive to wear, and no doubt a little shocking. She would have flitted among the guests, charming everyone. He could almost see her golden hair bobbing as she turned to greet one person then another. The noise level was intense in the ballroom and his memory furnished her laughter. Those who’d never come to Blackhall would leave with praises for her on their lips.
She made us feel so welcome.
What a gracious person the duchess is.
How beautiful she is, and that gown!
Ruth had a bright and receptive approach to life. If it was interesting or exciting, she wanted to experience it. Her blond beauty was only enhanced by her trilling laugh, a smile that she used to great advantage, and a skilled, almost manipulative way of making any man feel as if he were the most important person in a room.
Ruth collected people the way other women collected gloves. She had dozens of friends, each one of whom thought she was the most important person in Ruth’s life. They never figured out that Ruth didn’t care about them individually. She only wanted the adulation such friends brought to her. The more important, titled, or wealthy, the better. He had come to believe it was the same reason she’d married him.
By the second month of his marriage he realized she didn’t give a flying farthing for him. He was just a mark on a mental scorecard, an item no more important than a scarf from her dresser or a gown from her armoire.
After her death, he’d been approached by one poor sod who openly wept about her passing. He’d wanted to ask the man if he genuinely believed Ruth had loved him, then realized that the truth wouldn’t serve any purpose.
