Page 88 of The Scottish Duke
Let Thomas think it was his powers of persuasion that had convinced him. No need for his uncle to know that his valises were packed and the coachman had already been alerted to be ready at dawn for their departure.
All that awaited him was his arrival at Blackhall.
He would be calm and unexcited when entering his suite. If she asked him why he’d remained away for so long, he would be vague.
Perhaps she wouldn’t ask.
Perhaps she hadn’t cared.
Perhaps—and this was a thought that chilled him—she appreciated his absence and would dread his return.
She was, after all, Lorna, and she’d made no secret of her thoughts about him.
She’d looked straight at him in the midst of labor, gritted her teeth and exchanged vows, all the while leaving no doubt that she did so only for the sake of her child. Earlier, she’d imperiously pointed to the door of her pitiful room, demanding he depart when it was all too evident she needed help.
She didn’t want him.
He’d never before been at the mercy of another human being. She could smile at him and ease his heart. Or act as if she hadn’t noticed he was gone.
The problem was, he didn’t know which it would be or how he would respond. No, he was definitely not himself. Nor had he been ever since meeting her.
Chapter 23
Matthews was sullen yet obsequious all the way back to Blackhall. What his valet didn’t realize was that of all the servants at the castle, he was perhaps the most expendable. Alex could shave himself and didn’t need someone to care for his garments or to dress him, and Matthews’s increasing penchant for gossiping was annoying.
His arrival was without ceremony, or welcome, for that matter. He entered the foyer of the castle, taking in the soaring space, the staircase, the rooms jutting off to the left and right.
A uniformed maid bobbed a curtsy in his direction. He made a note of her face, met her eyes, and nodded back to her. Mrs.McDermott’s wishes be damned, he was going to pay attention to Blackhall’s staff.
He walked into his sitting room to find that it didn’t smell of nappies at all. Instead, he could detect a hint of cinnamon and something floral. He dispensed with his coat, hat, and gloves, tossing them onto the settee.
“She doesn’t seem to be here, Your Grace.”
He stopped and turned, gathering up his patience before he spoke to his valet.
“My wife isn’t to be referred to as ‘she,’ Matthews. Nor is she to be called ‘your wife,’ especially not in that tone. When you refer to her, you will do so as ‘the duchess,’ do you understand?”
Matthews drew himself up, his shoulders rigid beneath his spotless black jacket.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly and gathering up the coat, hat, and gloves. The gesture wasn’t an admission of error as much as a faux gesture of humility.
Alex wasn’t fooled.
He waved his hand in Matthews’s direction, a sign that he wasn’t to be followed, and strode to the bedroom door.
Nan was sitting before the fireplace, stitching a garment. Her face was a study in concentration, her lips pursed together and eyes intent on her task.
The cradle sat beside her, far enough from the fire to be safe but close enough that his son wouldn’t be cold. Although it was May, spring came grudgingly to the Highlands, keeping a chill to the air.
Nan glanced up as he entered. Her smile was instant and welcoming. He wanted, in an odd way, to thank her for that.
“Is he sleeping?” he asked, softening his voice as he approached.
“At the moment, no, Your Grace. He’s trying to decide whether or not to chew his hands or examine his feet.”
His son’s cradle had been replaced by a larger version. So, too, had the newborn he’d last seen. Robbie had doubled in size. The baby’s eyes fixed on him, investigating him; his face crumpled then smoothed out, almost as if he changed his mind about crying about this strange man standing over his bed.
Nan gestured toward the other chair. “If you’ll sit, I’ll get him.”
