Page 11 of The Scottish Duke
She looked over at him as she struggled to tuck her breasts back in the dress.
“I don’t understand.”
His laughter echoed through the conservatory.
“Come now, of course you do. You and your associate no doubt thought I was ripe for blackmail. I’m a duke. I’m wealthy. Of course I wouldn’t want the scandal of tonight made public. Here I took a virgin without even knowing her name.” He leaned back against the glass and folded his arms. “What is your name?”
She’d seen him every day for the last two years, sometimes more than once. She’d passed him in the hall carrying piles of linens. She’d brought him more than one meal in the library. She’d taken tins of soap to his bathing chamber. She’d fluffed his mattress.
He’d taken her virginity, but he didn’t even know her name. Worse, he was accusing her of blackmail.
What would be more terrible to him, that he’d bedded a maid or that he would be portrayed as a lecher? She doubted either would bother him. His next words verified her thoughts.
“You can go back to your confederate and tell him I don’t give a flying farthing about scandal. Feel free to brag about your actions of this night. Only I doubt you’ll fare as well as I. Women don’t, especially if they’re light-skirts.”
The storm was finally fading; the bursts of lightning moving toward the horizon. He was only a dark shape against the glass.
She was fiercely glad she couldn’t see him; it meant that she, too, was draped in shadow. She needn’t guard her expression or smile falsely.
“Does that statement make any sense?” she asked, grateful her voice sounded so steady. “You admit to bedding a virgin and then, in the next breath, call me a light-skirt. Is your reasoning faulty because of the whiskey, do you think?”
“One is physical. The other is mental or perhaps a moral label. I’ve no doubt you were saving yourself for an episode like tonight. Nor do I doubt that you’ll find your calling soon enough.”
When she didn’t respond, he spoke again. “What? No outraged response? No tears?”
Slowly, she put on her pantaloons, wishing she were alone to dress.
“Would it make any difference what I said?” she asked. To her surprise, her voice still sounded calm. She was anything but. Her heart was racing and her breath was tight.
“I suppose not,” he said. “I wouldn’t believe you.”
“I don’t think you believe anyone, do you? Do you imagine the world is out to take advantage of the mighty Duke of Kinross? How sad a life you must live to think that. How narrow and restricted.”
He didn’t answer her, but then she hadn’t expected a response.
She wished she knew where the towering white wig was, but it had probably been blown halfway to Inverness. She would just have to return the dress without the wig.
Standing, she faced his shadow.
“I always thought you were a prince among men,” she said. “Now I know you aren’t. You’re less than that. I’m not even sure you’re what I consider a man. Perhaps a mouse. A prancing, prattling mouse who’s afraid someone is going to step on his tail.”
As an insult, it had a lot to be desired. But she wasn’t going to stand there until she thought of something better.
He was more adept at wounding than she. She couldn’t even think of another thing to say to protect herself. She had acted the part of light-skirt, hadn’t she? She’d fallen into his arms without a word of protest. She’d let him kiss her and touch her. She’d not only capitulated, she’d enthusiastically participated.
She wasn’t a hypocrite. She hadn’t felt anything but pleasure in his arms. Once the deed was over, she wasn’t going to claim a maidenly reserve. The guilt she was experiencing was for not taking better care of the costume she’d borrowed, not for bedding the duke.
“I enjoyed it,” she said. “Whatever word you call me. I have no confederate. I have no intention of mentioning tonight to anyone. I’ll let you feel regret. I have no intention of doing so.”
She left before he could say another word.
Chapter 5
Wittan Village, Scotland
February, 1862
“You did what?”
