Page 122 of The Scottish Duke
“Come in,” he said. “Close the door.”
She smiled, the expression annoying him down to his toes. She looked like a cat who’d just killed a bird and left it behind to impress the other cats as to her hunting skills.
He motioned for her to sit in front of his desk, but didn’t rise, as would have been proper or polite. She frowned in response, but moved her skirts to sit, her eyes on his face.
“Matthews said you’ve fired him, Alex,” she said before he could speak. “I do hope that’s not true. He’s a good valet. I hope you reconsider. You shall, won’t you? As a favor for me?”
“Matthews is no longer welcome at Blackhall,” he said, breaking in before she could embark on a soliloquy of the valet’s virtues. “Nor are you,” he added when she fell silent.
Her eyes widened but she didn’t speak. A blessing, and one he hadn’t expected.
“I’ve decided to set aside an amount for your use each year, to be paid by my solicitors. In addition, I will purchase a residence for you in the village of your choice, as long as it’s a substantial distance from Blackhall.”
He wasn’t going to allow her to stay at any of the Russell properties in Inverness, Edinburgh, or London. Nor was he going to support her lifestyle there. Yet he wasn’t going to do to her what society had done to Lorna, isolating and ostracizing her.
“You can take your maid with you if she’s willing to go. I’ll pay her salary as well.”
“You’re sending me away?”
“Yes.”
He expected the next question, but he hadn’t anticipated the vitriol with which it would be asked.
“That whore you married did this, didn’t she? She convinced you to send me away. Is she that jealous? Does she know the special bond we share?”
“We share the bond of my marriage to Ruth, Mary, that’s all.”
“No,” she said. “You love me. I know you do. All those meals we’ve shared. All those times we’ve talked. You can’t marry me. I understand that. But you could come to my room.”
She sat back, smiling at him in what was probably her version of a come hither expression but was more like a simper. She reminded him, curiously, of Ruth in the last year of their marriage, before she’d become pregnant with a baby of dubious heritage.
“You could divorce her now. The child wouldn’t be a bastard. He’d still be your heir.”
He stood, rounded the desk and kept walking. If he stopped, he might be tempted to haul her up from the chair and throw her out of the library.
At the door, he turned to her. “You’ve misinterpreted kindness for affection, Mary. At the moment, I have no feelings for you except disgust.”
“You can’t do this to me,” she said, tears making her voice quaver. “This is my home.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “This ismyhome. You’ve been a guest here, but the day you tried to harm my wife, Mary, you outstayed your welcome.”
She stood and faced him, her hands gripping the fabric of her skirt.
He opened the door and stood there, hoping she left before saying anything else. His self-control was hanging by a thread.
“Why are you doing this to me, Alex?”
He stared at her, wondering how he’d tolerated Mary at Blackhall for the last three years. Her emotions were on a continuum ranging from arrogant confidence to self-pity.
“Do you deny you put monkwood in Lorna’s tea? That you tried to poison her?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not going to debate the issue with you, Mary. I just want you gone.”
Her face changed. The smile vanished and an expression entered her eyes that almost made him take a step back. In that moment he realized that Mary wasn’t simply deluded, she might possibly be evil.
“I only did what she did, Alex. That whore has poisoned your mind.”
