Page 42 of The Scottish Duke
He tucked that knowledge away to think about later.
“She used to feed the birds here. And a pesky squirrel on the grounds. As for friends, there’s me, of course, but she has a great many friends at Blackhall. People like her.”
“You live in the servants’ quarters?”
She nodded. “Aye, Your Grace.”
“Would you like to live here instead? With Lorna?”
“Here, sir?”
“I don’t want her to be alone. I’ve already arranged for Peter to be on duty, but I’d prefer she had a friend with her.”
“Oh, sir, I’d be pleased to.”
He turned to leave, then stopped himself, glancing back at her.
“Did you disapprove of her living in Wittan?”
For a moment he wondered if she would answer him.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she finally said. “I did.”
He nodded, one mystery answered. Now if he could only solve the greater enigma of Lorna.
Chapter 12
The duke had protected her from the Reverend McGill, saved her father’s book, and given her his coat. Not only that but he’d settled an amount of money on her so she wouldn’t have to worry about the future.
The Church of Scotland wouldn’t approve, but they didn’t have to give birth to a child and rear him.
She didn’t want anyone to think she was the duke’s mistress, but wouldn’t taking his money be the same thing? Probably, but she wasn’t going to be foolish when it came to her child. He shouldn’t suffer for that night. Nor was she going to compound her stupidity by refusing to take aid after she’d been almost banished from Wittan Village.
When a circumstance changes, you must change with it.
The memory of her father’s words eased her mind a little.
She was prepared to face an arrogant duke. She was more than capable of handling him in that guise. But the Duke of Kinross being charming? That was something else entirely.
Seeing him smile thrust her into the past, into a stormy night when she was pressed up against him, her arms wound around his neck. He kissed her senseless and she’d been desperate for more.
It was safer if he’d maintained that persona she’d seen most of the time, preoccupied, distant, almost cold, detached from the world as if it didn’t interest him. Only sections of it had, small pieces that he plucked from the main. Until this moment she’d never been one of those fascinating bits.
She pulled his greatcoat up around her neck, breathing deeply of tobacco and something spicy or exotic like sandalwood. “Do you smoke a pipe?” she asked when he came back into the parlor.
He shook his head.
“Why do I always smell tobacco around you?”
“Do you? I occasionally smoke a cigarillo.”
She nodded. “That’s it, then.”
“Is it a displeasing odor?”
“No,” she said. “Not at all.”
“Good.”
