Page 117 of The Texan Duke
He consulted his pocket watch, studied himself in the mirror once more, and decided that he would do.
Should he be so nervous? He was acting unlike himself, but he supposed that was to be expected. He was about to change his life. And hers, if Elsbeth agreed.
He took the grand stairs faster than normal, grinning at the footman at the bottom. He’d had a long talk with Sam about staffing needs, and over time Sam would probably make some changes, but none of the young men who acted as footmen would be dismissed. They might be routed into other jobs or trained for something else, but he’d felt an obligation to the staff to keep everyone on, and Sam had agreed.
He nearly raced to the kitchen. He was going to follow Elsbeth on her rounds, surprise her and talk her into lunch at the castle. Then, he was going to recite the speech he’d prepared.
Elsbeth, I adore you. I love everything about you. Come home with me to Texas. Be my wife. Spend the rest of your life with me. If you will, I’ll promise that you’ll be the most beloved woman in Texas. Or Scotland. Or the world.
Addy was bent over the stove, retrieving some scones. He startled her by diving in and grabbing one straight from the pan.
She didn’t laugh. Nor did she scold him. When she placed the pan on top of the stove and turned to him, he knew immediately that something was wrong.
“Do you have our lunch, Addy?” he asked, pushing back his instant wariness.
She nodded, but then she said, “You’ll not be needing it, Your Grace.”
He knew. He knew before she said another word. He didn’t believe in ghosts, and he sure as hell didn’t believe in the Sight, but he must have it after all because he knew.
His stomach developed a cave, a curious open space into which all his emotions flew. The happiness disappeared along with the anticipation about this day. He wasn’t angry. Nor was he upset. He didn’t feel anything. He was instantly the duke everyone in Scotland had wanted him to be: haughty, almost cold.
He could barely speak; his brain couldn’t furnish the words.
He stared at Addy long enough that the woman closed the door of the oven, brushed off her hands, and led him to the table. He sat on the chair she pulled out, then looked up at her.
“She’s gone? Elsbeth’s gone?”
She nodded again. “To Inverness, Your Grace. She’s moved there, she has.”
His brain abruptly began working again. One single word found its way to his lips, but he didn’t voice it.
No.
She couldn’t have left him. She hadn’t said anything.
No.
She couldn’t have. She couldn’t have left him. Why had she left him?
Did she think he acted like an idiot around every woman? Did she think that he seduced every woman in a nearly public place like the library? Or that he was besotted enough to let everyone else know how he felt?
Everyone other than her, evidently.
Surely she’d figured it out. The McCraight clan certainly had. There had been a great deal of nodding and sighing at the ball a week ago every time he and Elsbeth danced.
Granted, he hadn’t come out and told her how he felt. Not yet, but he hadn’t wanted to say anything until everything was done and finalized.
No.
No, she couldn’t have left.
But she had.
He left the kitchen after mumbling something to Addy, made it halfway up the stairs before he turned and walked back down, getting his coat and hat from the footman at the door.
She couldn’t have left him. Those words were in a loop in his brain all the way to the stable. She couldn’t have left him.
These past weeks, Elsbeth had been able to affect his emotions with a smile or a frown. Now she was ruining his life without a word.
