Page 5 of The Texan Duke
Had Gavin given any thought to what would happen when he died? Or had he, like so many people, considered that he might live forever?
Had her own parents felt that way?
They’d been in her mind often recently and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of the uncertainty she felt about her future. On their deaths they’d left her a small bequest, which the 13th Duke had supplemented. She’d never be a pauper. If she wished, she could buy a small cottage somewhere and live a demure, if lackluster, life.
The duke had gifted the rest of his family with bequests as well, but she doubted if they would ever live as magnificently anywhere else as they did at Bealadair.
Their way of life might only be days away from ending. None of the family, however, considered that they might be sent packing. The one and only time she’d brought up the subject, the duchess had excoriated her with a few words.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Graham is my dear husband’s brother. Of course he won’t turn us out. Don’t be foolish.”
But it wasn’t Graham who was to be the new duke. As Elsbeth made her way to the Laird’s Hall, she couldn’t help but wonder if the duchess was reconsidering her comment about familial feelings.
Graham’s son had been born in America. He had no ties to Scotland. She doubted if he spoke Gaelic. What did he know of Bealadair? Or of the family, for that matter? What would keep him from pitching them from the estate? Or dismissing all of the servants and installing his own staff? Would he bring Americans here to serve him? Were there more people to follow?
A dozen questions crowded into her mind as she slowly pushed open the doors.
Chapter 3
It was night by the time they got to their destination. Their safe arrival was due only to the skill of the carriage driver and the fact that there were no inns between their last train station and Bealadair. If there had been, Connor would have made the decision to stop, rest the horses, and get warm.
When the carriage slowed, he peered out the window, but all he could see was white. Snow pelted the window, slid down to pile in mini drifts on the frame.
A few minutes later they lurched to a stop. The carriage rocked a moment. Connor opened the door to be greeted by a faceful of snow blown at him by an angry wind.
A voice sang out. “Welcome to Bealadair, Your Grace.”
The woman who greeted him was attired in a dark green dress festooned with snow. She wore no coat or cloak, had nothing to protect her from the elements. Her smile was fixed—he suspected it was frozen—and her eyes, a deep brown, were narrowed against the wind.
A torch behind her sputtered and he suspected the warmth from it was the only thing keeping her from freezing where she stood.
He left the carriage, the words forming on his lips to urge her inside when he saw the rest of the coterie to welcome him. At least he thought that was the reason why about fifty people were standing in the snow.
“I’m the Duchess of Lothian,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble. “Welcome to Bealadair,” she repeated.
“Madam, may we go inside?”
He was willing to concede that the Scots were hardier than he was. He already knew they were dumber. Who stood outside in this weather without a coat or hat?
He wanted a warm room, a roof over his head, and something hot to drink. First, though, he thanked the driver and urged him to find shelter as soon as possible.
Glassey emerged from the second carriage, greeted the duchess, and escorted her up the steps to iron-studded double doors. He and Sam followed her like motherless calves.
He didn’t suppose that the Duchess of Lothian would appreciate being compared to a Longhorn. But she had a commanding presence and she gave him a look like several of his cows did. As if she were measuring him, considering what he might do in a certain situation.
He probably should have said something conciliatory. Or maybe she was waiting for him to congratulate her for the stupidity she’d just demonstrated. Granted the receiving line lit by torches was impressive, but didn’t they have the sense God gave a goat? Why in hell would they stand out in the cold like a turkey in the rain?
The duchess glanced at him several times as they passed through a foyer that was probably bigger than the front parlor at home. However, she didn’t speak and neither did he. He was getting the feeling that he needed to treat her like a new cow in an established herd.
Longhorns that had been reared around humans were friendly and malleable. They didn’t give you any trouble and they were docile to a degree. But if you were unlucky enough to get one that had been left alone and without much human interaction, they got it in their minds that they were boss.
He wanted to make sure that the duchess knew who, exactly, he was.
Thank God for Sam. The man had an uncanny knack for smelling trouble, even before it made an appearance. It was like he could tell who was going to start throwing fists first.
The duchess turned left, nodding to a footman standing beside double doors.
“The Laird’s Hall, Your Grace.”
