Page 65 of The Texan Duke
He really did have a way of flummoxing her with his questions. She didn’t think anyone had ever said anything like that to her in years. She really should dismiss the man immediately.
Yet there was the possibility that Mr. Kirby might have some influence with His Grace. Perhaps the man might even be able to convince him to change his mind and remain in Scotland. Or allow the family to continue to reside at Bealadair. Surely he didn’t need to sell the house and the land.
She fingered the cameo at her neck. It was the only spot of color she wore. Black was expected. Black was proper. Black, however, washed out her complexion and made her hazel eyes seem more brown than green.
Yet in his glance she wasn’t a widow. Nor was she the mother of two grown daughters and the stepmother of another. She felt—impossibly—young again, her wardrobe designed to augment her beauty.
“Do you have a rose garden?”
“A rose garden? Yes, we do. Of course, it’s dormant now since it’s winter.”
“Would you show it to me?” he asked.
“I do not know if you’ve noticed, Mr. Kirby, but there is at least two feet of snow on the ground. The roses have been bagged and mulched. There is nothing to see. Besides, it’s almost dark.”
“Then perhaps you can show me some of your glorious home.”
He really was the most persistent man. But there was something about the look in his eyes, and the undiluted admiration that she hadn’t seen for a very long time. Her youth, in fact, when she had, as the daughter of the Earl of Debish, been courted and feted for her beauty and vibrancy.
She had married Gavin, believing his words and his implicit promise. Believing, too, in a future that had never materialized. He had not continued to love her. Instead, he had put his books and his histories above her and his children.
“What would you like to see, Mr. Kirby?” she asked, surprising herself with the question. She told herself that it would be foolish to overlook an opportunity to influence His Grace.
“Anything you would like to show me, Duchess. But, please, couldn’t we be a little less formal? Call me Sam.”
He squeezed her fingers again. His grip was warm as his smile.
How absurd. But this American with his engaging grin wouldn’t be at Bealadair for long. What was the harm?
“My name is Rhona,” she heard herself saying. “I have to inspect the larder, Sam. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?”
He folded her hand around his arm.
“Shall we go, then?” he asked.
She nodded and led the way.
Chapter 21
Elsbeth was nearly weeping by the time they made it back to Bealadair. Twice, Connor almost fell from the saddle. Finally, she rode so close to him that her mare was bumping Samson, something he didn’t like. He’d tossed his head more than once, threatening a tantrum. She found herself talking both to Connor and the stallion—encouraging the human and calming the horse.
Once back at the stables she sent one of the stableboys to fetch a cot and another to alert Mrs. Ferguson. The housekeeper had quite a bit of experience in nursing and could do what was necessary until the physician was summoned from the village.
After they carried Connor to his suite—while he was complaining the whole time—the housekeeper arrived.
“Perhaps it would be best if you left the room, Elsbeth,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “It is the duke’s bedchamber, after all.”
Elsbeth only shook her head. She was not going to leave Connor’s side until she was certain he was going to be all right. She didn’t know how deep the wound was. She didn’t know if it had nicked any bones or hit his lung. Besides, he had gripped her hand and refused to let it go, even as they tried to remove his coat.
“Connor, let go,” she said, bending close to him. “If you don’t, we’ll have to cut your coat off you and it will be totally ruined.”
He finally let go of her hand, and they were able to remove the garment.
In the last few minutes his color had gotten worse and he was shivering so hard his teeth were chattering.
“His body is reacting to the wound,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “It’s to be expected.”
“Will he be all right?”
