The Duke and the Lass by Jessie Clever

Chapter 1

She was not surprised when the gentleman appeared in her bedchamber in the middle of the night. She was, however, surprised by what he said.

“I’m not here to seduce you. You have nothing to fear from me.” He held up his hands as if this were supposed to reassure her.

She stuffed a length of shortbread in her mouth and chewed vigorously as she took him in.

Her recollection of the previous hours was blurred with exhaustion from her sudden voyage to Kettleholm, and now that she was safely in her rooms, she was attempting to reconstruct them. That was, until the gentleman arrived.

If she remembered correctly, he was a duke. An English duke. As her grandmother always said, Della’s father shed friends like a dog shed hair, so it wasn’t worth the effort it might take to recall their names, and so she hadn’t done so with his. Once a gentleman discovered her father’s duplicitous nature, he often became scarce when social invitations were extended. Things must have reached desperate levels if her father was inviting the English to his castle now.

She had arrived at MacKenzie Keep earlier that evening with a stomach twisted in knots, one thought racing back and forth until peace was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

She’d reached her majority, and her father would now seek an advantageous match for his only offspring. That could be the only possible reason he had sent for her so abruptly after years of neglect.

It had been her mother’s dying request that he not marry her off too young, and for some odd reason, the MacKenzie had honored the request. Della thought it more likely he had simply forgotten about her until the time had come when he needed critical connections in either land dealings, business, or Parliament.

Since receiving her father’s letter, she had eaten nearly an entire tin of shortbread in the time it had taken to pack her trunk, and with each bite, she had contemplated whom her father may have selected for her future husband. She knew he would need to be someone of power and influence, and the very thought sent her back to her shortbread tin.

After all, she had no experience in society, had no idea how a lady was expected to behave. Grandmother had not thought her worth a season, and so Della had never been introduced. Not that there was much to be introduced to in Cumbria.

These thoughts had plagued her for the length of her journey so much so even the latest Melanie Merkett novel couldn’t distract her. She’d arrived well into the dark and had mounted the stone stairs to the hulking front doors of MacKenzie Keep with stalwart resolve, knowing she would find her future husband on the other side of those doors.

Except that wasn’t what had happened.

She’d been shown into the great hall where a raucous drunken spectacle was already unfolding. It had all the characteristics of a stalking party, the bawdy ones she’d remembered from the few times she had been at the keep to see her father, but that was before her mother had died and years had passed since then.

Maids dodged the exploring fingers of slimy old men while they tried to refill tankards and replace platters of roasted meat. Two men had their arms slung across each other’s shoulders as they danced and sang in front of the roaring hearth. The stone monstrosity was like an angry mouth behind them, yawning as if at any moment it would swipe them inside.

Della’s nervous stomach had threatened to empty itself at the sight of it, for the first time truly feeling the lack of her mother’s protection.

There was one man who hadn’t been drunk, however. This man. The Englishman who had found his way to her rooms.

She selected another finger of shortbread as she studied him.

“Why exactly should I believe you?”

His features suggested kindness, his eyes soft and reassuring. Of all her father’s guests, this Englishman seemed the least harmful, but he was still a man, and they were very much alone.

“Because if I did anything to harm you, my sisters would have my head.”

She raised an eyebrow at this. “Sisters?”

As an only child—no, more than that—as an unwanted, only child, she had had fantasies of having siblings, and she’d developed a rather unusual obsession about them. What was it like to share a history with someone from the beginning of one’s life? What was it like to share stories and memories?

Della didn’t have anyone with whom to share memories. Not even when her mother was alive.

“Four of them,” he said with a grave nod. “And I can attest to their fierceness when it comes to such matters.”

“Such matters as what?”

His expression turned quizzical. “Those that involve protecting a lady’s honor.”

She laughed until she realized he was serious. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Do you mean my honor?”

The fact that anyone should see to protecting her honor was rather ridiculous. Her mother had tried, but even now Della found herself in the devil’s den as it were.

He gave a nod. “Yes, I do.”

She made to laugh again but stopped at the serious expression on his face.

“Oh, you actually mean that.” She nibbled at her shortbread while she considered this. Her father wasn’t typically one to consort with honorable men. After swallowing, she used the remainder of the shortbread to point at the English duke. “You were in the great hall earlier this evening, were you not?”

His eyes darkened then, and while he took on a menacing air, she wasn’t frightened. His expression was more of a self-loathing nature, which intrigued her.

“I was, and I must say I was lured here under false pretenses.”

She raised an eyebrow again. “Oh? What were they?”

He crossed his arms, drawing her attention to his broad shoulders. He was a big man, probably taller than she, which was rather a nice change.

“I was told this was to be a stalking trip, that much was true. But I was not told some of the ton’s worst wastrels would be in attendance.”

She frowned. “That’s rather unfortunate.” She reached for another shortbread. “I was not informed my father had guests at all when I received my summons.”

“Summons?” His eyes narrowed, and she realized he took in the tin of shortbread beside her on her dressing table next to the Melanie Merkett novel she’d been unable to read on her journey.

“I’m terribly sorry. Where are my manners?” She picked up the tin and held it out to him. “Would you like one?”

He shook his head, but his lips parted as if to say something. He must have changed his mind because he shook his head again and closed his lips.

She withdrew the tin but said, “Is there something amiss?”

He scratched at the back of his neck. “I don’t mean to imply anything. It’s only…that’s rather a lot of shortbread. I worry you may make yourself ill.”

She studied the piece of shortbread still in her hand before looking back at the gentleman in her bedchamber.

“I eat when I’m nervous.” She held out her arms to indicate her person. “As you can see, I’m rather nervous a lot.” She popped the rest of the shortbread into her mouth and turned to set down the tin.

“Why are you so nervous?”

She glanced sharply at him. “I was raised by my English grandmother, you know, and I don’t have the same reservations about Englishmen as my father, but you’re giving me reason to doubt.” She pointed to the floor below her as if to indicate the spectacle that had been the evening thus far. “My father did request my attendance at his stalking party, as you put it. And he has never been one to protect my reputation.”

Della could recall all too clearly the first time her mother had fled MacKenzie Keep and the accusations she had flung at Della’s father. Even at such a young age, Della understood that her father saw a girl child as nothing more than a nuisance. Nuisances were not cause for concern.

The English duke dropped his arms. “That’s the very matter I’m here about. I suppose then if you weren’t aware of your father’s guests, you weren’t aware of the necessity of bringing a chaperone with you. I would hope had you been aware of the need to protect your reputation, you wouldn’t have come here just now and most certainly not alone.”

She wanted another shortbread, but his previous comment stopped her, and she folded her hands in front of her to keep them occupied.

“I was not aware of any of this, but I’m not surprised by it.”

His lips parted as his eyes widened. “Not surprised by it? What kind of father would have his unattached daughter come to his home in—” He pointed to the floor again, but he seemed suddenly unable to form words.

She twisted the sash of her dressing gown between her hands. Surely one more piece of shortbread couldn’t hurt. But the English duke was right. Another piece could very well make her ill, and her stomach was already somersaulting because of the gentleman in her room.

“My father has always said the only thing I’m good for is marrying. I’m not surprised he hasn’t given thought to anything else about me.”

The Englishman shook his finger at the floor. “But all of the men your father has assembled here are lecherous, old—” He closed his eyes against the word he’d been about to say, and she found herself keening forward in hopes he would finish his sentence, but he didn’t. Instead, when he opened his eyes, he drew a full breath before continuing.

He had the nicest eyes. Deep, chocolatey brown like the smooth top of caramel shortbread.

“The men your father invited here are not of the highest regard. They’re not of any regard really, and he should have thought of that before risking your reputation.”

“My father cares not for my reputation, Your Grace. I’m sorry if you’ve been misled to believe so.”

His eyebrow went up at that. “Why would your father not care for your reputation?”

She spread her hands in front of her as if to suggest the entirety of the situation.

“It’s a tale much like many others. I was the only child born of my father and mother, and sadly, I was not a boy, so I was useless. I went to live with my mother and her parents almost immediately when it was determined my mother would never carry another child. Why would my father begin to care of my existence now?”

The Englishman’s expression was stricken.

“I’m sorry. Have I done something to upset you?” She took a small step forward as if to reassure him but stopped and picked up the tin of shortbread again. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

He closed his eyes slowly and opened them again, shaking his head. “Yes, I’m quite sure.”

He moved then, and it was several seconds before she realized he was removing his coat.

A lightning bolt of pure pleasure shot through her at the sight of his white sleeves, the simple silk at the back of his waistcoat. She had never in her life imagined watching a man undress, and she certainly had never believed she’d see a man as gorgeous as this one disrobe in front of her, and for a moment, she was rendered completely speechless.

Until he folded the jacket into a neat square and tossed it on the floor in front of the fire.

“What are you doing?” The words came out far more strained than she’d meant them to.

He glanced at her over his shoulder before—

Oh God, he was on the floor. His incredibly long limbs, his muscled shoulders rippling beneath the linen of his shirt, his buttocks.

Dear heavens, it was so firm and defined. She didn’t know a buttocks could be like that.

For a moment, she was tempted to reach behind her and squeeze her own buttocks for comparison, but she knew hers would never attain such prowess.

“I told you. I’m here to protect you. Not seduce you.”

She blinked. “And that requires you to recline on the floor?”

He pulled the folded square of his jacket closer and relaxed with one arm behind his head.

She wanted to sink to her knees beside him and curl into his warmth.

She reached for another finger of shortbread and shoved the entire thing in her mouth.

“I plan to spend the night here.” He gestured to the door. “That flimsy lock will not keep those bastards—” He closed his eyes again. “I beg your pardon. Those men your father invited will not be stopped by the lock on that door. I made my presence here known, and I can only hope that is enough to keep them out. I have no desire to resort to fisticuffs.”

She swallowed the last of the shortbread. “Do you really think fisticuffs will be called for?”

She’d never been one to elicit such attention, and the idea that men would fight over her was ridiculous.

Unless they were vying for a connection to the great MacKenzie of Kettleholm.

Once more she wondered why her father had truly summoned her.

She placed the lid on the tin of shortbread for even they were not enough now.

She turned to the Englishman. “You really mustn’t sleep on the floor. There’s no reason you cannot use the bed.”

She indicated the Jacobean behemoth on the other side of the room. It was large enough that they could both be in it and never find the other until Candlemas.

But it was then that the Englishman stretched out his long, muscled legs, and she very much wanted to try to find him in that bed.

She worried her lower lip. Where were these thoughts coming from? Perhaps she really did read too much as her grandmother feared.

“The floor will do just fine. Thank you, Lady MacKenzie.”

“Della.” She spoke the name automatically. She had never been called anything other than Della in the whole of her life, and it felt odd to have the Englishman call her by her title.

He’d shut his eyes as if intending to go to sleep, but he opened them at this.

“Della? I thought your given name was Catriona?”

She shook her head. “It is. I mean, Catriona is one of my given names. It’s only—” She could see the story laid out before her as if it were a carpet unfurling for the entrance of a king, and she found the entire matter exhausting. She drew a deep breath and pressed on anyway. “My name is Lady Catriona Cordelia MacKenzie. My father chose the name Catriona, and my mother refused to use it. My mother chose Cordelia after her paternal grandmother. My grandmother—that is, my mother’s mother—hated the woman with a great ferocity and refused to call me Cordelia, so it was determined I would simply be known as Della.”

The Englishman blinked at her. “You’re a woman without a name.”

She opened her mouth to refute the accusation, but then she realized he was right. She shrugged. “I suppose that’s accurate.”

“And you don’t have an accent. A Scottish one that is.”

“My mother was English, and I went to live with her as a child if you remember.”

He shook his head. “Without country as well,” he muttered.

She tightened the sash of her dressing gown. “And I suppose you have both.”

He gained his feet with a gracefulness she couldn’t have fathomed, and she found herself staring up into his delicious warm eyes and wondering what it would be like to stand in the shelter of his arms.

And then he bowed and said, “Andrew Darby, the Duke of Ravenwood. It is an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

Oh bollocks. She was going to fall in love with this man.

* * *

He had not hesitatedto act the knight gallant, but that was before he realized the danger of the situation.

Lady Catriona MacKenzie was beautiful.

Having grown up under the constant pressure of protecting the reputations of four sisters, Andrew had developed an immunity to beautiful women, his only protection against finding a wife before his sisters were wed, and he had believed such a defense to be insurmountable.

Standing in Lady MacKenzie’s bedchamber in the middle of the night proved him wrong.

He could sense the tightening in his body as if it were physically preparing to defend itself from the ever-growing attraction. When he had first seen her hours before in the castle’s great hall, the dim light had required his imagination to fill in what he couldn’t see, and he had formulated a rendering of her that did not do the reality justice.

She was tall, magnificently so, and terribly, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her without having to bend halfway over to reach her lips. She was curvy and thick, not the willowy waifs society believed acceptable, and he found his fingers tingling as if anticipating what it would be like to caress her curves, feel the strength of her.

For the first time, he understood the true meaning of the word voluptuous, and he found himself utterly attracted to this woman’s strength and power.

He wasn’t sure why it hit him the way it did, but he thought it likely due to those same sisters that had inadvertently prevented his marrying. The Darby sisters were rather infamous for their stubbornness and bravado, and when he had contemplated finding a wife, he’d worried the insipid debutantes of the ton would not be a match for them.

This would not at all be the case with Lady MacKenzie.

Not that he was thinking of her as a potential wife. He had only just recently crawled from beneath the responsibility of seeing his sisters safely wed. He wasn’t yet ready to take on the care of another female. He was only there that night to stop her from being raped.

The thought had him swallowing the bile that rose in his throat at the notion. Her father, the drunkard and bastard who had lured him here to MacKenzie Keep, had not veiled his intentions with any sort of decency.

The man had given no warning to his cronies to keep their hands off his daughter and her goods.

The carnal goods.

It took all of Andrew’s strength to resist toppling the man right on his drunken arse in the middle of the hall.

He’d chosen a less violent route to protecting the woman, and so here he was. Standing in front of her in the middle of the night and wondering how he was going to keep his hands off her.

He was no better than the rest of them, except he was.

Because he knew he wouldn’t touch her.

His honor and the weight of having to protect his four sisters’ reputations prevented him from doing so, yes, but it was more than that. He was tired, weary, and he didn’t want the complications such a move entailed.

His plan had seemed so easy at first. He would simply spend the night in the lady’s rooms, and by fact of his sheer presence, he could keep her safe.

Everything had been going swimmingly well until that very moment when he’d introduced himself.

Because it was at that moment he saw the heat flare in her eyes.

The same heat that boiled low in his stomach, and which he resolutely was attempting to ignore.

She blinked, and it was as though she slid a shield in front of her feelings. It was so graceful and complete he wondered if he’d imagined the entire thing.

“Lady Della MacKenzie,” she said with a curtsy. “You must call me Della, Your Grace,” she added as she straightened. “I think titles in a situation like this would be rather cumbersome.”

He looked about the drafty bedroom of stone and tapestries and could readily agree with her.

“Then I insist you call me Andrew.”

She gave a perfunctory nod. “Andrew. Yes, of course.”

He watched her eyes dart momentarily to the tin of shortbread beside her, noticing for the first time the novel that lay beside it, and he took a step back, hoping not to worsen her nervous state by his proximity.

He went back to the floor before the fire, but she stopped him.

“Please, Your—Andrew. Please. You mustn’t sleep on the floor. It’s literally stone, and it’s freezing, and I will not allow you to perish there this night even if you are an Englishman.”

He grinned. “Didn’t you just say you were raised by your English grandparents?”

Her smile was mocking. “Yes, but you’re in the Lowlands now. Anything is possible.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “And I suppose you are granted immunity because half of your roots are Scottish.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, even if those roots are rather rotten.”

Her gaze traveled to the floor as if she were remembering the uncomfortable scene earlier that evening in the great hall.

Andrew cleared his throat and pointed to the cloak she had discarded on the chair in front of the fire. “Did you only arrive tonight?”

When she had appeared in the great hall, he couldn’t have been sure if she had already been in residence or not as he’d only arrived that morning himself.

Her eyes followed his gesture, and it was as though she saw the cloak for the first time, her gaze widening.

“Yes, I just arrived from Bewcastle this evening.”

He had recalled the vaguely rumpled appearance she had presented, and he wondered if she could have understood what awaited her at her father’s home.

“I can imagine it’s rather disappointing to encounter such a cold reception upon your arrival. I only arrived this morning, and I must say I’m glad I had planned to keep my trip short.”

She laughed, the sound soft and surprised. “You’re assuming I didn’t leave an equally cold situation in Bewcastle.”

He stilled. “Equally cold?”

She wrinkled her nose again. “A great deal more…moldy, actually.”

He followed her gaze about the room, taking in the dark and damp corners where the light didn’t quite reach.

“I cannot believe you came from a situation worse than this. Surely your grandparents cared for you.”

She blinked as if trying to see her grandparents. “They were kind enough. It was only they, like many of the peerage, don’t possess a great deal of money but rather a lot of moldering estate if you take my meaning.” She shrugged again, something he was beginning to realize she did with alarming frequency. “And it wasn’t as though I needed much. I didn’t wish for them to spend what little funds they had on me.” She spread her hands. “I was quite fine just as I was.”

He took in the faded pattern of her dressing gown, the frayed edge of her traveling cloak, the scuffed and unraveling toes of her slippers.

“Your grandparents are of the peerage?”

“Yes, the Earl and Countess of Bewcastle.”

He let his teeth grind together to keep from speaking. He had seen the Earl of Bewcastle drop a year’s income in the betting books at Covington’s in London without hesitation. He did not believe the man lacked the funds to purchase his granddaughter a new pair of slippers.

Much as with everything else about Lady MacKenzie, he was beginning to piece together a picture of sorry neglect about her.

“I haven’t the pleasure of an introduction, but I know of your grandfather from the clubs in London,” he said, keeping his thoughts to himself.

While he could sense the general state of neglect Lady MacKenzie seemed to exist in, she did not appear to wield it for sympathy or wallow in it for pity. She was either oblivious to it or she was predisposed to observe a sunnier perspective.

Either of these ideas did not help his stance to remain objective when it came to her person.

He was not only attracted to her; he was beginning to like her.

He went back to the spot on the floor in front of the fire and dropped down before he could think any more on the subject.

“You should get some rest, Lady—Della. Tomorrow should prove interesting.”

The MacKenzie had claimed to have invited the gentlemen for a stalking party, but Andrew was beginning to suspect the man had other motives. He was glad he’d be leaving soon. Only now his gaze slid to Della and the complications she represented.

Andrew had thought when he’d married off his last sister not months before he would be free of the responsibility of protecting the women in his life. And here another one had not only walked into it, she’d barged in with her tin of shortbread and her unfailing smile.

He laid his head back against his folded coat and shut his eyes.

“Good night, Della,” he said into the room and wished for sleep.

The cold against his back was incredibly more punctuated than he had anticipated, and he knew soon he would ache from the unrelenting hardness of the stone.

He was exhausted, and he should have slept instantly, but he found himself inordinately tuned in to the sounds of Della presumably preparing for bed.

There was a rustling somewhere in the distance, and he thought her pulling back the bedclothes to get into bed. Only the sounds grew more agitated as though she struggled with the quilts. There was a thud followed by a dragging noise, and before he could get his eyes open, the first quilt hit him.

His eyes were open then, and he nearly sat up except another quilt, this one rather heavy, landed on his chest at that moment.

He blinked up at Della, hovering over him, her arms full of bedding.

“If you insist on sleeping on the floor, you should at least have a proper quilt,” she said.

He tugged at the one that had landed haphazardly across his chest. “I assure you I am quite all right without it. It’s only a few hours until sunup and the fire is—”

“You are sleeping on a stone floor. Surely even an Englishman can understand how quickly you will become chilled.” She cocked an eyebrow as if to emphasize her point.

He pulled the quilt more fully around him.

“I appreciate your astuteness.”

He expected her to return to the bed then, but she did something entirely unexpected, which, he was becoming to realize, was just like her.

She dropped the rest of the bedding on the floor directly beside him and proceeded to make a nest of it.

“What are you doing?” It was as though alarms were shouting in his head.

“Making my bed.”

“But it’s on the floor.”

“Yes. That’s where you’ve chosen to sleep, isn’t it?” Her stare was unblinking, daring him to contradict her.

“But this isn’t my bedchamber.”

“It isn’t mine either if you recall. I’m merely a guest here.” She flopped a pillow over at one end of the quilts, and worst of all, she sat down in the middle of the nest of bed things.

He sat up.

“Lady MacKenzie, I cannot allow—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t finish it. She sat there, nestled into the cocoon she’d created from the purloined bedclothes and blinked at him. Much like the rest of her, her eyes were big and wide, and they were a blue so rich he thought he could slip into them and disappear as if diving through a wave of the purest sea. Her hair had come loose from its braid, and silky, blonde tendrils framed her face, accentuating her cheeks and the rosiness of her lips.

She was stunning.

“Are you all right?” Her brow wrinkled.

He swallowed and looked away, tried again to find words.

“I cannot allow you to sleep on the floor. It isn’t done.”

She gestured around them. “What of this evening is done, Your Grace? I would surely like to know.” She dropped her hands in her lap as if defeated.

She was right. There was nothing ordinary about their situation, but he was damn sure he would not endanger her innocence with his physical reaction to her.

He pulled the quilt tighter around himself as if it were a shield.

“If I agree to sleep in the bed, will you sleep in the bed?”

She nodded immediately, her teeth worrying her lower lip in such a way as to have his stomach clenching.

This was a very bad idea.

He stood before he could think further, pulling the quilts up with him. As a gentleman, he should have offered Della a hand up, but as a man, he knew he didn’t have the resolve to stop touching her once he started.

He marched over to the bed and flung the quilts across it. By the time he had arranged them in some semblance of normalcy, Della appeared on the opposite side with her own mountain of quilts.

She tossed them on the bed and climbed directly atop them. At least, she left her dressing gown on. Had she taken it off, he knew it would all be over.

He swallowed and climbed onto the bed, being particularly careful to keep as much distance between them as possible. In fact, had he gone any farther away from her, he would have fallen from the bed. Satisfied this would do, he turned his head to take her in.

Another mistake.

God, she was striking.

“I hope this is adequate.”

A line had appeared between her brows as she studied him.

“If you were any farther away, you’d be in England.” She canted her head. “Are you afraid I’ll ravish you?”

He resolutely moved his gaze to the ceiling.

“The only person in danger of being ravished is you, Lady MacKenzie. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

She flopped back on the bed, pulling a quilt over her.

“I do hope we mustn’t do this every night during my stay. Did my father say when the stalking party should end?”

“I’m not sure. I only planned to stay a couple of days.”

He heard rustling beside him as though she looked at him. “You traveled to Scotland only to stay a couple of days?”

“I have responsibilities that require my attention in London.”

More rustling. “Those sisters you were speaking of?”

“Something like that,” he muttered, shutting his eyes.

There was a brief pause before she said, “I understand you are trying to do the noble thing, Andrew, but I must warn you of something.”

At this, he turned his head to look at her beside him.

Her expression turned serious before she said, “I snore.”

Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.