Chapter One

The giant that was the Duke of Edinbane stood at the mantel of the great stone fireplace, face toward the dying flames. “You will do it, whether you like it or not.”

Callum’s spine stiffened. He raised his head, willing himself not to show how thoroughly he abhorred the idea. Dreaded it, even. “Marriage to a complete stranger? I think not.”

The duke stood as still as a statue. “As your father, it is my duty to see you wed to a woman worthy of becoming a duchess. And it is your duty to obey.”

Callum scoffed. Father? Hardly. The man had always been more duke than father. “Mother may bow to each of your edicts, but I’ll not follow suit.”

His father turned, displaying the sharpness of his gray eyes, the unforgiving profile Callum had grown to hate. His shock of white hair was a testament to the years of dissatisfaction in his marriages to two barren wives before he’d married Callum’s mother. “Leave your mother out of this,” his father said, ice in his voice. “We are speaking of you, of your marriage. To which you will consent.”

Callum reached for the desk, steadying himself. A bride of his father’s choosing. He’d known it was coming yet somehow was still unprepared for it. Self-loathing filled him to the brim as he remembered every time he’d submitted to the duke, making this dictator of a man believe his control was absolute.

Oh, Callum defied his father in little ways, token displays that gave him at least a mirage of control. But mostly, he swallowed the bitterness of obedience, holding to the knowledge that once his father died, he would be free to live life as he chose.

But marriage to a stranger—the consequences of that would reach far beyond his father’s grave. “And if I don’t?” he ground out.

“My father knew the meaning of duty. To God. To King and country. This very dukedom was bestowed upon him because he did his duty, and it is time you did yours. The time has come for you to marry. I—you need an heir.”

His father’s slip of the tongue did not go unnoticed. Callum gripped the sides of the desk, his knuckles turning white.

Unaware of the turmoil stirring in his son, the duke continued. “I went to school with the Earl of Hadleigh. There’s not a more respected man in all of England. He and I have finalized all the details in the arrangement between you and his granddaughter. You should be grateful, you know. Few men would willingly exile a young woman to this forsaken place. But, as it happens, the earl is not far from his deathbed, and his granddaughter is very much in need of a home and a husband. Lady Katherine will arrive three days prior to the wedding, giving you plenty of time to become acquainted.”

Callum expelled a heated breath. “I’m to be grateful, am I? To have every detail of my life chosen according to your wishes?”

The duke’s silence spoke to the depth of his displeasure, but his coolness only irked Callum. He wanted to rile his father, to push him to a breaking point. “And you were happy with the choices your father made for you, I take it?”

Some emotion flickered through his father’s expression. “I did my duty as I ought. You know that.”

Closer but not quite there. “Until you didn’t. You chose my mother.”

A vein pulsed in his father’s neck.

“And not, I might add, in a manner befitting a duke.”

“Enough!” the duke roared. He strode toward Callum, roiling with anger, arms swinging at his sides. He leaned over the desk and jutted his face toward Callum’s. “Not another word,” he ground out. “The arrangements are all but finished and so is this discussion.”

The unyielding quality of his father’s voice, absent any empathy, any care at all for what his son might think or feel . . . it barreled into Callum like a battering ram, striking out his hopes for the future. The image of the family he’d always envisioned—a wife with adoring eyes and a gentle voice, a handful of children, noisy and carefree, a happy home with love and tenderness—blurred in his mind. He caught his breath at the pain of loss. For a brief moment, grief gnawed at Callum, whittling away his self-control.

“So you say.” Callum inclined his head.

“Finished,” his father returned through gritted teeth.

A searing anger overtook Callum. In one quick motion, he reached out his arm and swept everything from the desk. Papers, an unlit candle, his father’s inkwell, all went flying across the room with the force of his Scots temper.

Without the barest glance in the duke’s direction, Callum strode from the room, his boots pounding across the vast marble hall that served as the entry for Castleton Manor. He threw open the front door, the heavy wooden antique clunking against the wall as he crossed the threshold.

Callum paused and leaned against one of the large columns that adorned the front of the house, heaving in deep breaths as he crossed his arms over his chest. He needed air, distance from the man he called Father, though the man had never done anything to deserve the name.

He surveyed the endless green hills, hazed in a blanket of purple heather, the far-reaching Scottish vista as it settled into dusk. Land that would one day be his. The sky was washed in pink and indigo, with gauzy white wisps of clouds. The peaceful scene was so at odds with his inner turmoil that he turned away, heading down the steps of the terrace and taking long strides over the flagstones that led to the back of the house and the darkening horizon.

For once he wished to be in Edinburgh. The dirty, sooty city with its crowded streets and noisy wharfs would certainly be a better match for his mood. A small rundown tavern would do nicely. And some fine Highland whisky. Enough to make him forget what was expected of him.

Callum stalked across the lawn, the gentle wind tousling his hair. Once he reached the base of the hills, he stripped off his jacket and threw it over his shoulder. Fresh heather scented the evening air, and the familiar crooning of sheep drifted over the hills. The tension in his shoulders eased a bit, and he slowed his pace. The moon rose slowly, gathering light as the sky darkened. It cast a glow over the landscape, and the stream to Callum’s left became a flowing silver ribbon.

Try as he might to hold on to it, the tide of anger subsided, replaced with a sullen bitterness. He loved this land. Loved the people. And hated that owning it meant he was subject to his father and the greedy and ever-present demands of his future title. Callum blew out a breath.

How could he marry a stranger, a woman he’d never met? Marriage itself was enough to make him prickle with discomfort. He longed for a wife, one with whom he could create a loving family, so different from the home he’d grown up in, but he feared it too, and for good reason. Callum’s father was a brute of a husband and father. Who was to say Callum wouldn’t be the same? It was why he’d always eschewed romantic entanglements of any kind.

Callum had always thought that if and when he did marry, it would be when he was older, after a long period of courtship. A situation where he could be sure of himself and his comportment.

Not now. And not to a woman he’d never met.

He picked up a twig and threw it into the water. The current carried the stick downstream, occasionally slowing in a swirling eddy before it moved on. Callum strode alongside the stream, following the stick, though its ultimate destination was inevitable: the loch that lay beyond the curve of the hill. Callum’s gaze lifted, following the stream’s path. His destination was inevitable as well: marriage to a stranger, a lifetime alongside someone not of his choosing.

When he glanced back down, he thought for a moment he’d lost the stick. He dropped to his haunches to get a better view and was surprised to find the twig had become stuck in some of the reeds at the bank’s edge. The water drifted past, but the twig didn’t move. He stared down at the stick wedged in the muddy edge of the stream and the long grasses that trailed in the water.

The thought struck Callum like lightning. Not every stick ended up in the loch. If wedged firmly enough in the reeds and grasses at the stream’s edge, the twig could hold fast. Could he not do the same? He had a month. If he wanted it badly enough, surely he could find a way out of the future that was fast closing in on him.

Perhaps he could teach his father once and for all that he could not—would not—have the final say in Callum’s life.

The narrow drawing room provided an ideal path for pacing. And who wouldn’t pace having been informed of so shocking a pronouncement? “A Scot? Truly?” Kate whirled around to face her grandfather, her skirts swishing around her ankles.

“Yes, Katherine, a Scot. A Scot who will one day be a duke. I meant what I said. I intend to see you settled before I pass.” His tone was stern, but his pale-blue eyes twinkled, as if he were enjoying her reaction. He probably was.

“Why must I marry? Why can I not choose to be a respectable spinster?” She didn’t mean to complain, yet her words carried a plaintive note.

Her grandfather sighed and interlocked his fingers together, laying them upon his chest. “Why do you act as if this news comes as a surprise? You’ve known it was coming.”

Something heavy settled over Kate’s heart. She had known it was coming. For weeks and months, even. But that still hadn’t prepared her for the moment when the time had actually come.

She threw up a panicked defense. “But surely there is someone more”—she grasped for the right word—“suitable.” Not that she’d ever met a Scot, but she’d heard they were a bit untamed. No, perhaps that wasn’t the right word. Uncivilized, maybe? Kate had no firsthand knowledge to rely on—only hearsay, but it was enough to foster trepidation. “The Highlands are a world away from Hertfordshire. Why can I not marry someone more . . . English? Someone who lives nearer to you?”

Her grandfather chuckled and smoothed a hand over his bald head. “Who, my dear? The Duke of Astonberry? He’s near to three times your age. Or perhaps the Earl of Glasten? At thirty-five, his gout is so severe he has to be carted about in a sedan chair. I’m afraid our options are rather limited.” He angled his head and gave her a stern look. “Your betrothed, the Marquess of Rowand, is only seven years your senior and handsome, or so I’ve heard.”

That made him twenty-six. Kate tucked that bit of knowledge away.

The corner of Grandfather’s mouth lifted. “Besides. You’ve always wanted an adventure. I am sure Scotland will prove itself worthy as such.”

Kate hurled herself into the spot on the sofa beside him. “But so soon! A month! Why, I’ll barely have enough time to pack all my paints and canvases.” She rubbed her forehead as a new thought struck her. “Do they even sell art supplies so far north?”

“Given how quickly you go through yours, they certainly will once you arrive,” he said, not even the hint of a smile curling up the corners of his mouth.

“How can you tease me at a time such as this? It’s dreadful of you!” She turned soulful eyes on her grandfather, hoping to soften him. “I cannot believe you are truly sending me away.”

He shook his head. Kate watched him closely as his expression sobered. She had memorized each wrinkle, each line of his face, long ago. She leaned toward him, inhaling the familiar scent of brandy and sandalwood. The smell of home. How could she possibly leave him? She couldn’t imagine loving another man half as much.

He laid a weathered hand atop her own, giving hers a gentle squeeze. “You know I would not agree to any marriage if I did not believe you would be well-protected and provided for. And I hope”—he coughed—“it will be more than that.”

He cleared his throat, once, twice, before his coughing began in earnest. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to cover his mouth. Kate laid a hand on his back and tried not to show her distress. But her whole body flinched at the hacking cough from deep within his lungs.

When his cough finally subsided, Grandfather’s entire frame sagged back against the sofa, spent. His handkerchief looked as if it had been spattered with scarlet paint, but he tried to slip it into his pocket discreetly. Did he think she hadn’t noticed? It seemed every cough stole a little more of him from her.

His voice was raspy when he broke the silence. “I have not been as forthcoming with you as I should have been, my dear.” His gaze shone with pity. “The doctor says—”

“He said you were getting stronger!” Kate’s stomach lurched.

He shook his head. “You know the truth as well as I. I’ve a few months at most, Katherine. It won’t be long until I am unable to leave my bed.” She raised a hand and covered her mouth, trying to defend herself from his words. “I intend to see you settled well before then. You know the earldom and all its assets are entailed. Your dowry is inaccessible until you marry. I don’t wish for you to be at the mercy of my cousin’s goodwill. Heaven knows he has very little of it.”

Tears filled Kate’s eyes. Grandfather, gone? She couldn’t imagine it. She shook her head dumbly.

“No tears, please,” he said, though his voice was gentle. “It is my hope you will find love as I did with your grandmother. Ours was an arranged marriage, as you know.”

Kate swallowed back her tears in a little gasp, leaning her head on Grand-father’s shoulder. “I know. But there are plenty of arranged marriages whose recipients are not so fortunate.”

“The solicitor I sent to make the arrangements on my behalf assured me that not only will you be well cared for but that the Marquess of Rowand is a kind man. He cares for his tenants and walks the gardens with his mother in the afternoon.” A soft smile warmed his wrinkled face. “You are easy to love, Kate. And you’ve much love to give. I have no doubt a little time and effort will see you settled and happy.”

Grandfather sounded so certain. She tried to take comfort in that. Besides, once Grandfather was gone, what was left for her here? She would have no one. The thought left a lump in her throat, making it hard to breathe.

“Can I not stay with you until . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“No. I’ll not subject you to that.” His tone was firm. “Besides, you’d be expected to go into mourning and your wedding would be delayed. You must marry well before I draw my last breath.”

Grandfather began to cough again, and this time the episode was so prolonged, his very bones seemed to rattle. By the time he stopped, Kate’s lips were trembling. It was all she could do not to dissolve into a fit of tears.

Grandfather adjusted his position, moving his arm and settling it around Kate’s shoulder. He’d grown considerably frailer these past months. She could not anchor herself against him as she’d once done. “You’ll need to leave by the end of August. That gives us about three weeks to make sure everything is made ready. I’ve already spoken with Helen, who has promised to accompany you and stay until you can replace her with someone from the nearby village.”

Her maid? She considered the older woman a friend, of course, but Helen certainly wouldn’t walk Kate up the aisle to make vows to an absolute stranger. Or give her a small sense of home as she exchanged one family for another.

“It isn’t too much to ask, is it?” His voice had grown feeble. “I only want what is best for you.”

Best for her? How could it be best when it felt as though her heart might rend in two at the thought of leaving him for good? Kate bit her tongue before she could lift her voice in protest. Grandfather had always seen to her every need. Now it was her turn to see to his. His wish was to have the comfort of knowing she was settled before he passed. She could at least give him that. Surely he knew best. He’d raised her since her parents’ unexpected deaths when she was a mere girl of five.

“No, Grandfather, you do not ask too much. I will do as you ask. Thank you for looking after me, as always.”

He patted her shoulder. “That’s a good girl,” he said in a voice threaded with congestion. “Now, will you call for tea?”

She nodded and rose to ring the bell. But her mind was spinning. Saying goodbye to Grandfather? And gaining a husband, even a handsome one?

Doing both at once seemed almost too much to bear.