Page 14 of Reclaimed By Her Scottish Duke

Her stomach dropped clean through the floor.

“My Lords, forgive the intrusion.” Lord Rivercourt bowed to the circle, all charm. “May I present my friend, newly come to London and rather starved of decent company. His Grace, the Duke of Greythorne. Greythorne, you are among the finest men in the room, so do try to look impressed.”

A duke.

The word landed on Rosaline and would not fit. The man from the hedge, the man from the corridor, the scandalous stranger she had kissed in the dark of a garden meant for wickedness, was a duke. A Scottish duke, standing not four feet from her brother, close enough to open his mouth and end her with a sentence.

He bowed to the older lords precisely as he ought to. He said the correct things to Oldbrook and to the earl beside him. Then his gaze moved to her and stayed, and every correct thing he had been saying seemed to cost him more effort.

“And the ladies,” Rivercourt prompted, amused. “Darton, will you not present your sisters?”

“Lady Rosaline. Lady Beatrice.” Samuel gave the names grudgingly, his eyes already narrowing on Rivercourt, on the Duke, on the whole unwelcome interruption of his careful work.

“Lady Rosaline.” The Duke said her name slowly, as if setting it somewhere safe. The burr in his voice went straight down her spine. “I hope the evening’s found ye well.”

“Your Grace.” Rosaline dipped into the smallest curtsy that courtesy allowed and fixed her eyes on his cravat.

Oldbrook had resumed some thread about the harvest with Samuel, and the sons had drifted back into their own conversation. In that small pocket of inattention, the Duke leaned a fraction toward her.

“What did ye make of the performance, Lady Rosaline?” he asked.

“It was very affecting, Your Grace.” The same four words she had given Oldbrook. Safe. Finished.

“Affectin’.” His mouth threatened to curve. “Aye, that’s the word goin’ round the room. I’ve heard it six times since the last note. I’m beginnin’ to think it’s the only word the English keep for music they didnae care for.”

She should not answer. She knew she should not.

“Perhaps it is the only word polite enough to say aloud.”

“There she is.” He said it under his breath, and there was that spark again, the one from the maze, the one that made her feel briefly like the cleverest creature in any room. “So ye didnae care for it either. Go on, then. Tell me true. What was wrong with it?”

“I could not possibly⁠—”

“Ye could. Ye’re dyin’ to.” He tilted his head. “The soprano?”

Heaven help her, the words came before she could stop them. “The soprano was flat through the entirety of the second half, and the harpist knew it and spent the entire time a half-beat behind her, trying to drag her back onto the note. It was like watching a man try to lead a horse that has decided to sit down.”

The Duke laughed. Not the polite exhalation the room ran on, but a genuine laugh, low and surprised and far too loud for a musical.

Heads turned, and Rosaline felt the color flood up her neck.

“Rosaline.” Samuel’s hand closed around her arm at once, gentle for the audience, iron beneath it. “Do forgive us, gentlemen, Your Grace. My sisters and I have promised ourselves to Lady Carrow before the evening ends, and she is not a woman one keeps waiting. Beatrice, come.”

He had them out of the circle and moving before Rosaline could do more than murmur a goodnight. She did not let herself look back at the Duke, though she felt his eyes follow her the whole way, warm as a hand on the small of her back.

Samuel did not steer them toward Lady Carrow. He steered them to an empty stretch of wall near the doors, turned, and lowered his voice to the register he saved for correction.

“You will keep your distance from those two. Both of them.” His gaze flicked between his sisters and settled hard on Rosaline. “Lord Rivercourt is a rake of the first order. There is not a hostess in London who does not count her daughters after he has left. And the Scot is worse, duke or no duke. A title scraped out of some bog does not make a man respectable, and that one arrived under a cloud I will not repeat in front of you. They are not for us. They are certainly not for you, Rosaline.” He let that sink in. “You will not give them another word beyond what courtesy demands. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Samuel.”

“Beatrice?”

“Perfectly.” Beatrice’s smile was sweet as spun sugar. “Avoid the interesting people. I have written it on my heart.”

Samuel’s jaw worked, but Lady Carrow was a fiction, and he had run out of excuses to scold them further in public. He straightened his cuffs, schooled his features, and went to find someone worth being seen with, leaving his sisters against the wall.

“Was it beautiful? Tell me it was beautiful. Tell me every single thing about it.”