Page 5

Graeme and Camden had become proxy fathers—another reason Marjorie promptly dismissed the notion of leaving Killeaggian Tower whenever it crept into her mind.

Which, if she were honest, happened more and more of late.

Now that Berget had taken over the duties as mistress, as was her right, Marjorie had little to do. And idleness was a dangerous thing. Inactivity and boredom caused ruminations, and ruminations beget discontentment. Discontentment led to impossible, improbable, and implausible wishes and dreams.

Shaking off her morose ponderings, she formed her mouth into a genial curve. It seemed she was always smiling to disguise her true feelings. And no one ever noticed the sadness behind the façade.

Affection glinting in his gaze, Graeme shifted Cora to one bulging, oversized arm, and wrapped the other about Berget’s trim waist. “I trust ye dinna suffer too much, my love.”

“Nae worse than ye.” Berget’s mouth formed a devoted smile as she eyed him up and down, seeking any sign he might be unwell or suffered ill-effects from his ride. “I dinna ken how ye could stand ridin’. I was freezin’ in the coach.”

He kissed the tip of her cold-reddened nose, then reared back. “Odin’s teeth. Yer nose is cold as a well-digger’s ar—”

Berget coughed behind her hand, giving Cora a pointed look, and Camden chuckled as he chucked Elana beneath the chin.

“I’m no’ sure that’s a complimentary comparison, Brother,” Camden said, a taunting grin splitting his face.

“Uncle Camden,” Elana squealed and, amidst giggles, attempted to chuck his chin. He lowered her to the ground as Graeme did the same with Cora.

Marjorie stifled a groan as she pressed her hands to the small of her back. Eyes closed, she arched her spine and neck. Would it be rude to request a hot bath the moment she entered Trentwick? Preferably with lavender and chamomile oils.

Aye, it would, but if doing so meant postponing greeting their austere host—

A cold, icy splat landed on her nose, and, eyes yet shut, she lowered her upturned face.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

As she’d feared, the snow had arrived and sifted from the sky in large, wet, fluffy flakes.

“Snow!” Cora crowed in delight. “Mama, ’tis snowin’.”

Another heavy snowflake plopped onto Marjorie’s cheek, swiftly followed by another and another.

Her eyes flew open, and she found herself staring straight into the Duke of Roxdale’s searing, dark-honey gaze. An undefinable force ignited between them, holding her immobile.

Six feet, four inches of raw, inscrutable masculinity, he stood on the entrance’s lowest step. Not that Marjorie gave credence to such blatant, predatory maleness or overt confidence and indolent pride.

His mouth twitched the merest bit before his focus dipped to her still upward thrust breasts—oh, my God—and that sinful mouth most definitely arched upward.

He leered at her in front of all and sundry, the despicable scunner.

Her mouth gone dry, Marjorie was still incapable of moving or speaking. And, bless the saints and the angels, something more than offense and outrage held her immobile. Enthralled. Intrigued.

Move. Say or do something before someone notices.

Smiling that vexing and damnable smoldering smile, Roxdale directed his focus to her cavorting daughters. Laughing, Elana and Cora romped about, attempting to catch snowflakes on their tongues.

That spurred Marjorie out of her reverie.

The beast.

At once, she straightened and gathered her plaid closer.

The tiniest tingle of pleasure still trilled through her. It had been a very long while since she’d seen that particular glow of appreciation in a man’s eyes directed toward her.

She held out her hands. “Girls. Come here, please.”

After shooting Roxdale a wary glance, they obediently scurried to her side and clasped her hands, the epitome of demure, well-mannered lasses.