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August 4, 1818
Scarborough Castle
Wiltshire County, England
They had been in the Wiltshire countryside for three days, and Oliver couldn’t have been happier. Though the summer held a tinge of heat, rain had been absent, and the air was clear as if filled his lungs. Here, in the quiet acreage, with birdsong echoing and a gentle breeze rippling the long grass, the streets of the nearest town deserted and devoid of rubbish, he felt close to his father.
How many times had he brought Oliver and his mother out to the castle where they’d spent endless days walking the property or exploring the castle itself? To say nothing of him following his esteemed father about as they inspected every hill, knoll, and lump on the property for signs of buried Roman ruins—his father’s third passion.
As Maximus tugged at the leash, Oliver kept a tight hold on the leather. It was midday, and he wanted to see Marjorie. He’d been in her company much of the time since arriving, and now he found that he missed talking with her. Beyond the humor she brought to any situation, she was also insightful and compassionate. And he couldn’t discount the pull of attraction between them. That near-kiss after they’d spoken to Lord Highmore had haunted him longer than it should have.
Go carefully, Scarborough. It won’t do to become personally invested.
That was so. It was dangerous that brewing tension, and it couldn’t go farther than the pretend flirting they did while out in society. He wasn’t searching for a romance and neither was she. Yet his curiosity about her past wouldn’t fade. How could he broach the subject without seeming overly intrusive or willing to break their contracts?
Maximus barked, the sound joyous. When Oliver glanced about to see what had grabbed the beagle’s attention, he snorted.
“They’re swans, you silly thing. You’ve seen them dozens of times.” The big white birds with their black webbed feet and black masks had always lived on the property for as long as he could remember. This pair could conceivably be one of dozens of chicks over the years, and he rather enjoyed the stately look of them floating through the moat that ran around the castle proper.
All too soon, his thoughts returned to Marjorie. She’d proved a stunning conversationalist. In the evenings after dinner, they’d fallen into a pattern of debate and discourse that usually ended in laughter and sharing toasts over brandy for him and madeira for her. But he wanted more from their friendship, as to what he couldn’t say. Perhaps he would begin by showing her the neighboring property, which was the whole reason for their current farce.
A howl from Maximus went up and once more the dog tugged on the lead so strong that he wrenched it from Oliver’s hand.
“Max!” When the canine didn’t come back, he let the dog go. Eventually, he’d find his way back into the castle without—he hoped—deciding to swim through the moat on his way. As he came around the crumbling corner of the edifice in question, his breath caught.
Nestled in front of a collection of shrubs and juvenile evergreen trees, Marjorie had perched on a large boulder, one his father said he’d imported from the Cornish coast. Maximus cavorted about the base of the giant rock, happily yipping and wagging his tail, while she sat cross-legged with a sketchbook open on her lap. A charcoal pencil moved quickly and with authority over the paper. The breeze tore tendrils from the chignon at her nape and rippled her lightweight cotton skirting, roller printed with delicate violet and blue circles stacked in thin lines over the yards of white fabric, which showed a tempting glimpse of lace-edged petticoat and slim calf over brown half-boots.
Curiosity urged him forward. He didn’t speak until he’d come abreast of the boulder. “I didn’t know you enjoyed sketching.”
A tiny gasp left her throat and she started, pressing her free hand to her heart. “Oliver. You gave me a fright.” When she glanced at him, a tiny smile took possession of her mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“Walking the grounds. Looking for you, if I’m honest.” He held up a willow basket. “I also brought sustenance in the event you might be hungry since you missed breakfast.”
“Oh. I did.” Her expression turned wry. “I’ve been out here for a few hours. Didn’t want to miss the light and hadn’t given thought to my stomach.”
“Then it’s fortuitous I’ve come bearing food.” Ignoring the dog’s excited barks, Oliver extended his free hand. “Do you wish to come down from there and sit with me?”
“I suppose. I’m nearly finished with this drawing anyway.” She closed the book and then took his hand. When she slipped from the boulder, her skirts drew up for an instant. How had she climbed up there to begin with, and while holding a sketchbook?
“What was your subject?” He tried to keep Maximus from jumping against her legs and dirtying her hem with a booted foot, but it was an impossible task at best.
Marjorie pointed into the distance with her charcoal pencil. “The stone bridge that goes over the moat on the north side of the castle. It’s charming in a medieval sort of way.”
“It’s one of my favorite spots.” He tucked her hand into his crooked arm. “If you’re not careful, you’ll garner a sunburn without a bonnet.” Though he adored how the noon sun turned fine strands of her chestnut hair shades of gold and caramel.
“Oh, la.” She shook her head. “A morning in the sun won’t harm me. I like its warmth on my skin.”
He marveled over her attitude, for most women of the ton would be in a tither to lose their ivory or alabaster complexions. “All the same, indulge me and take refuge in the shade, for I’d rather not sweat while I served you lunch. It simply isn’t genteel.”
“Poor thing.” She tsked her tongue as they strolled toward two massive oak trees. “We wouldn’t want a duke to wilt in the heat.”
His lips twitched at the teasing in her voice. “Would you rather I strip down to breeches in an effort to remain cooler? We could retire to the rear of the acreage where there are a couple of ponds...” Not a bad idea, for then he might encourage her to remove her gown and leave her shift if they should wade into the water.
Then common sense slapped his brain. Stop that, Scarborough. She’s with you for one reason, and that doesn’t include anything remotely scandalous.
“What sort of choice is that: seeing you in a degree of undress while swimming, or acting like a perfect duchess?” Amusement clung to her voice. “Rather unfair if you ask me.”
Heat seeped up the back of his neck. Was she flirting with him so far removed from society’s watchful eyes? How extraordinary. “Don’t blame me if it happens.” Once they’d reached the trees, he saw her settled and then sat beside her. Immediately, Maximus jumped around him, over his legs, and landed squarely into Marjorie’s lap. “Let me remove him.” He set the basket down and reached for the recalcitrant beagle, who’d taken to licking her chin, all while thumping his tail against her ribcage as if he were in doggy heaven.
“Please don’t. He’s no bother.” Her laughter filled the air and set him at ease. When she scratched the dog behind his ears, he immediately rolled over on her lap and gazed at her with adoring eyes.
“Traitor.” But he couldn’t help his grin. “I did say my pretend duchess would need to get on well with animals.” They were on the second week of the engagement scheme, and it felt as if he’d hardly spent any time with her. He unbuckled the lead from Maximus’ collar and tucked it into the basket. “Please eat, else Cook and my mother will have sharp words for me when we return.”
“Your mother encouraged this alfresco meal?”
“She said you had to eat.”
“It’s rather nice having people concerned for me.” She held out a hand, which he promptly filled with a meat hand pie.
“Do you not already have that?” He took a pie for himself; they were an especial favorite of his, and he consumed as many as he could while at Scarborough Castle.
She snorted. “You’ve met Cecil. Does he look like a responsible adult to you?” When she broke off a piece of the pie and tossed it onto the lawn for Maximus, the dog scrambled off her lap to chase the tidbit.
“I decline to comment.” His gaze fell upon her sketchbook. “Might I have a look at your work?”
A faint blush stained her cheeks. Why? “I suppose...”
“Thank you.” After finishing off his hand pie, he wiped his fingers on a linen napkin and took the notebook onto his lap. “When did you first start drawing?”
“As a young girl, perhaps around ten or eleven. My parents hired a tutor, who was skilled enough to encourage my talent.” She watched him, wariness lining her expression. “I’ve often wondered if I could make a go of it as a livelihood if I had a patron.”
Oliver remained quiet as he flipped through the book. She’d done several sketches from different views around the castle and of the building itself. Some of her perspectives were astonishing and breath catching, like the one where she’d featured the bridge. On other pages, she’d done renditions of his cats. The furry annoyances were in various stages of repose or mayhem. A few of the pictures she’d gone back over and filled in with watercolors. A painting of a bowl of fruit at Colborne House was especially nice.
There were sketches of people she’d come across such as her brother, one of Carmichael, one of Bohannan, and then he came to a series of drawings she’d done of him. All were striking and had caught him in different views: evening dress, laughing in a drawing room, dancing with an unidentified woman, one of him as he slept on a leather sofa in his study, and the last was of him, barechested with an intense expression, but the drawing wasn’t finished, for she’d stopped at his waist.
Ah, now he understood the blush. Oliver tapped the page. “Why is this one half-done?”
Her blush had deepened. “I couldn’t convince my mind to think upon what your form might look like since I’ve not seen it. And...” She looked away. “...it seemed improper to imagine you in that state considering this is a false engagement.”
“Ah.” A sliver of guilt wormed its way into his chest. Of course there wouldn’t be a romance but perhaps they were making their way toward a friendship that might last for the ages. He flipped through the drawings while Marjorie shared her lunch with Maximus. “These are incredible. You’re quite talented.”
“Thank you.” She dusted her hands together. Crumbs fell to the ground. “It’s something I feel in my soul I should be doing with some of my time.”
“Agreed.” He caught her gaze. “I’ll be your patron.” Whatever propelled the words from his throat, he couldn’t say, but the excitement and passion in her eyes as she spoke of sketching and watched him look through the drawings tugged at his chest. “After our time together ends, I’ll support you if you wish to take the next steps with your drawing, perhaps open a salon or take commissions for paintings. Members of the ton would gladly pay handsomely for your work.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “You will.” It wasn’t a question.
“I will and be glad to do it.” She was gorgeous as authentic emotions flitted over her face—surprise, elation, excitement, wariness.
“Why? You’re already giving me so much merely for entering this engagement with you.”
This was one of the reasons he adored being a duke with reach and deep coffers. “I enjoy helping people who deserve it, and you, my dear, certainly do. I want to encourage your talent, nurture it, build it up and get you launched into the world, merely because sketching and painting brings you joy.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t know what to say,” she responded in a quiet voice.
“Thank you will suffice.” He touched her hand. “Or, if you’re feeling cheeky, a sketch of yourself, clad in the outfit of your choice.” Dear God, why did he say that? There was no reason except he wanted to flirt, to make her smile.
“I can arrange that.” She nodded and caught at a fallen tear on her cheek. “I appreciate your generosity. This changes... everything for my future.”
“Your pleasure makes me happy.” For long moments he enjoyed the sounds of the English countryside, until Maximus destroyed it by barking and tearing off after a rabbit. “Would you like to see one of my passions, what brings me joy?”
“Absolutely but take the basket. I’m still ravenous.”
“As you wish, my lady.” He stood and offered her a hand. She was like no other woman of his acquaintance, and it constantly surprised him. If he were in the market for a real duchess, he would start with her.
But there was more that he wanted out of their arrangement than a romance.
“I’m not a lady and won’t be since this engagement will not end with marriage,” she responded in a tight voice that sliced through his chest, but she slipped her hand into his.
The warmth of her brought a modicum of comfort. He despised the fact that the end of their time together clouded what they were building right now. “Titles notwithstanding, we should enjoy ourselves while we can.”
“I’d like that. You’ve proved a sterling companion thus far.” She retrieved the sketchbook from the ground. “Where are we going?”
“To the property that’s at the core of our engagement.” But something felt off, lacking, for he wasn’t as exuberant about it as he was before. Oliver shook his head. It was probably nothing, a product of acclimating to the country air, nothing more.
“Now that is exciting.” She turned her head and grinned. “Tell me about it.”
“Just over thirty acres, it sits at the northern edge of Colborne land.”
One of her eyebrows went up. “All this time the two properties were neighbors.”
“It’s rather odd, I know. There’s a bit of a mystery surrounding how my maternal grandfather acquired the parcel, but I’ve checked the records myself, and everything is legal. Though Scarborough Castle has been in my family for generations, apparently my maternal grandfather was friends with the duke back in their heydays. Perhaps they hatched a scheme between them; I’ll never know. Regardless, he willed this parcel to my grandmother, which was shocking for the time as well as her heritage.”
“How so?”
“My grandmother was a slave on the island of Bermuda. It was unheard of for them to own property let alone marry into the aristocracy; my maternal grandfather was a viscount and had been a Navy man, which is how they met.” A certain amount of pride rang in his voice. “Oh, Grandmother was the strongest woman I ever knew, survived so much. She always had the best stories for a woman who couldn’t read or write.”
“How fascinating.” Genuine interest threaded through her voice. “Why did she do nothing with the parcel of land?”
“Who can say? When I was a young boy, I remember her coming out here and sitting in the middle of the meadow grasses. When I’d ask her why, she told me she was dreaming, because in dreams, all things are possible.” Those days seemed so far away.
“Your mother was her daughter?”
“Yes. I have two aunts. Unfortunately, Grandmother never bore a son, so when my mother attracted the attention of my father—and a duke to boot—everyone felt as if luck had once more shone upon the family.” A swath of sadness plowed into him. “My father had an uncommon friendship with my grandmother, went so far as to assist with her correspondence and take down notes of the stories she like to tell. I think her tale touched his heart and he wanted to help, bring such situations to light so that sort of horror would never happen again.”
“Yet it is, with the slave trade,” Marjorie said softly. “It’s outlawed here in England for human cargo to be carried in British ships, but there are so many others in the world, and the desire for slaves grows stronger in America.”
“I know, and it makes my blood boil.” He shook his head as anger and frustration welled within him. “All because they’re deemed not good enough, not equal merely for the color of their skin to mix in general society.” He gripped the handle of the basket so hard, the willow bit into his palm. “I dream of a day when the vile practice ceases. Perhaps the men who perpetuate it will reap their just rewards.”
Marjorie squeezed his arm and murmured a few soothing words. “I agree. Hopefully, men with courage and conviction will step to the forefront and make new laws, forge new paths in government.”
“I’m trying, but it’s much like a drop in a bucket.”
“If you’re weary of the fight, rest but never give up.” The passion in her tone invigorated his soul. “What happened to your grandparents on your mother’s side?” She glanced at him. Curiosity brimmed in her eyes. “You speak so fondly of her that I’m disappointed I won’t meet them.”
“They were killed, murdered during a robbery gone wrong in London one night when my mother and father were out attending the opera.” The sadness grew, threatening to steal his breath. “My maternal grandparents lived in the townhouse next door; my father was adamant they stay close. He doted on my mother and would do everything for her that made her happy.” Oliver drew in a ragged breath. “I was but ten years old, asleep upstairs in the nursery and had no idea what had occurred.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Marjorie squeezed his hand. “They sound like extraordinary people.”
“I thought so. I constantly strive to never forget them, especially her.” He blinked away the moisture that sprang into his eyes. How had she managed to pull such private thoughts from him? They hardly knew each other, but already he’d revealed far more of his personal history to her than he had with any other woman of his acquaintance.
“What was her name?”
“Nicole is what she called herself, but she never told me what her real name was, or where she might have originally come from before she arrived in Bermuda.” Sour bile went up the back of his throat as it always did when he thought of the horrific ramifications of the slave trade. “Her history is mine, Marjorie. I never want to forget that. It’s motivation for me to be a better man.”
“You won’t, and neither should you.” She brought them to a halt. In the distance, barking from Maximus rang through the air to mingle with the joyous song of the birds and the honking of the geese in the far off moat. All of it fell away when he met her gaze. “Will you tell me a few of her stories sometime?”
“I’d like that.” When he glanced around, shock gripped him. As they’d talked, they’d reached the parcel of ground without him realizing it. “We’re here.”
“Oh.” Marjorie peered about the immediate area with interest stamped on her face. “As acreage goes, it’s rather pretty.”
Wildflowers dotted the landscape in an array of pinks, yellows, purples, and whites. In the distance, rolling hills met the eye with wide swaths of grassland.
“If you’ll look closely, there are a few low mounds here and there. I believe—as did my father—that those mounds and piles indicate the presence of Roman archeological remains.” As he spoke, excitement circled through his insides. “I can’t wait to start the excavation.”
“Ah, but you can’t until the property is in your name legally.”
“Correct, and thanks to you, I’m closer than ever to it.” He stepped forward, breaking their connection, and spread his arms wide. “But can you imagine what might be buried beneath the soil?” With a gesture, he drew her attention to the wide vista. “Picture this site a few hundred years ago as it hosts a lavish Roman villa, complete with tiled floors and perhaps mosaic-lined basins.”
Marjorie came abreast of him. The breeze caught at her hair and pulled another few tendrils from the chignon. “You’re extremely passionate about this. Why? Was your father as intense regarding buried treasure?”
“Yes. I learned at his knee.” He led her farther into the property. In the middle of the wildflowers, Oliver tugged her down beside him in the grass. Once he’d placed the basket before him, he sighed. “Father was forever hunting up things, chasing down leads. He was never happier than being on a dig site somewhere in the world.”
“That sounds interesting. Did you accompany him when you were older?” She laid down her sketchbook and then reached for the basket.
“I did. Some of the best moments of my life occurred at his side while discoveries were made.” He flashed her a smile. “Mother accompanied us a few times, and oh, he was so proud of her.”
“Why? Did she assist in the digs?” She drew out a bottle of lemonade, and when she encouraged the cork from the top, she took a deep gulp of the pale-yellow liquid.
Oliver watched, fascinated, as the tendons in her throat worked, at the way her lush lips hugged the bottle top before releasing it when she’d finished her drink. “Uh...” He glanced away before improper thoughts could form. “Mother didn’t muck about in the dirt. Her function was to provide a touch of normalcy to the expeditions. She made certain there were tea services and dinners on china plates with crystal glasses. If the dig were large enough, she’d arrange for fetes or even a dance.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It helped that she’s quite attractive for a duchess.”
“I assume your father was equally handsome since you’re the same, quite sinfully, I might add.”
Heat seeped into his cheeks from her unexpected admiration. “Remind me to show you the portrait gallery so you can see for yourself.”
“Obviously, since you’re the Duke of Scarborough now, your father is gone. How did he die?” Questions clouded her eyes as she nibbled on another hand pie.
“A handful of months after Father returned from Egypt, he expired. During that trip, he and his team managed to unearth a cache of mummies in Luxor.” He gave her a wink. “That’s where my cat got his name.”
“How quaint. I adore it.” She licked a few crumbs from her fingers. “What did your father die of?”
“Some say a disease of the lungs. Some say a mummy’s curse. Some say tainted water in Egypt.” Oliver shrugged, for it was a mystery. “We’ll never know for certain. There wasn’t enough evidence for a doctor or the coroner to determine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Marjorie laid a hand on his arm. “He sounds like an esteemed man, someone of intelligence, who wanted to understand the world and make it better.”
“Yes. That was exactly it.” Unexpected emotion welled through his chest. Once again, this woman had managed to pull secrets from him, and here he was talking about his past when that went against everything written in the engagement contracts. “Father was the one who taught me that differences made a person better, stronger, interesting, and to never let anyone repress me or count me out due to the color of my skin or the difficulties of my origins.”
“Sound advice.” She raked her gaze over him, and he tamped the urge to shiver from her regard. “I like the color of your skin.” Admiration and honesty shone from her eyes. “It makes you unique, beckons to me so that I wish to touch you, whispers to me to discover more about you, but then, that could be your personality.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. Dear God, what would a caress from her feel like? “Thank you.” Still overcome with emotions he’d hadn’t dealt with during the grieving process, he blurted, “It was because of my father that I had a tattoo put onto my shoulder.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose. “I don’t believe I’ve ever known anyone with a tattoo.”
Feeling wicked, he asked, “Would you like to see it?” It was the height of scandalous, but they were alone, and for all intents and purposes engaged, and when she swept her gaze up and down his person again, he began unbuttoning his jacket, needing her approval. “The design is my own.” Once he unbuttoned his waistcoat, he shed both garments. While he held her gaze, he withdrew his left arm from his fine lawn shirt and turned his back enough that she could see the tattoo. “What do you think?”
“It’s marvelous.” The admiration in her voice stoked his ego. Marjorie traced the artwork with her fingertips. “What does it mean?”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “The crossed sword and spear represent England and all the peoples they’d conquered, and that only by fighting can we hope to bring equality to the oppressed. The shackles beneath remind me of the thousands of people like my grandmother forced into slavery. It’s so I’ll never forget that owning people as objects is wrong, and that I have a responsibility to work toward closing the gap between classes.”
“Oh, Oliver, you’ll never forget, and now neither will I because you’ve told me, showed me this, brought your grandmother to life.”
The fleeting touch of her fingers on his skin fired a need in his blood he hadn’t felt for a long time. It was both unexpected and curious. “Mother was beside herself when I showed her. Said it marred my body.”
“That depends on one’s perspective, but as for me, it shows your courage in the face of adversity, your bravery in learning from your history and embracing it with open arms.” With one last lingering trace of her fingertip, she let her arm fall to her side. “It’s beautiful and suits you.”
“I appreciate that.”
Apprehension filled her extraordinary eyes. “Will I meet your mother eventually?”
“Of course. At tea later today, actually.”
She snorted. “Were you going to tell me? I need to think about my wardrobe.”
“Perhaps. You’re lovely enough now.” He couldn’t help his grin, especially when she touched his tattoo once more. His pretend duchess was rather nice to talk to, and she was fresh-faced and gorgeous in this setting. The secrets and sadness in her sea glass eyes ignited his curiosity, but instead of asking his questions just now, he shifted toward her. Awareness danced over his skin. What was this connection between them, and why did he wish to explore it despite knowing it was folly? “Ah, Marjorie, I’m so glad I chose you for this endeavor.”
“Oh?” She met his gaze, and the longing in those pools threatened to suck him under.
“Yes. You’re not like other women.” Shoving all other thoughts away, Oliver put a hand beneath her chin and pressed his lips to hers with gentle pressure: seeking, asking, exploring her lips... wanting. How odd that two pieces of flesh usually commonplace and ordinary could both cradle his with softness and promise wicked things not fully thought of. Slight tartness from the lemonade she’d had met his palate, and he wanted more. It had been at least six months since he last laid with a woman; a year since his heart was broken by one, but Marjorie was different.
At least he thought. He didn’t know her well enough to form an opinion.
Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder, gliding over the tattoo, bringing him back to reality, and he pulled away, the budding bond broken. The shock in her expression mirrored what careened down his spine, but tinged with unadulterated lust, that one kiss kept him captive, his shaft tight with need.
He desired so much more if only to assuage his interest.
“I...” Oliver cleared his throat. “My apologies.” He eased backward and began putting his clothing to rights. “I broke the rules of the contract.” By already doing so many things.
Marjorie shook her head. She scrambled to her feet, further putting more distance between them. “No need to apologize.” A certain breathlessness accompanied the words, but she looked away in the act of retrieving her sketchbook. “Obviously, we should practice such things so when they’re needed in society, we’ll appear flawless without awkwardness.”
“Quite right,” he said, almost to himself, as cold disappointment went through him. For a second, he’d almost forgotten the reason for their bit of fiction.
So why couldn’t he make himself forget the innocence and heat in that one meeting of lips? And why the devil didn’t he ever want to leave this wildflower meadow and end this time with her?