Falling for a Duke (Timeless Regency Collection Book 8) Read online

But then, she had wandered farther from home than she usually did.

  Still, it was no excuse for that man to have thundered down upon her as he’d done. She deserved the respect due to a baronet’s daughter.

  If he’d asked, she would have informed him of that.

  “But that would require him to be a gentleman,” she reminded herself aloud as she sank onto her bed and tugged at the laces of her boots, “and that he most certainly could not be. Not with that manner, nor the towering shadow of his pride, nor the impertinent wit, nor the—”

  “Good heavens, Ceana-Dee, are we cataloguing my faults again?” came the warm, familiar tones of her father. “I thought we already did that this week.”

  Ceana turned to give her father a look, ignoring her childhood name, which mocked their neighbors, the Kennedys, with the identical pronunciation. “Papa, you know perfectly well I only count your faults when I need to fall asleep at night.”

  He grinned in response, his long, curling hair its usual sort of wild mane while his graying facial hair remained perfectly trimmed. “Aye, but you never get past the first five or so before you’re dreaming all on your own, so we’ll never know just how many I have.”

  “Or how few,” she pointed out. She heaved a sigh as she undid her plait and began to rework it.

  Her father pushed into the room, looking every inch the country landowner that he was, if a little more casual. But he wore his usual fatherly look and sat down beside her. “What’s the fuss, Ceana lass?”

  Ceana bit her lip, debating the wisdom in telling her father what had happened. He was not a rough sort of man, but he had a temper when provoked. The question was if this would provoke him or amuse him.

  There was simply no accounting for her father’s moods.

  “Yesterday when I went out for a long walk,” she began with a small sigh, “I happened to be almost trampled by a man and his horse.”

  Her father raised a thick brow. “A common enough risk in the Highlands. You must be more careful on foot.”

  Ceana nodded once, knowing that, at least, was true. “I thought I was, Papa, but even so, it happened, and I turned my ankle. It hurts something fierce, and I canna walk with ease.”

  “Fetch yourself down to Mrs. Mack in the kitchens, lass,” her father told her, apparently still unmoved by her tale. “She’ll fix you up straightaway.”

  “I know,” Ceana ground out, her ankle throbbed in indignation at the lack of sympathy. “But Papa, the man didn’t even ask after me! He didna care at all that I’d been nearly trampled by him, and he had no politeness in any of his manners.”

  One would have expected Sir Andrew Shaw to be the sort of gentleman to expect the same sort of behaviors from other men, given his title, though it was only a landed gentry one, but they would have been disappointed in that expectation. He was the sort of man who took everybody exactly as they were and kept a relatively low personal standard for his tenants, friends, and associates.

  “Perhaps he’s not the sort of man to employ manners,” her father suggested with a shrug. “I’d have asked after ye and carried ye home myself, but that may no’ be his way.”

  “I know you would.” Ceana smiled at her father. “He just appeared the sort to pay a woman some respect.”

  “Ah, well.” He took her hand and kissed it warmly. “Never judge a person by their appearance, Ceana. Look at me. Do I look like a baronet to you?”

  She chuckled at that. No, he did not, and she did not think any person alive would think he did. She shook her head in response and scowled playfully.

  “There you have it.” He leaned over and kissed her brow quickly before rising. “Put him from your mind, lass. It does no good to hate people for their natures, no matter how we might wish them changed.”

  “He was rather rude,” she mumbled as she reached down to rub her sore ankle. “And impertinent.”

  “You’re impertinent too, Ceana,” her father reminded her, laughing. “Don’t be so feisty if you canna accept the same.”

  That was fair, she supposed, though she hated to admit it. Her father moved to leave the room, whistling to himself. But something bothered Ceana still.

  “Papa,” she said suddenly, thinking quickly. “The Ashcombe place. He’s a duke, isn’t he?”

  He turned to look at her with furrowed brows. “He is. Why are you asking?”

  Ceana smirked. “He was the one who ran me down yesterday.”

  “Who is?” her father asked, his expression unchanged.

  “The duke.”

  Her father blinked slowly, raised a finger, then made a face and scratched at his beard instead. “The duke?” he repeated. “Ran you down with his horse?”

  Oh, now her father chose to be interested. “Well,” she admitted with a wince, “trampled me. Nearly, I suppose, as I was not actually trampled.”

  “By the duke.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Papa. He asked how far he was from Dovenbard, though really it was more of a demand to know, and he said it was his.”

  “He did, did he?” her father murmured, still absently scratching at his beard. “The duke?”

  “Yes, and now I know that, it perfectly suits his nature.” Ceana made a face as revulsion filled her again. “Arrogant Englishman—as entitled in his fine dress as in his manner. He looked as though he had just broken free from an oppressive schoolroom, Papa. His hat was gone, his cravat nowhere to be seen, and his hair was positively wild. Though he may be a younger duke, one would expect a certain decorum in appearance and behavior. I was not impressed, and I hope we see very little of him while he’s here.” She leaned back on her hands and swung her feet a little, giving a brisk nod of emphasis.

  “Well, that may be a mite difficult, lass,” her father replied, folding his arms, a bemused smile on his lips.

  Ceana stopped swinging her legs and looked at her father warily. “Why?”

  He was close to all-out grinning now. “Because I called at Dovenbard this morning to pay my respects and renew our acquaintance. He’s coming for dinner tonight and to meet with Donald Bruce and Hamish and myself to discuss estate affairs. Considering the closeness of our estates, we’ll likely see him quite often.”

  Ceana shot to her feet so quickly her ankle buckled and she winced. “No!” she bit out, hissing as she straightened. “No, Papa, absolutely not.”

  He snorted softly. “You don’t have a say in this, lass. I’m a baronet and his neighbor. I have a duty to uphold.”

  “Not to befriend that ape!”

  “Now, Ceana—”

  She shook her head with quick, jerky movements. “No! I’ll not have it! I won’t come down to dinner. I’ll be taken ill.”

  The first hint of impatience lit her father’s eyes. “Do you want to inherit Ravensmere and its lands or not?”

  Ceana ground her teeth together and sank back onto the bed, managing a curt nod.

  Her father returned it. “You know how pressured I am to give it all to Ewan, love. If you don’t represent yourself well, how can I do what we both want for the future?”

  She hated dealing with this time and time again. Being the only child of a baronet ought to have given her rights to everything he owned. Being a female brought that into question.

  It was maddening.

  Of course, being landed gentry, her father could have simply specified in his will that it would go to Ceana, but as of this moment, it said nothing of the sort.

  “A man must earn his position in life, lass, if he is not born to it,” he’d told her once. “Why should a woman do any less?”

  Why, indeed.

  “Fine,” she grumbled. “I will go down to dinner and I will represent myself well to His High and Mightiness, the Duke of Ashcombe.”

  That amused her father. “Ceana, he’s not—”

  “A real gentleman?” she interrupted. “Oh, I know, but we shouldn’t hold that against him.”

  “Ceana, he—”

  “Can’t see beyond t
he expanses of his own ego? Yes, well, that is a rather long way, so we must excuse him there.”

  Her father fought laughter, his hands settling on his hips. “Ceana, I think—”

  “He’ll never understand life in the Highlands, as he is a spoiled London boy with no sense of the world?” Ceana sighed dramatically. “I know. Likely he’ll not stay long, as there is nothing of London here. Poor Ashcombe.”

  “I think I’d best leave you to your stewing,” her father told her, laughing outright now. “Bite your tongue afore the others tonight.”

  Ceana grinned at him. “But tell you all the best ones later?”

  He winked at her, still grinning. “Of course, lass.” He turned and left her bedchamber, whistling a lively jig as he did so.

  “Bite my tongue,” Ceana muttered to herself. “And what do I do when I’ve bitten it so much that it bleeds, pray tell?”

  She was not going to enjoy this dinner, nor was she going to enjoy having that man in her beloved Highlands for however long he meant to stay. She knew full well that she could not bar him from all of the Highlands, but surely he could leave this particular corner for her alone.

  Regardless, if their paths must cross, she would not stand for any man treating her as poorly as he had done, duke or no.

  And she refused to let any man’s looks unsettle her the way his had, albeit briefly. She was quite sure she had imagined all the better features, and he would undoubtedly look much worse upon seeing him once more. She could only pray that she would find an unsightly pock mark on his face to confirm his ugliness.

  Unfortunately, hours later, she had to admit that there was no pox mark, nor was there anything to suggest he was anything other than exceptionally handsome.

  But she refused to acknowledge that she found him so. Just that, in general, his looks were of the favorable kind.

  He happened to ride up just as she finished clipping some flowers in front of the crumbling facade of Ravensmere, and she scowled at him as he dismounted easily, smoothly, athletically.

  Dukes should be too fine and proper for such things.

  He nodded with a smile at the stable boy, removing his expensive gloves with quick motions as he started toward the house.

  He looked pristine in appearance today, cravat and top hat in place, and the sleek lines of his coat, waistcoat, and breeches, all impeccably tailored, made him seem leaner, taller, and more refined. His legs tapered perfectly into his too-clean boots, and he seemed to be a body designed for the clothing rather than the other way around. And none of it—color, cut, or style—would be out of place for the Scottish countryside.

  Ceana bit back a curse as she caught herself gawking and clasped her basket before her, waiting to be noticed.

  Ashcombe looked up at the house, but rather than pass any sort of judgment, he smiled fondly, then turned his head to look around, his hazel eyes clashing with hers almost instantly.

  She fought the urge to smooth her floral calico skirts or adjust her loosely pinned hair and simply stared at him as he gaped in surprise.

  “Well, if it isn’t the fair Highland lass who frightened my horse,” he said when he recovered himself, smiling at last. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “No,” Ceana replied coolly. “I can imagine not.”

  His brow furrowed, but his smile never wavered. “You live here?”

  She nodded once, letting her mouth curve in the smuggest of smiles.

  “I presume as one of the family,” he pressed, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

  Ceana raised a superior brow as a response.

  Ashcombe nodded, his lips pursing. “Sir Andrew mentioned he had a daughter. I suppose that must be you.”

  “Ceana Shaw, sir,” she replied with a tilt of her chin. “At your service.”

  He smiled quickly, then bowed with perfect politeness, which annoyed her, as it required her to curtsy as good manners dictated.

  “Well, Miss Shaw,” he said when he straightened once more, “if we have dancing this evening, I hope I shall have the pleasure of dancing with you.”

  “You won’t,” she retorted. “No one will. Some fool nearly trampled me with his horse yesterday and made me turn my ankle.”

  He blinked at that, his expression changing to one of concern. “Did I really? You never said.”

  She never said? He never asked! “Was I supposed to announce my injuries to a perfect stranger?” she asked dubiously.

  Ashcombe swore under his breath, but Ceana could hear him, and it was all she could do not to call him out for it, though she wanted to smile at its hearing.

  He shook his head and sighed. “I can only say I am sorry once more, and pray you will find me sincere now.”

  Ceana tilted her head, curious in spite of herself. “You weren’t sincere before?”

  Ashcombe flicked a quick grin and a shrug. “Probably not. I rarely am.”

  “But you are now?” she queried, swinging the basket in her hold.

  “Very,” he told her with a serious nod. “Utterly. Completely.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” He seemed pleased by that. “Excellent. I have been working on my apologetic and sincere face.”

  Against her will, Ceana smiled at that.

  His own smile turned a shade of something intriguing at the sight. “Now there’s a smile, Ceana Shaw. What a fine sight that is.”

  The ripple up her spine at the low timbre of his voice infuriated her almost as much as the compliment itself. The teasing quirk of his brows made her scowl again.

  “You’ll not see another,” she vowed.

  “Never challenge a man like that, Ceana Shaw. It makes us do extraordinary things.”

  The look in his eyes made Ceana afraid to ask what he meant by that. She moved her basket to the crook of her elbow. “I’m sure it does,” she offered with a placating nod. “Follow me.”

  “If you insist,” he quipped.

  Ceana rolled her eyes with a moan. Biting her tongue was going to become more and more painful, she was sure of it. If she ever had strength to speak again after all of this, it would be a miracle.

  They entered the house, and Ashcombe removed his hat, handing it and the gloves to a servant. “The craftsmanship in here is extraordinary,” he breathed, looking around at the hall. “What year was it done?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Ceana marched toward the sound of male voices, turning only when she reached the sitting room.

  She cleared her throat, causing the men within the room to look up and rise quickly.

  “Father, Uncle Hamish, Mr. Bruce, Ewan, Tarran, Malcolm, Thomas.” She smiled though she would rather have snarled. “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Ashcombe?”

  The Who of What?

  His bewildering introduction to a room filled with towering Scotsmen still left David windswept and uneasy. Apparently he’d managed to hide his shock well enough, for no one said anything on the subject, and they all greeted him with the deference and politeness he might have expected.

  Odd, for Sir Andrew, at least, knew very well who he was, having introduced himself that morning. That information, it seemed, was something he did not feel his daughter needed to be made aware of, nor anyone else in the room.

  Ceana vanished shortly after her brusque introduction, and he wished her back rather quickly, as the men rambled on incessantly. He’d been poured a glass of whisky and given brief background on each of the men present, who seemed to be more random relations than people of significance.

  These men were loud and exuberant, as he generally expected Scotsmen to be, though he had long lost track of their conversation. Apart from the odd smattering of “Your Grace” being tossed around, which nearly made him jump with guilt every time, he really wasn’t required to pay much attention. The meeting he was here for would take place after dinner, ideally when everyone involved was so full they would be more than usually accommodating.

  The Dovenbard estate agent
had met with him only hours ago and given him a rather bleak report of the state of things. Mr. Gordon was young for his position, not much older than David himself, but he had been surprisingly well-informed as to the concerns of the tenants and those of the surrounding landowners. The man had impressed David; he had unfailing loyalty to his employers, but was also determined to be honorable and faithful to his local countrymen, some of whom were likely his kin. The combination was refreshing, as David had only known men who shifted their allegiances to wherever the greatest profit lay.

  A complete report could not be given in one day, not when David was as unfamiliar with the region and estate as he was. It would come more fully to light once he spent time with the other landowners and with the tenants themselves.

  All he knew at this point was that their fledgling shift to sheep farming was not prospering as it ought and the tenant farms were struggling. Ashcombe had given David almost no guidance on his wishes for the estate, as it was one of their smaller estates and certainly their least profitable. Ashcombe had no fondness for it, nor did he particularly care about it.

  “Do what you can, if anything can be done, but don’t waste resources if there is no point.”That undoubtedly said a great deal about the duke himself.

  David, however, was not about to waste time or resources here. He intended to use both to their utmost in the needs of Dovenbard, once he truly understood them.

  And that was all he hoped for this evening: to begin to understand the state of the region from the perspective of the landowners. It seemed as good a place as any to start, and then he could proceed with the tenants, both the land farmers and the sheep farmers. Surely, with all of that, there could be a solution to the problems at hand.

  At long last they were led into dinner, and Ceana joined them at that point, the only woman at the table. David was fully aware that her mother had died years before, but surely there were some other women at the house, given the number of men—a cousin or an aunt. Even a neighbor would have sufficed to balance things out.

  In London, there was always a balance, perhaps not equal in number, but at least in substance.

  At the table of Sir Andrew Shaw, it appeared it would not be so.