A Scottish Widow for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Enough,” Hugo Blythe, the Duke of Arrowfell, ground out, his disheveled light brown curls falling in front of his eyes as he stormed into the hall. “What in the devil is going on here? Where is the lady of this house?”

He watched as several servants looked toward him without a word before hurrying along on what was clearly pressing business, at least to them. The slight made his blood boil, and he balled his fists at his sides.

It was one thing not to be greeted upon entry, but to be ignored was something altogether unacceptable.

“Let me fetch the butler, M’Lord,” a small wisp of a woman shrieked as she rushed past him, rags clutched in her hands as she spun about like a whirling dervish. “Mr. McDonough! Oh, where are ye?”

“You would do well to address me as Your Grace,” he warned, his shoulders tight with frustration as he raised an eyebrow at her.

“A thousand apologies, Me Lord!” she shouted as she flitted away toward a side hall, to where he could only imagine it led, before poking her head back around to say, “I mean, Yer Grace!”

The long journey from London had left him utterly drained. The only thing more depleted than his stamina was his patience. He had arrived at Inverhall, his newly inherited Scottish estate, expecting a quiet, manageable house.

Instead, utter chaos reigned.

The constant scurrying of servants, the muffled shouts from unseen rooms, and the general air of disarray put him on edge.

“Me apologies for the lack of a proper reception. This way, Yer Grace,” the butler mumbled as he approached him, a portly, nervous man Hugo had already decided must be replaced.

He gestured toward a set of French doors, the late afternoon sun descending in the distance.

“Lady Inverhall is through this way, in the gardens. I am Mr. McDonough, the butler.”

“Let us be on with it,” Hugo gritted out and followed him.

He wanted to sell the land and be rid of it. But Lady Inverhall, the Dowager Marchioness, was a most unexpected complication.

He had no connection to Scotland, save for the distant uncle whose lands and title he’d inherited. His uncle’s predecessor left behind a widow, one who was a burden Hugo had never asked for.

I must find a way to remove her.

Preferably by marrying her off to some suitable lord. It was the only logical way to clear her from his responsibilities and finally wash his hands of this Scottish entanglement.

Hugo stepped through the doors, bracing himself for whatever fresh hell awaited him, and took a deep breath. But nothing could have prepared him for what was on the other side.

What sort of madhouse is this?

The garden, a space he had imagined would be verdant and neat, perhaps formal, with arborvitaes, fragrant flowers, and trim bushes, was a muddy wonderland.

Children, dressed in what could only be described as rags, shrieked with unbridled joy as they splashed barefoot through puddles, their laughter echoing off the ancient stone walls that encased the grounds.

Nearby, villagers, clearly of the poorest sort, lounged on hay bales and tattered blankets.

They were sharing simple food and wine, their murmurs a low hum and their accents so strong they were unintelligible, carried by the warm Highland wind.

Hugo was speechless.

This is a bloody carnival! And at its heart is some pagan queen…

There she was in the middle of it all, covered in mud. Her dark brown hair was threaded with colorful wildflowers, her emerald-green eyes sparkling with an almost feral delight in the chaos as the sun set behind her. She looked more like a woodland fairy than a human.

Hugo watched in silence as she orchestrated games, leading the children in a circle around a particularly large puddle.

“All right, lassies and laddies! It is time for the next game, and it will be a good one! Just let me fetch some more buckets and—”

“Lady Inverhall,” Hugo’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the merriment like a cool knife.

He watched as the laughter died down quickly, heads turned toward him, and silence descended like a sudden shroud. Even the sun seemed to lower itself at the sound of his summons. Small whispers swirled around him, yet no one stepped forward.

“I demand to speak with the person in charge of this… this pandemonium!”

The creature turned then, her mud-streaked cheek only serving to highlight the vibrant green of her glittering eyes. She put her hands on her hips, a defiant posture that grated on his already frayed nerves. She moved away from the puddle, her walk a saunter that swayed from her hips.

Of course it’s her, he groaned inwardly.

This was not the quiet, demure widow he had envisioned. In the long carriage rides from London to Inverhall, he pictured a small, petite woman with a quiet disposition and plain eyes. Yet before him was a wild creature, completely untamed, as the sunlight seemed to radiate from within her.

She was a mess, yet so deeply enchanting that Hugo could not avert his gaze. She may as well have been a Highland mare, tearing up the hills, or a witch, capturing his attention despite his efforts to look away.

Surely this cannot be the widow…

“Ye daenae have to shout so loud; I can hear ye just fine,” she said, striding forward until she was in front of him. “And who might ye be, stormin’ through me gardens as if ye own the place?”

“These,” Hugo corrected, a muscle ticking in his already sore jaw, “are my gardens now.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in disbelief, but then she eyed him up and down, and her face fell.

“Oh no,” she breathed out as she smoothed down her skirts to little avail and tried to wipe some of the mud off her cheeks. “Oh, dear.”

“Oh, yes. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hugo Blythe, the Duke of Arrowfell,” he said with a sneer, his chin tilted up. “And now, as fate would have it, the new Marquess of Inverhall.”

Lady Inverhall sighed, a long, dramatic sound that grated on him. The sound may as well have been rusty nails on a metal pot. He ran a hand through his hair in a desperate attempt to anchor himself back to reality.

“Forgive me, me friends,” she called out to the assembled villagers and their children. “It seems our time has come to an end for today. The Marquess has arrived.”

A collective sound of oohs and aahs resounded around him. He turned his back quickly, pacing away from the crowd and into a set of hedges. He was in no mood for introductions, nor did he feel like getting mud on himself after hours of travel.

He looked over his shoulder to see Lady Inverhall quickly signaling to the staff, who had been hovering uncertainly near the garden’s entrance.

“Please, see our guests off the grounds, Mr. McDonough,” she softly instructed the butler who had escorted him. “It seems the day’s merriment has been brought to a sudden and unfortunate end.”

“Right away, M’Lady,” he said with a small bow. “I will coordinate with the other servants and see to it at once.”

As the villagers slowly began to disperse, an old, hobbling man whispered something to Lady Inverhall. Hugo watched, narrowed-eyed from behind a hedge, as she discreetly pressed a few coins into his wrinkled hand. He wiped a tear from his eye as she gave him a small hug.

While it was such an innocuous, kind gesture, it managed to annoy him even further.

Donating to charity is one thing, but this reckless, scattershot generosity only makes a mess of things. If I am going to sell this place properly, I need to stop these chaotic gatherings and restore the manor to a respectable, orderly state.

Once the last villager had departed, the garden became eerily quiet. Hugo approached Lady Inverhall, who led him silently into the house.

The drawing room, though still in disarray from what he could only assume was its usual daily use by various members of the community, was at least free of mud and wildflowers.

Lady Inverhall gestured to a worn armchair as she reached for a towel that was set on a nearby table to dry her hair. Yet, Hugo remained standing, his arms crossed in consternation. Tired as he was, he was in no mood to sit down.

“Now,” he demanded, his eyes fixed on her. “You will explain yourself, Lady Inverhall. What was that spectacle I just witnessed out there?”

She met his gaze without flinching, her green eyes boring holes into him as if what she had been doing was the most normal thing in the world. It was a look that pricked his skin, sending an irritated pang to his already heavy chest.

“It was a gathering, Yer Grace. For the villagers. When the weather is kind, I invite them to share in the bounty of the estate.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye, there is no bad weather, just bad clothing. And being outside and on these grounds gives them a bit of cheer, and I always thought that—”

“Cheer?” Hugo scoffed, gesturing vaguely toward her still-damp dress. “It was a pigsty! And entirely improper for a woman of your station. What sort of marchioness hosts a… a commune in her private gardens?”

“A marchioness who cares about her people,” she retorted, lifting her chin as a small smile tugged at her full lips.

“Unlike some dukes who seem to care only for their own comfort and convenience. Ye willnae find me perched on some armchair, barkin’ orders.

I take me duties as a marchioness very seriously.

And nothin’ has been more important to me than the happiness of me people, especially those who are less fortunate. ”

“Comfort and convenience, as you so aptly put it, madam, are not frivolities, but the pillars of order,” he shot back, his patience as thin as a sheet of mille-feuille. “And this… this arrangement is anything but orderly.”

“Perhaps ye prefer a sterile, empty house then, Yer Grace?” she challenged him. “One where no laughter echoes in the halls, and no good deed is done to benefit another person?”

“I expect a house to be conducted with order and proper decorum,” he replied, the intensity of his gaze making her flinch, albeit slightly.