Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“What are you reading?” Hugo asked as he strode into the library nonchalantly, his arms crossed behind his back, his shoulders high.
His broad chest looked so comely, accentuated by the way he was walking.
I cannae stand how this man’s appearance distracts me so. I would wear a blindfold, but that would probably only entice him to tease me more.
Elspeth set down her book, a faint smile on her lips, as he walked toward her at a small desk. She glanced at a nearby clock, noting that it was early afternoon.
They had missed each other at breakfast, Mrs. Whipple informing her that he’d risen early to attend to some urgent business in his study. It was a piece of news she received with a quiet sense of relief. That relief promptly flew out the window at the sight of him.
“It’s a book on English flora, Yer Grace. Me maither loved plants, herbs, and flowers. I was curious what grows best in this area, as there can be subtle differences between our climates. I have always enjoyed botany and science, the earth’s healin’ properties. It is so powerful.”
“Ah, a fledgling botanist? Not just a Highland enchantress?” Hugo teased, walking over to a bookshelf at the far end of the room as Elspeth watched him retrieve an atlas.
“Many rumors have followed me at Inverhall, and now here. Why rely on liquor to ply one’s nerves when a good cup of steeped herbs works just as well, and without clouding one’s judgement? Me interests are rooted in science and good sense.”
“Rooted indeed,” he replied, flipping through the pages of his book.
Was that a joke?
She’d never heard him make a jest before. This was certainly a first.
“And have you put these remedies of yours to use?” the Duke asked, one brow lifting.
“Aye,” Elspeth said softly. “The people of Inverhall village took to me quickly. They enjoyed bein’ welcome on the grounds, sharin’ in the bounty of our harvest and fortune instead of bein’ excluded and hungry on the outskirts of the villages.”
“Then why the rumors?”
“The people of high standin’ in the surroundin’ estates and grand houses liked to tease me.
People like to do that to an outsider, someone new to their ways.
They said I was a daughter of a lowly laird who had married above her station.
That I must have employed some wiles to have secured such a fortuitous match. ”
His brow furrowed, his eyes darkening for a moment before he motioned her to continue.
She sighed. “They took many liberties with their stories. Paintin’ me as a witch, for makin’ teas to help young lassies with maladies. ‘Cause I was a woman of me own mind. Each one embellishin’ this point or that.”
“Either way, all that seems hardly a practical hobby for a marchioness,” he said as he sat down opposite her, splaying out his book as he turned the pages. “Most women take to stitching, piano forte, and the like, even Scottish ladies, I presume. Why dig around in the dirt?”
“Perhaps nae to ye,” she said. “To me maither, the power of the earth was everythin’. She saw beauty in the smallest things, the way a thistle flower opened, or a wild rose climbed a wall to bloom. I like workin’ with me hands.”
“I see,” he said as he pulled out a larger map tucked in the back of the atlas and splayed it out on the table.
Elspeth noted a passing glance at her hands, then at her body.
She wore a simple gown that day, soft blue and neatly tailored, the kind of dress that lent her a quiet elegance without demanding notice.
Her hair was pinned with care, each coil and twist held so firmly it seemed almost to defy the storm that churned within her.
When he returned his eyes to the map of Scotland, she said nothing more, lowering her gaze back to her studies. She reached for another volume. The room settled into a companionable hush, broken only by the faint rustle of Hugo unfolding his map and the gentle turn of pages beneath her fingers.
“I must go into town,” Hugo said at last, his tone cutting through the quiet like steel.
“There is a land agent I mean to consult regarding Inverhall. I will have its true worth set before me without speculation or pretense. The matter of repairs will be managed in due course, but not before the year’s end.
I intend to see the place sold, and swiftly.
I have no hunger for coin. I merely wish the business settled. ”
“Aye, I can tell ye the true value of the place,” Elspeth scoffed. She closed her book and looked at him, her green eyes glittering at the challenge. “I will accompany ye then, as yer resident expert.”
“There is no need. I am certain you have your studies to attend to.”
“It is nae trouble,” she insisted, closing her book and standing in front of him then. “Besides, I would like to visit a bookseller. I am curious about the latest novel everyone is talkin’ about.”
Hugo sighed. “Very well. But you will not cause a scene. Do you understand me, madam?”
“When have I ever caused a scene, Yer Grace?” she asked with a playful arch of her eyebrow. “I cannae think of what would give ye the impression I was capable of such things.”
“Do not test me, Lady Inverhall,” Hugo said, not answering her question as he led her out of the library. “Let us be on with it then.”
The prospect of a new book was so exciting that Elspeth almost forgot the Duke’s other business. Once inside, the carriage trotted down the street and into the heart of London. They stopped in front of a small bookshop, every inch of it covered in books.
Elspeth stepped into the narrow aisles with a kind of hushed reverence, her fingertips brushing lightly over the rows of worn leather spines as though greeting familiar companions. She breathed in deeply, savoring the must of paper and ink.
Behind her, the Duke followed at a measured pace, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his expression one of cool composure.
“Good day to you, sir. You must be Mr. Fitzwilliam?” Elspeth asked brightly, turning toward the counter with a smile.
The elderly bookseller’s lined face lit with warmth. “Indeed, madam. Mr. Fitzwilliam, at your service.”
“It is a true pleasure,” Elspeth replied. “I am Lady Inverhall, and this is His Grace, the Duke of Arrowfell.”
Mr. Fitzwilliam bowed, first to her, then more deeply to Hugo. “Your Grace, my lady, you honor my humble shop.”
The Duke inclined his head with polite formality.
“I have heard a great deal of you from my friend, the Marchioness of Wrotham,” Elspeth continued.
“Her ladyship is most gracious,” Fitzwilliam said with evident fondness. “I have had the privilege of supplying her household for some time now. And you, my lady, are most welcome.”
Elspeth’s countenance warmed further, soothed by his kindly, almost grandfatherly air. “Thank ye, sir. Tell me, have ye received any new stock from the mysterious authoress of The Highland Holiday?”
“Indeed, Lady Inverhall,” he said with a warm smile, his eyes twinkling. “A new shipment from the publisher just arrived yesterday with The Highland Hunt. I also have a great assortment of the latest poetry collections for you, if you would like to look.”
“Ye are too kind!”
“Your Grace,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said. “Is there anything I can help you find this afternoon as well?”
“Just perusing today, thank you,” he said as he wandered over to a section on military history, pulling down a volume on Napoleonic strategy.
She lingered in the aisle, watching him bend slightly over the leather-bound volume he had pulled from the shelf.
His broad shoulders hunched in concentration, fingers tracing the margins of the text as though memorizing every line.
The faint crease between his brows, the way his lips pressed together in thought—she had never seen him so absorbed, so entirely focused. It was arresting.
A part of her wanted to reach out, to disturb the moment, but another part simply delighted in watching him like this, so utterly engrossed that he did not even notice her approach.
“You like these sorts of books, Yer Grace?” she asked softly, stepping closer, her voice a gentle intrusion into his world.
“I have studied military strategy since I was a boy,” he replied, not looking up.
“Were they yer bedtime stories?” Elspeth asked lightly, the corner of her mouth tugging in a teasing smile. She caught the brief twitch at the corners of his lips, as if he were resisting a smile.
Hugo held the hefty volume with care, the leather cover worn and fragrant with age.
“This is an edition of Napoleon’s memoirs I have not encountered before.
An English translation, freshly imported from Paris,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.
“I find the best way to understand a battle is to study the mind of the man who fought it. Even if he was but a diminutive Frenchman.”
“The best way to understand a man is to understand the stories he loves to read,” Elspeth countered, sliding a small, well-worn book from a nearby shelf, a collection of Greek myths and folktales, its edges soft with use.
Hugo glanced at it, the faint curl of his lips betraying his scorn. “Superstition and fancy. Not much use for a man who seeks logic and order.”
“Logic and order cannae explain everything, can they? I ken the life of Napoleon well. He was a voracious reader of all things, includin’ poetry, drama, and mythologies.”
“Is that so?” His brow arched, and she could hear the hesitation, the unfamiliar softness in his voice.
“Logic and order daenae explain why people believe in witches, or why an old man might fill his life with books instead of ledgers,” she said, stepping closer, the sway of her hips unintentional yet deliberate.
He looked at her then, from his book to hers, eyes narrowing slightly, curiosity replacing his earlier dismissal. “Did Napoleon read Scottish fairytales?”