Chapter 7
Hunter stepped into the foyer behind Lochlan and Keenan. Aunt Kit had taken the stairs two at a time and now crooked her finger at her sons.
“Get your asses into the study, young men. Your father will have something to say about you sneaking out.”
Keenan nodded solemnly. “Aye. He’ll likely say Good bloody job.”
“And Take me with you next time,” his brother finished.
Aunt Kit’s glower turned furious. “Which is why I’m going to be standing behind you, glaring at him until he learns some proper parenting skills.” As the chagrined lads filed past her, she rolled her eyes in Hunter’s direction and murmured, “Or at least learns how to fake it.”
Grinning, Hunter sent her a mock salute. “Good luck,” he whispered.
Before she stomped off, his aunt flicked her fingers toward the stairs. “You two go get cleaned up, you look like you’ve been walking for days—”
“We have,” he cut in with a lopsided grin.
“Then we’re going to want to hear this story. Meet us in the front drawing room for tea in—oh, better give me ninety minutes of shouting.”
Hunter winced. “Could we say two hours? I promised Helena a bath.”
Both of them turned to his companion who stood in her travel-stained clothing, hands clasped in front of her, staring at the carpet in a thoroughly un-Helena-like submissive pose.
Aunt Kit, bless her, nodded in understanding. “Take your usual room, and—Helena was it? We’ll need proper introductions later—can have the one beside you. Where the hell’s Titsworth? Titsworth!” she called as she stomped after her rascal sons. “We need you!”
And then she was gone, leaving Hunter alone in the foyer with Helena and a footman for a chaperone. No sooner had Kit disappeared then he felt Helena’s fingers tighten on his elbow. As he turned, she leaned in close and hissed at him, “I am sorry, your aunt is a duchess?”
He blinked as he faced her, uncertain he understood.
“Aye, the Duchess of Stroken. She’s also the Countess of Bonkinbone, which I think she’s more proud of.
When they go out in public and she’s angry at Uncle Thorne, she’ll have them announce her first with that title.
” He shrugged. “But aye, Uncle Thorne’s the Duke of Stroken. Surely I mentioned that.”
“No.” Her frown was fierce. “You told me we were going to visit your family in Stroken. I assumed you meant in the village of Stroken.”
What was the problem here? Hunter scooped up her hands and met her eyes, trying to understand. “Aye, but I told ye Uncle Thorne would be able to help us and send men with us to Islay to protect ye, once we were ready.”
“Hunter, you are the nephew of a duke.”
Oh, was that what this was about? “No’ by blood. I told ye, we call them all aunts and uncles and cousins—I’m no’ actually related to this one.”
“This one?” she hissed, her voice getting quieter as she became more panicky. “What do you mean, this one?”
“Well, Thorne and Uncle Fawkes are cousins—although Fawkes is a bastard, so they didn’t realize it for a while. And Kit is cousin to Aunt Georgia and Aunt Danielle, Fawkes’ wife—shite, this is complicated.”
Helena yanked him forward with her hold on his hands until they were nose to nose, those topaz eyes of hers glaring fiercely. “Hunter Lindsay, listen to me very carefully. Are you. Related. By blood. To a damned duke?”
“Well, Uncle Rourke would likely object to being called damned—”
“Hunter!”
He took pity on her. “Gabby and I are bastards, aye?” He shrugged, grinning unrepentantly. “We were raised by Uncle Rourke—our actual father’s younger brother—and Aunt Sophia. The governess. The Duchess of Exingham. Wife to the Duke of Exingham—didn’t I mention all this?”
Her eyes had gone wide and she stumbled back, struggling to release herself from his grip. “Oh Lord, you are the actual nephew of an actual duke?”
“What’s wrong?” He kept his hold on the startled woman and his smile slowly faded. “Helena, I’m still the same person. I’m sorry I didnae tell ye Uncle Rourke was a duke, but honestly, I dinnae see how it’s relevant.”
“Oh Lord,” Helena repeated—either a favorite phrase or she’d become swiftly devout—as she pulled one hand from his and pressed her palm to her forehead. “I have been traipsing around the Highlands with the nephew of a duke! I should have been acting like a lady!”
“Why?” He couldn’t help the way his lips twitched. “I havenae been acting like a lady.”
“Yes but you are a—”
“I’m no’ a lady,” Hunter said in mock sternness. “Or even a lord. I’m just me, and I like ye just fine the way ye are, Helena Lickfold.”
Her eyes went wide. “You do? You like—oh.”
He loved it when she flushed, her skin was just dark enough that it wasn’t immediately obvious to someone who didn’t know her well.
Only when one was close did one spot the shimmer of dark pink creeping up her cheeks.
And he was surprised—and delighted—to realize that he did in fact know her well enough to guess.
That was the moment when Titsworth toddled in. “Hello there, young Master Hunter. Welcome back to Stroken.”
For years, Titsworth had despaired of fitting what he considered the ideal image for a butler; he would powder his hair to appear older, and always had a long list of physical ailments he’d complain about to an interested young lad.
Now so many years had passed, his hair had finally turned silver, and his knee acted up on rainy days, and he was delightfully in his element.
Hunter’s face split into a grin and he pulled away from Helena to embrace the elderly butler, who pretended great affront at the breakdown of propriety by beating him about the head and shoulders with a shoe brush.
“Let go of me, you ruffian! You rogue! I will have you unceremoniously thrown out!”
“Oh damn.” Hunter straightened to wink at Helena. “If I’m going to be thrown out, I want it to involve much ceremony. Trumpets. Yodeling.”
“I’ll fetch the brass band,” she offered with a serious nod. “We can see if old Mons Meg in Edinburgh is available for the fanfare.”
“You found a wife as unrepentant as you, I see.” The old man made a show of straightening his utterly unruffled jacket. “I suppose congratulations are in order?”
“No’ quite, Titsworth. Mrs. Lickfold and I—”
“Oh, you have not yet come to an agreement?” He bowed stiffly to Helena. “Rake him over the coals, madam. Demand everything. He can well afford it, and he needs to be taken down a peg or three.”
Helena pressed her fingers to her lips—Hunter hoped it was to hide a smile—and murmured, “I shall keep that in mind, thank you.”
“And now,” the butler said with a groaning sigh as he turned creakily toward the stairs.
“We will get you settled. Her Grace said to put you two next door to one another, as if you could not find a way to get up to impropriety otherwise.” He sent a glare over his shoulder as he gripped the banister.
“Just remember that Their Graces practically wrote the book on impropriety.”
As he grumbled his way up the stairs, Hunter offered Helena his arm and lowered his voice. “Ye’ll have yer bath, lass, and I’ll no’ even bother ye with any impropriety.”
“Promise?” Helena murmured with a frown. “I will not be able to relax properly if I have to worry about you barging in…”
“Och, ye dinnae trust me? Besides, right up there with the only one bed at an inn, it’s an established fact that if ye arrive at a grand castle all bedraggled, then climb into a bathtub in the middle of a chapter, yer love interest will find an excuse to walk in—”
“Chapter?” His love interest shook her head, eyes narrowed. “Love interest? What are you talking about?”
With a grin, Hunter reached the top of the stairs and untangled his arm from hers…only far enough for him to place his hand on her lower back and steer her after Titsworth. “I dinnae ken, Helena. I’m often spouting nonsense.”
“Please, Hunter.” She turned panicky eyes his way. “We are in a ducal home. I am dirty and exhausted and desperately in need of new underclothes. I am worried about Mister and poor little Wulfie-kins. Promise me you will not barge in, and I promise…”
His brows had lifted and he slid his hand down so it rested atop the swell of her arse. “Aye?”
Her cheeks were definitely darker, and she wasn’t meeting his eyes. Instead she pulled away from him and hurried toward the guest bedchamber. As she reached the doorway, she turned back to glance at Titsworth, then at Hunter.
“I will let you wash my back next time,” she whispered, cheeks clearly burning.
Hunter burst into laughter. “Ye have yerself a deal, sweetheart. I’ll see ye in two hours.”
She was smiling slightly as she slid into her room and Hunter turned toward his usual room with a spring in his step.
Helena Lickfold might be a tad embarrassed, but she gave as good as she got. He loved that she wasn’t afraid to acknowledge what had passed between them, and flirted right back with him, even if she was obviously new to it.
Which made no sense. How had this Lickfold man managed to seduce and marry the woman if she clearly had no experience of being wooed?
Aye, there were plenty of things intriguing about her, and Hunter had two hours to contemplate them.
Helena hesitated at the door to the drawing room, sending the butler a questioning glance. He looked her up and down, then gave her an approving nod, which made her feel a little better.
Right then. Deep breath.
She was in the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Stroken, about to be presented formally to Their Graces for tea. Whatever being presented formally looked like. She’d never met a duke or duchess before!
Was it any wonder she was nervous?
It would perhaps have been easier to manage her ducally appropriate hairstyle with Mister’s help—her friend had been struggling with Helena’s unique hair texture for years—but the little maid who’d helped her bathe and dress had been quite a fount of information, and had assured her that this look was acceptable.