Chapter Twelve #2
A bitter smile twisted his lips as he strode through toward Diantha’s chamber. He hadn’t the least idea what to say to her. I know you don’t want me, but I’ll look after you anyway sounded as if he’d adopted a stray dog.
She deserved a true husband, one who did not have infidelity in his blood.
He realized he stood before her door and still did not know what he could say or do that would offer her comfort. He had to try, though.
She replied as soon as he tapped on the wooden panel. “Come in.”
He squared his shoulders and entered.
She sat at her dressing table. Her glance flickered to his reflection in the mirror, then back to her swollen cheek. “I don’t know how I’m going to hide this at dinner.”
“Never mind dinner.” He approached her gingerly, prepared for tears. “May I?”
She allowed him to turn her about on the chair until she faced him. A livid, hand-shaped welt rose on her fair skin. His throat closed. “Oh love, I’m so sorry.”
“For what? You’re the one who stopped her.” A half-smile faltered on the undamaged side of her face. “Luckily I don’t bruise easily.”
He eased her to her feet and into his arms. He stroked her hair as he murmured, “For everything. For ruining your life with a marriage you didn’t want. For not telling your family to go to the devil when they sent that arrogant telegram. For permitting Iona to run roughshod over you.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, unmoving. Then she took a deep breath. “You’re not the man I thought you were.”
Kieran swallowed. He deserved no better, but the assessment still hurt. “I know, but perhaps we can come to some arrangement where you would not have to see me—”
Her finger against his lips stopped him. “You don’t understand. I thought this marriage would be hopeless. It’s not. You don’t tell me what I must do or say or wear. This house party proves that we can work together when we need to.”
She touched her cheek. “You stopped Mama from hitting me. Even Granny could never accomplish that.”
Then she sighed. “Speaking of the house party, I must find a way to cover this up. Florette is bringing ice, but I’m not sure it will work quickly enough.”
“I shall tell our guests you’re indisposed.”
She nibbled her lip, an expression of longing on her face. “An evening alone sounds tempting.”
“Then turn around. I’ll unfasten your stays and you can crawl into bed. MacAdam can send up a tray.”
“Kieran, I did mean an evening alone. By myself.” She regarded him anxiously. “My face hurts and I truly have a wretched headache.”
He brushed her mouth with his. “That is exactly what I meant, my dear. With a houseful of guests, one of us has to appear at dinner.”
He freed her from her corset and even helped her with her nightgown, amused at the idea of helping his wife into her garments.
When Florette arrived, bearing a bowl of ice and a clean towel, she gave a nod of approval. “It is very good, milord. Her ladyship needs a night of quiet. I shall convey to MacAdam the request for a tray and bring it up later.”
“Would you also ask Poole for some of the dowager’s salicin? We always keep a good supply on hand and it will ease her ladyship’s headache.”
He left her to change for dinner, then returned. Diantha drowsed, curled up on her side beneath the sheet. On a chair beside the bed, the ice-filled towel now rested in the bowl in easy reach of her hand.
“Is there anything else I can send for to make you comfortable?”
She lifted her head slightly. “Would you—would you mind brushing my hair?”
Wordlessly, he collected her brush and seated himself on the other side of her bed. She closed her eyes and sighed as he carefully drew the bristles through the long brown strands.
“That feels lovely.” A smile played about her lips. “I thought so the first time you brushed my hair.”
The morning after their wedding, when he’d decided to seduce her.
As her shoulders relaxed under his ministrations, he realized that he found the action far more gratifying this time.
Perhaps he should brush her hair more often.
His cock hardened as he recalled the sensation of warm silk flowing over his skin when they made love.
A soft snore broke the silence. Diantha had fallen asleep.
* * *
He looked in on her again before retiring, expecting that she slept on. Instead she sat up in bed, working on her sketch pad. She closed it and tucked it beside the bed. “I was sound asleep for hours, now I’m wide awake.”
“Have a brandy.” So saying, Kieran slipped into his own chamber and filled two snifters with the amber liquid. He returned, giving one to her.
“You look much better.” As she had predicted, the mark had faded without leaving signs of darkened skin.
“I feel better.” She sipped carefully, then sighed. “But I don’t look forward to spending the day with my mother and Iona tomorrow.”
“You could come watch the shoot.” He blurted the words out without thinking, but the idea pleased him considerably. “If you are not too squeamish.”
“I fear I’ve never fainted at the sight of blood. Most indelicate of me.” Her face clouded. “But I cannot leave the other ladies, it would be uncivil.”
“It would guarantee a reprieve from the two dragons.” He leaned forward, using his most coaxing smile. “I’ll make it clear that I, the lord and master, insist that you come watch.”
She wavered. “I should feel more comfortable if I had another female. Could I invite your Cousin Francesca?”
“A first-rate idea! She herself learned to shoot as a girl; she can tell you what’s going on.”
“Never mind that, she can tell me what to wear.”
* * *
Diantha woke up in a much better mood than she had expected. Her face still felt stiff, but all visible sign of her mother’s abuse had disappeared. The quiet evening and Kieran’s kindness had restored her peace of mind.
She needed it, for when she went down to breakfast, she discovered the exquisitely appointed salon awash in tartan.
Her Scottish guests nearly all sported some form of the pattern, in a variety of colors.
The women wore sashes diagonally across their torsos and pinned at the shoulder, which was unexceptionable. The men however—
Diantha swallowed. She had seen portraits of Kieran’s father and grandfather in their kilts, but that did not prepare her for the sight of an entire room filled with males in a state of half-undress. Even covered with stockings, the myriad of calves exposed by the knee-length kilts unnerved her.
Someone tapped her shoulder. She turned her head to find Francesca Urquhart regarding her with twinkling eyes. “If you’re just going to stare, don’t block the entry. Some of us wish to eat.”
Diantha accompanied the other woman to the sideboard. “Is someone playing a joke?”
Francesca repressed her laughter. “Don’t say that too loudly. Wearing tartan on the first day of shooting is a Duncarie tradition.” She helped herself to eggs and smoked salmon. “Gives the Scots a chance to show off before the English.”
Diantha nodded at the sash of muted blue and green draped over her friend’s shoulder. “You’re from Yorkshire.”
“But my husband was an Urquhart.” The other woman stroked the woolen length tenderly. “He had this cut from his own plaid and gave it to me after we married. It means as much to me as my wedding ring.”
They found places beside Diantha’s grandmother. Due to her age, she was the only person waited on at breakfast. As the footman presented the elderly woman with a heaping plate, Diantha realized even the servants wore kilts. “This is dreadful! I don’t know where to look.”
Granny’s gaze rested on the retreating servant’s legs with every evidence of pleasure. “I think it’s a splendid notion.”
Francesca nudged her. “You could try looking at your husband.”
Diantha did, and forgot about food. The gray background of the Rossburn tartan suited his dark hair. The plaid on his upper body emphasized his broad shoulders and the belt at his middle showed off his narrow waist.
As he strolled to the sideboard, she noticed nearly every other female eye in the room riveted on him as well. Diantha stabbed at a kipper. She was not leaving her husband unwatched until he changed into something that inspired less attention.
Some of her guests expressed surprise or even outright disapproval when he announced that Diantha would accompany the men. He ignored everyone, however, and at ten o’clock sharp, a footman assisted Diantha and Francesca down from the carriage onto the immense moor.
The shooting party itself disappointed her. Kieran and his guests stood at designated spots and waited for the beaters to drive the birds in their direction. The constant blasts nearly deafened her and smoke from the powder used to fire the cartridges formed a miasma around the gunners.
“How can you stand the noise?” She had to raise her voice to ask the question of Francesca.
“I got used to volleys of all sorts while married to a military man.” She shook her head.
“And this is only a small party. It’s amazing that the entire sporting community of Britain can hear anything at all.
” The two women wandered far enough behind the guns for rational conversation.
Diantha occupied herself with her sketchbook while Francesca pulled a crochet hook and thread out of her pocket.
When he approached them some time later, Kieran burst out laughing.
“The ground doesn’t look very suitable for such ladylike occupations.”
Diantha grasped his outstretched hand for assistance as she got to her feet and waited for him to help Francesca. “Nonsense. We had this comfortable blanket to rest upon.”
“I hope you aren’t too bored.” He offered each of them an arm. “I should have thought before I invited you.”
“A morning spent in fresh air is far more attractive to me today than staying in the drawing room.” Kieran grinned down at her. “I thought you might say that.”