A Highland Duke to Claim Her Heart (Love and Yearning in the Ton #5)

Chapter 1

The sun was high in the sky, warming the back of his neck, as Ewan Dunmore dug the shovel into the firm earth. The soil was good this time of year, damp enough from the spring rains that it gave easily, but not so damp that it wouldn’t hold.

He had learned this the hard way over the years, but this afternoon, as the sounds of the men working filled the air around him—picks into stone, shouts of laughter, grunts as men hauled up the broken rocks—he was confident that the drainage system would be repaired without too much hassle.

Ewan leaned against the shovel for a moment, wiping his hand across his brow, which was covered in a sheen of sweat, and looked around.

He and half a dozen local tenants were out in the field, which stretched for miles in every direction, the green patchwork giving way to scarlet and purple mountains that rose up dramatically throughout the Scottish Highlands.

The fields of different tenants were marked with low stone walls, separating the O’Murphy tract from the Heaney field. On a distant mountain, sheep were grazing, little flecks of white against the vibrant purple.

In the other direction, atop a low hill, was Calder Castle. The castle was so large, that even from this distance, he could make out the sandstone towers and turrets, the flag with his family’s coat of arms flapping in the breeze from the West Tower.

From behind him, he heard a shout. “Your Grace!”

He turned to see Mr. Gregory Lawton waving at him. “I think we got the blockage in the drain cleared!”

“Very good!” Ewan called back. “Was it a collapse of the pipe?”

“Aye, sir, it was!”

“Then I will send several carts to clear away the debris,” Ewan said. “And order more stone from the quarry as well.”

After another quick catch of his breath, he turned back and continued to shovel into the dirt. Even with the drain cleared, this section of the pipe would also need replacing, and there were still hours of work left ahead of him.

Already, he was covered in dirt up to his knees, his jacket abandoned over a nearby bramble of thistles, his cravat tossed aside as well. If anyone had seen him, they would have no idea that he was the Duke of Calder, and not another farm laborer.

But this was how Ewan preferred it. He was much more comfortable working the land with his tenants, rather than ruling from on high in his castle. This was what a real duke did, if you asked him. He tended to his land and his people.

From behind him, he heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching, and he turned back toward the road, which cut directly through the fields, to see a rider approaching. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he squinted at the figure, until the shape of him became clear.

Smiling, he raised his tanned hand in greeting, setting down the shovel and making his way back to the road, where his friend and estate manager, Alaric Greybourne, reined in the horse and came to a stop.

Alaric was tall and rangy, with sandy brown hair that looked perpetually wind-tousled—especially after he had been riding—and warm brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing. Despite his height, however, Ewan still towered over him.

But Ewan dwarfed everyone. He was used to it by now, the way his height and bulk seemed to always take up too much space, the way his long, dark hair and weathered skin made him appear practically wild.

Maybe that was why he preferred to be outside, in the fields, rather than in his castle. He didn’t seem so unnaturally large, out of place, and uncouth in the wide open countryside.

“Good afternoon,” Alaric said, as he swung down from his horse. “I see that you have decided to be a field hand again.”

“The duke is the part I am play-acting,” Ewan said with a small smile. “The field hand is the part I was actually born for.”

Alaric laughed and shook his head. “Just do not say that around your brother. He is already resentful enough that he was not born the eldest son.”

Ewan frowned. “Christopher is not resentful,” he said. “A little restless, perhaps, and directionless… but not resentful.”

Alaric raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” Ewan insisted. Alaric continued to look skeptical, so Ewan put a bracing hand on his shoulder. “I know my brother’s exploits concern you—”

“It is for you that I am concerned,” Alaric said. “The man is eight-and-twenty and acts as if he is eighteen! Always gallivanting off to London to gamble and drink and Lord knows what. I fear that he will cause you some irreparable damage, or that you will have to pay off his debts again.”

“That was one time,” Ewan said quickly, his heart racing at the memory of when he’d had to bail his brother out from the Bow Street Runners after a creditor accused him of not paying his loan.

“And yes, Christopher is not always wise in his choices. But he will be married in just a few weeks, and then he will be forced to make smarter decisions. He will have a wife to care for, and then a child.”

“Let us hope he does not ruin them both,” Alaric muttered darkly.

“Come now, Alaric, let us not assume the worst,” Ewan said, although he could not help but feel a flutter of the same fear. He’d had his own doubts, when his brother had come asking him to help arrange a match for him.

“I must have a fortune, if I am to make my own way,” Christopher had said, just three months ago, pacing back and forth in front of Ewan’s desk in his study, the crackle of the fire the only sound other than Christopher’s footsteps.

“I stand to inherit nothing, only the meager allowance that you bestow upon me.”

“It is hardly meager,” Ewan had pointed out, but his brother had merely shrugged this off.

“You would not be able to live off of it,” Christopher had said. “And neither can I. I cannot invest it, or start my own venture. I need a woman with a dowry, someone who will help me to make my mark upon the world, to help me build a legacy.”

It was this, perhaps more than anything, that had convinced Ewan to help his brother find a wife. He did want Christopher to build a legacy. It would be good for him, he knew, to have ownership over something.

The waywardness his brother had heretofore exhibited was, in Ewan’s opinion, a result of his lack of responsibility. If he were to try and build an enterprise, he would rise to the occasion.

At least, that was what Ewan hoped.

And he very much hoped he was not condemning this poor woman, the daughter of the Earl of Pembury, to a life as the wife of a gambler and layabout.

He had to believe his brother would step up. He had to.

With some effort, Ewan forced a smile. “We should be joyful. A wedding will soon take place. We have every reason to feel optimistic about the future.”

The edge of Alaric’s mouth twitched. “I would much prefer if it were your wedding that we were preparing for,” he said. “It is after all, high time that you—”

“No,” Ewan snapped, before his friend could say another word. A strange feeling had come over him, like he was going to be sick, and it made an unjustifiable anger flare in his belly. He took a deep breath, calming himself, and when he spoke again, his tone had returned to normal. “I am not ready.”

Alaric looked suddenly apologetic. “Of course,” he murmured. “I should not have pushed. I am sorry.”

“Do not apologize,” Ewan said. “It is only that Margaret’s death still seems so fresh…”

He sighed, turning away to look out over the fields again, which were shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. “I know that five years may seem like many to you, but to me, it still feels as if it were only a few months ago.”

“I understand,” Alaric murmured. “I will not speak of it again until you are ready. I only think, sometimes, that little Annabelle deserves a mother.”

“That she does,” Ewan conceded. He then squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Now, shall I show you where the pipe collapsed? We will need to be in touch with our man at the quarry…”

Several hours later, after clearing away the rest of the collapsed pipe, Ewan and Alaric made their way back to the castle.

Alaric had managed to avoid any hard, physical labor himself, but Ewan was covered in a thin layer of sweat and dirt.

He was exhausted but happy, the way he always was when he had been out working.

He would be much more tired had he spent all night socializing at a ball.

When they arrived back at the castle, the sun was low in the sky, casting a red glow over the sandstone walls, illuminating the ivy that crawled up the outside, and the drawbridge of the small moat.

Inside, the hall was cool and dark, the flagstones ringing out as he strode over to the staircase, past marble busts, suits of armor, and tall oil portraits of his ancestors on the wall.

“I shall check on Annabelle before I bathe for dinner,” he told Alaric.

“I will come with you,” Alaric said, somewhat to Ewan’s surprise, and his friend followed him up the wide staircase to the second floor, where they walked along the long, carpeted corridor to the nursery.

Ewan heard his daughter’s voice from inside even before he opened the door, and when he did, it was to find her sitting in her small wooden desk, reciting Latin prepositions, while her governess, Miss Lillian Ashworth, nodded encouragingly.

“Navigabimus, navigabi—Papa!” Annabelle shrieked, the moment she saw Ewan standing in the doorway. Abandoning her lesson entirely, she scrambled out from behind the desk and hurled herself toward him, catching him around the middle and burying her face in his shirt. “Papa, I missed you!”

“It has only been a few hours,” Ewan said in surprise, as he patted his daughter on the back a little awkwardly.

He always felt slightly uncomfortable with these large displays of affection.

He wanted very badly to return them, but he did not always know how.

Showing so much did not come naturally to him.

“But I drew something for you!” Annabelle said, looking up at him with eyes, eager eyes.

Ewan felt a shudder go through him. It was always like this, when he looked into his daughter’s eyes.

They were exactly the same as his late wife’s had been, the same startling green.

When he saw them, he felt as if no time had passed, as if Margaret was still alive, and it disconcerted him more than he could ever explain to anyone else, the way love and grief, guilt and resentment, burned through him all at once.

“Mistress Annabelle has been very excited to show you her drawing,” Miss Ashworth said.

She had stood as well, and she smiled as she held out the piece of paper, although, as Ewan took it, he couldn’t help but notice that her eyes slipped to the door, where Alaric stood waiting, and the faintest blush crept over her cheeks.

It was a drawing in charcoal of four stick figures standing on what appeared to be a castle rampart. There was a woman, two men, and one girl. Each had been labeled: Miss Ashworth, Papa, Uncle Alaric, and Me. Atop the whole drawing, Annabelle had written: The Whole Family.

As Ewan gazed down at it, contradictory emotions swirled inside of him. He was proud, of course, at his five-year-old daughter’s nascent drawing abilities.

And happy to think that she considered Miss Ashworth and Alaric family. But he couldn’t help but notice that there was no Mama in the picture, and Alaric’s words from earlier came painfully back to him: Little Annabelle deserves a mother.

Am I depriving my daughter of a mother by refusing to consider remarrying? He wondered. Am I being selfish not to think of her needs above my own?

It wasn’t the first time he had wondered this, but with Christopher’s upcoming marriage, it had been on his mind of late. He wanted to give Annabelle everything, to ensure she had the best childhood and life possible. And maybe a mother was an essential part of that.

Before he could dwell on this any longer, however, there was a knock on the door, and a footman entered holding a silver tray with a letter on it.

“This just came for you, Your Grace,” he said, bowing and holding out the tray. “It came by express.”

Ewan frowned as he took it. As he recognized his brother’s handwriting on the outside, his feeling of trepidation only increased. Ripping open the letter, he read it quickly.

With every line, his stomach seemed to hollow out.

Dearest Brother,

I hope that this letter finds you well—better, in fact, than I have been.

I fear that I have news you will find most unpleasant.

My upcoming nuptials have thrown into sharp relief how little of the world I have seen and how soon my ability to see it will be curtailed.

In light of this, I have decided to set out on a short trip to the Continent, where I might enjoy the last few weeks of my freedom away from the prying, gossiping eyes of London.

A man, after all, must have his freedom, and sow his wild oats, before he is shackled forever in the state of matrimony.

I will, of course, return before the wedding, to meet my blushing bride at the altar! Fear not, brother, this is not an escape from the wedded bliss I know awaits me, but merely a jaunty sojourn across the sea to taste the last, delicious fruits of the bachelor’s life.

Your ever loving brother,

Christopher

Ewan’s face was hot and his hands were shaking when he looked up from the letter. He knew he could not say anything in front of Annabelle, but she clearly could read his expression, because she said, “Is everything well, Papa?”

“Y-yes,” Ewan said, touching the top of his daughter’s head. “Now you go back to your lesson. I will see you tonight for dinner.”

It was only once he had left the nursery that he handed the letter to Alaric, who was watching him with concern. Alaric’s mouth fell open as he read the letter.

“But… He cannot do this,” he whispered. “The bride and her mother are arriving within three days!”

“I know,” Ewan said grimly. “I must fix this. Before anyone discovers the truth.”