THREE
Matt stood in a deep window embrasure, admiring the landscape—rolling hills and farmland stretching to the North Sea in the distance. The view from Avoch certainly wasn’t lacking.
If he leaned to the right, he could see the stables. They had appeared in good order when he arrived—stalls neatly scrubbed and leather tack well-oiled—but he would need to conduct a thorough survey.
Avoch Castle itself seemed serviceable enough.
True, it was no modern Palladian palace like Dunmore with its acres of marble, elegant furniture, and symmetrical doorways.
But Matt rather appreciated the castle’s coziness.
Its ancient furniture and oak-paneled walls felt lived in.
An ancient edifice that still held its head high.
Gray, of course, had opinions.
“Dreadful draft in here, particularly for March,” he said from where he stood before the guttering fire.
“The cold has lingered this year,” Matt countered. “I doubt every March is this brisk.”
Gray grunted. “You are going to pay a small fortune in coal.”
“Well, it will be my fortune.”
The clock over the mantel ticked.
“Appalling that the staff were not prepared for our arrival,” Gray said with distaste.
“As the butler mentioned, Colonel Gordon told them we would arrive this coming Friday. We are days earlier than anticipated, so their lack of preparation is understandable. If you must find fault, blame me. I should have sent a note ahead informing the staff.”
But Matt had forgotten to do so. Or rather, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.
He had never maintained his own household.
Moreover, he rarely left Dunmore, so he didn’t navigate the minutiae of travel regularly.
And when he did travel, Gray handled matters.
But this time around, Gray had stepped back, permitting Matt to take the reins, as it were, with rather disappointing results.
All facts Gray reveled in pointing out.
“How could you have neglected to inform the staff?” Gray groused, content to move from condemning Avoch to denigrating Matt himself. “It is an appalling lack of consideration. Honestly, you are capable with horses, but simple human courtesies escape you.”
Matt pinched his lips shut, as there was no rebuttal to be given. He had long recognized this pattern of their relationship—Matt made errors in judgment, and Gray rubbed his nose in the consequences.
Growing up, Gray had viewed Matt as competition. Why, Matt would never understand. Gray was the golden child and heir; Matt merely the misshapen, unwanted spare.
Their mother had treated the black slugs that inched up walls in spring with less revulsion than Matt.
He had once, in a bid for her attention, made the mistake of touching her with his stump.
She had screamed and flinched away as if scalded.
Cursed child, his nurse had hissed, dragging him away by his solitary elbow.
Matt shook off the memory.
“I fear you will end up swindled of every penny and wandering the moors in search of sustenance,” Gray forged on.
Gray viewed Matt’s mistakes as proof of his inability to succeed on his own. Matt saw them as evidence of how thoroughly he himself had abdicated the ordering of his life.
A reality Matt was attempting to change.
“Please stop, Gray.” Matt sliced his hand in an arc. “Yes, I erred. But I refuse to let a solitary lapse of courtesy deter me. I will apologize and do better in the—”
“Apologize? To your servants?” Gray lifted an appalled eyebrow. “You will do no such thing.”
He tugged at his neckcloth, loosening it slightly.
Matt’s brother exuded power and strength.
Everything from the strong line of his jaw to the breadth of his shoulders proclaimed him to be a man who didn’t suffer fools.
Constricting clothing, however, was his Achilles Heel.
Were they at Dunmore, Gray would have already shed his neckcloth, coat, and waistcoat.
It was a testament to his unease at Avoch that he hadn’t done so.
The castle might be Matt’s new abode, but his brother certainly didn’t feel comfortable here.
Matt couldn’t decide if this were good or bad. Surely if Gray felt restless at Avoch, he would depart for Dunrobin soon. But once his brother left, Matt would be truly on his own for the first time in his life.
A fascinating mix of excitement and terror zipped down his spine at the thought.
At least Gray wasn’t walking with a limp this afternoon. That was always a clanging harbinger of His Grace’s moods.
Matthias had been born missing everything below the elbow of his right arm.
However, Gray had been born with his right leg two inches shorter than his left.
A taller heel on his right boot balanced the imperfection and corrected his gait, but when angered or upset, his steps wavered, and a pronounced limp appeared.
Two brothers exhibiting deformities from birth underscored why so many assumed the Kinsey line to be cursed.
Gray’s defect wasn’t immediately noticeable, and therefore, not much commented upon.
Being a duke excused a great many eccentricities.
Out the window, an ocean wind bent the birch trees and ruffled the heather. A few stray raindrops spattered on the glass panes.
Had the woman Matt unmired earlier reached her destination before the worst of the weather arrived? He knew better than to voice the question to Gray.
But . . . she lingered in his senses. The pleasant timbre of her voice.
The direct honesty of her gaze. Her eyes hadn’t drifted to his missing arm.
She hadn’t demurred or refused his offer of help, as if worried he would be unable to accomplish the task.
No, she had simply assumed that he was capable.
Truthfully, Matt couldn’t remember the last person who had shown such unflagging faith in him. Even his younger sister, Isla, and her husband, Tavish—his two favorite people in the whole world—made assumptions about his abilities.
Surely the unknown woman’s resemblance to Miss Moulton was merely happenstance. Why would a Society lady and renowned beauty be in this remote corner of Scotland, masquerading as a servant or prosperous farmer’s wife? The idea was absurd.
But assuming the woman lived in this area, Matt might encounter her again.
Granted, an introduction wouldn’t be possible.
Regardless of her past, the woman had been no lady, of that he was certain.
The chasm between their stations was vast. However, he could mention the incident on the road to his new butler or the housekeeper and perhaps glean some information.
The events of the day merely underscored the rightness of Matt’s course. No, it would not be easy, but he needed to seize the reins of his own destiny . . . and yes, it was difficult to shake the horse metaphor. However, if—
A polite knock sounded.
“Come,” Gray called.
Matt bit his lip to stop a sigh.
Seizing the reins would be easier if his older brother didn’t monopolize them.
The butler, Rawkin, stepped into the room.
“Your Grace. Your lordship.” He bowed. “Mrs. Armstrong has been located.”
When they first arrived, the butler had informed them—somewhere in the midst of his stammering, hand-wringing apologies—that the housekeeper had stepped out on an errand and would return shortly.
After the sangfroid of McPherson, Gray’s butler at Dunmore, Rawkin appeared a trembling vine.
The man likely jumped at a cat knocking over its milk dish.
As someone who had spent his life flinching, Matt felt a keen sense of kinship with him. He and the butler would rub along well.
Rawkin stepped further into the room, a woman at his heels. Mrs. Armstrong, Matt assumed.
He barely stopped a startled inhale.
It was her. The lady from the road. Blue eyes under delicate brows. Rich brown hair pulled into a tidy chignon at her nape.
Not Miss Cecily Moulton nor Mrs. George Miller.
Mrs. Armstrong, it seemed.
And yet . . . she had Miss Moulton’s willowy height. So tall, her forehead topped Matt’s shoulder.
He was rather afraid to breathe.
Miss Moulton, well-bred lady and London beauty, would not be employed as a housekeeper in the remote Scottish Highlands, the logical part of his brain insisted. The very idea is absurd.
Right.
He needed to remember that.
“Well.” Gray surveyed Mrs. Armstrong from booted feet to pinned hair. “I cannot say I expected to encounter you again.”
“Myself, as well, Your Grace. Welcome to Avoch.” She curtsied—an elegant swoop up and down. Matt couldn’t see the housekeeper at Dunmore performing anything half as competent. “My lord.” She bobbed Matt another curtsy.
It took every ounce of Matt’s rational sense not to bow in return. A gentleman did not bow to servants.
However, this woman was unlike any housekeeper he had ever encountered. Yes, she was dressed simply and neatly, as befitted her station. But there was a ladylike breeding in her posture, in the poised lift to her chin. Not to mention her age. She couldn’t be a year past thirty.
Five minutes ago, he had been pondering his stupidity in thinking this woman could be Cecily Moulton, but now . . .
How could she be anyone but?
“I thank ye again for your assistance earlier, my lord,” she said to Matt, brogue light and clear.
Except, Matthias was certain Miss Moulton had not been Scottish. So again . . . he must be mistaken.
“Pardon? Ye are acquainted?” Rawkin’s brows drew down. Like Mrs. Armstrong, the butler’s Scottish brogue rolled over consonants and twisted vowels.
“I encountered His Grace and Lord Matthias just before the crossroads,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “Lord Matthias was kind enough to free the gig from a wee bog.”
Silence descended.
Not Cecily Moulton, his logical mind chanted.
And yet, Matthias couldn’t stop staring, even though he knew others found his locked gaze unsettling.
Look away, his brain pleaded. Cease this awkward behavior.
Once again, he was across the room, studying Miss Moulton’s fine-boned face and feeling helplessly out of his depth.
Cecily’s heart galloped in her chest.
His Grace—not Mr. Haughty as she had supposed, though the moniker remained apt—surveyed her as if she were an annoying mosquito buzzing about his head. The sneering lift of his top lip loudly declared his opinion of her person, deportment, and competence.
Lord Matthias, however . . .
He studied her for a long moment. Almost unnervingly so, before heaving a deep breath and looking away, a crease between his brows.
Unfortunately, he remained just as handsome as on the boggy road.
More so now that she had a clear view of him—strong brow and jaw, full lips.
His was an appealing face. The sort to set flutterings in a lady’s chest and spark unhelpful longings.
Bitter experience said nothing good came of such emotions.
They would prove thorny for her employer, particularly when coupled with his soldierly heroics.
And yet . . . Lord Matthias did not play the part of a hero. Not here, at least. He stood to one side, deferring the limelight to his elder ducal brother, a hesitancy in his manner that hadn’t been present earlier.
The difference puzzled her.
“Our carriage, trunks, and servants should arrive tomorrow morning.” His Grace looked at Cecily.
“I can’t imagine that Avoch regularly accommodates so many servants at once, but I anticipate you will manage.
” His skeptical tone implied the direct opposite.
The subtle threat was clear: Demonstrate your mettle, or you will be sent packing.
Cecily bristled.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said smoothly. “We shall have all in readiness. I will send up a tea tray momentarily with a light repast.”
Grayburn nodded. “That will be all.”
Cecily curtsied. Rawkin bowed.
“A moment, if you please, Mrs. Armstrong,” Lord Matthias said.
Grayburn lifted his chest on an aggrieved sigh.
Instead of ignoring his brother’s irritation, Lord Matthias appeared unsettled.
He tucked his left arm behind his back, but not before Cecily noted a tremor in his hand.
Why would his own brother render Lord Matthias so nervous?
He was a former soldier with a spine of steel, was he not?
Perhaps this was his true wound . . . not the physical loss of his arm, but a festering of the nerves and intellect.
She had witnessed it before in soldiers who had seen too much of battle and death.
It pained her . . . the thought that this specific man—one who would stop to assist a servant far below his station—had been so injured.
Stop this, she ordered. He is your employer. Do not romanticize his life.
“My lord?” she asked after seconds passed, and Lord Matthias remained staring at her.
His shoulders went back. “I should like a tour of the castle. Please come find me tomorrow morning.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“I will happily arrange a turn about the gardens and stables, as well, my lord,” Rawkin offered.
“That would be appreciated, Rawkin.”
Silence.
Lord Matthias appeared lost. Hesitant, even. Had he more to say? Cecily couldn’t make heads or tails of his manner.
“If that will be all, my lord . . .” Rawkin began.
His lordship took in a deep breath. “One last question.” A pause. “What are your Christian names?”
Cecily blinked. The question was . . . unusual. Grayburn shot his brother a wide-eyed, appalled look, as if Lord Matthias had invited his staff to join them for tea.
“Robert, my lord,” Rawkin answered. “Robert Rawkin.”
All eyes swiveled to her.
“Cecily,” she said. “Cecily Armstrong, my lord.”
“That will be all.” Lord Matthias nodded once before turning to gaze out the window.
Rawkin stepped out of the room, leaving Cecily to quietly close the door behind them.
As the latch snicked shut, she caught Grayburn’s words—
“She is far too young and comely, Matt. People will talk. You will hire a new housekeeper immediately.”