TWENTY-FOUR
Was the human body capable of containing such happiness?
Riding back to Avoch, Matt’s heart thrummed in his chest and joy sang in his blood, both pounding with such force, he feared his body was unequal to containing them.
Cecily had said yes.
They would spend their lives together.
Love cloaked the world in a soft, glorious glow.
He ignored the threads of doubt that lingered. Words that whispered, yes, Cecily had agreed, but it was under duress. That she was frightened and willing to do anything to protect herself from Drempton’s reach. Matt just happened to offer a convenient solution.
He also avoided a harsher truth; he would have her regardless.
He loved her so desperately, he didn’t care how their marriage came about.
They could negotiate living as husband and wife once they were married.
He certainly wouldn’t force her to grace his bed.
But in the meantime, she would be ensconced within the walls of his title, name, and wealth.
What good was life as the son of a duke if he couldn’t use that position to protect those he loved?
He and Cecily would marry here at Avoch. After securing her as his wife, they would journey to Dunmore and confront Grayburn. From there, they could devise a plan to deal with Drempton.
Grooms milled about the stables, calling orders, as Matt and Cecily cantered up. Matt’s eyebrows raised as the activity was unusual. A groom walked past them, leading Gray’s large hunter into a stall.
“Grayburn is here,” Cecily hissed at his side.
“It would appear so.”
Damn and blast!
Matt had hoped to have more time to formulate a plan before confronting his brother.
They both dismounted, and Matt turned to Cecily, speaking quietly. “Would you like to share our good news with Gray?”
Cecily’s face went white. “The thought terrifies me. He will be angry.”
Gray would be angry. That was certain. Matt longed to pull her into his arms, but resisted given the number of eyes on them. He wasn’t going to risk her reputation before announcing their betrothal.
“I will speak with Gray. You needn’t fear.” He leaned toward her. “He can’t harm you, my love. He can’t threaten or expel you. I won’t let him.”
Her gaze said she wished to argue, but she curtsied instead—Matt hating every beat of her subservient up and down—and turned for the servants’ entrance at the back of the castle. Normally, Matt would follow her, but today he chose the front door.
Rawkin waited for him in the entrance, his body jittery with nerves. “Thank goodness, you’ve arrived, my lord. His Grace has—”
“I recognized Grayburn’s hunter in the stables.” Matt shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Is my brother in high dudgeon?”
Rawkin nodded, tight-lipped.
“I’ll see to it.” Matt took the stairs two at a time. “Please send up a tea tray, Rawkin.”
Gray must have received the forwarded letter from their mother and wished to discuss options. Or chastise Matt in person.
Mmm.
Probably both, actually.
Their mother always spiked His Grace’s temper.
The afternoon promised to be unpleasant.
Matt longed to be celebrating with Cecily and planning their marriage over a bottle of champagne. Not enduring the wrath of his ducal brother.
“Gray,” he called, stepping into the great hall. “You should have apprised me of your visit.”
Matt didn’t even attempt to keep reproach out of his tone. Honestly, after the scolding Gray gave him for not warning the staff at Avoch before their arrival . . . the irony was rich.
The duke stood before the fire, hands behind his back. He appeared a bit worse for wear, boots mud-splattered and hair disheveled.
“Matt,” Gray sighed, pinning him with hazel eyes. “About time you showed your face.”
A trickle of unease chased Matt’s spine. Gray looked like a man who had ridden hard to reach Avoch in haste.
“Is all well?” Matt crossed to him.
“This is your brother, Grayburn?” An aristocratic English voice asked from behind.
Matt whirled to see a gentleman rising from the sofa.
Slight of figure and average in height, the man’s well-cut coat and Hoby boots proclaimed his noble status.
Well, that and the quizzing glass he used to survey Matt, pausing for a long moment on the stump of Matt’s right arm, as if he were an oddity in a museum.
Matt disliked the man on that principle alone.
“May I introduce Lord Drempton?” Gray said. “Lord Drempton, my brother, Lord Matthias.”
Matt knew he was supposed to offer a small bow in greeting, but horror froze his limbs in place. How the bloody hell had Gray and Drempton found each other?
Matt stared, skin crawling with distaste, as the baron performed an elegant bow that was precisely calculated to convey propriety without respect.
No need to ask why Drempton was here. Matt was infinitely glad that Cecily had retreated to the kitchen. He had to get rid of the man before she encountered him. Or, at the very least, send her a warning.
Mentally, Matt revised his plans for their nuptials.
Cecily must be brought under the protection of his name immediately.
They would call upon the local sheriff tomorrow morning and declare their vows in a traditional handfasting ceremony.
Thank goodness Scotland still recognized irregular marriages as legally binding.
Matt and his bride did not need to wait for banns to be read over the pulpit.
They could marry and then follow their handfasting with a kirk marriage at a later date.
Gray shifted at his side, impatient. No doubt he attributed Matt’s lack of manners to his dislike of strangers and general awkwardness when in company.
In this instance, nothing could be farther from the truth. Matt refused to play niceties with the man who had caused his betrothed—his betrothed!—such fear.
Pivoting, he turned from the door. He would warn Cecily and—
“Matt!” Gray’s voice boomed behind him, sharp with reproof. “We have come a great distance, and this is the greeting we receive?”
Matt paused before slowly turning around to face his brother. His pulse pounded, whooshing against his eardrum like a drummer’s tattoo calling soldiers to war. Surely, a soldier felt similarly before battle—blood hot, muscles tense, senses heightened.
Very well. If Gray wanted an aristocratic greeting, then Matt would give one to him.
Pulling himself to his full height, he skimmed Drempton from head to toe—mimicking how the man had just surveyed him—before turning to his brother.
“Why have you brought this . . . stranger into my house?” Matt said the word stranger like one would say vermin.
Gray’s eyebrows rose at Matt’s tone. “Lord Drempton and I are loosely acquainted from our time together in Lords. I encountered him in Inverness. He related a most interesting story.”
Hah! A completely untrue version of the story, Matt would wager. He pressed his lips tight to keep a rein on his temper.
“I see,” he pushed out through gritted teeth. “Let me consult with the staff to determine—”
“Drempton told me of his late cousin’s wayward wife,” Gray interrupted. “A lady who ran off, abandoning her marital duties and leaving her husband devastated. It was an appalling tale of disobedience and unnatural behavior.”
Matt watched Drempton as Gray spoke, detesting how the man’s smile spread, turning beatific at the edges.
His lordship practically radiated smug satisfaction.
He had convinced the Duke of Grayburn of the righteousness of his cause and assumed that Matt would fall in line.
The man could practically taste his victory.
“I fail to see what any of this has to do with me or Avoch, Gray,” Matt said coolly. He had to reach Cecily. “If you will excuse me, I will notify the staff that—”
“Let me finish his lordship’s tale of woe.” Gray held up a hand.
But Matt would have none of it. “Instead of bringing his lordship here uninvited, perhaps you should have asked Drempton why this lady felt compelled to abandon her marriage. In my experience, no woman goes to such drastic measures to leave a happy situation.”
“Nonsense,” Drempton said, voice steady. “She must be brought back into the comfort of her family.”
Over my dead body, Matt thought.
“Why?” he asked bluntly. “It sounds as if the lady doesn’t wish to be found. Her husband is dead. Are you legally obligated to offer her a widow’s portion, and a magistrate ordered you to find her? I’m confused.”
Matt heard Gray sigh.
Drempton’s expression morphed into one that had become familiar to Matt over the years. It was a twist of the mouth and tilt of the neck that said, This poor lad is a bit dashed in the head. He must be missing half his wits, as well as one arm.
“I don’t believe we need to go into the particulars, my lord,” Drempton spoke slowly as if talking to a child.
Huh.
It appeared Matt could unearth more depths of loathing for this man.
“It is a family matter,” Drempton continued.
“Her husband is dead. You are merely vaguely related by marriage, nothing more. If your cousin had pockets to let and didn’t provide for his wife, then her own family will step up. None of this matter should involve you. Furthermore, I fail to understand why you have presented yourself here like—”
“Enough.” Gray touched Matt’s arm. “This woman has been abusing your trust and pretending to be your housekeeper.”
His brother’s gaze was sympathetic, as if he expected Matt to react with hurt or denial.
Matt simply glared back.
“Mrs. Armstrong?” he said on a scoff. “There has been nothing pretend about her competence, Gray, and—”
“I warned you about her, Matt. She is far too pretty and young to be a respectable housekeeper. You should have sacked her when you had the chance. Now, Drempton will see to her.”
Matt opened his mouth to reply—some version of bollicking hell he will!—but the door clicked open.
“You asked to see Mrs. Armstrong, Your Grace?” Rawkin intoned.
“Thank you, Rawkin,” Gray said. “Please show her in.”
The blood rushed from Matt’s face. A chill settled in his fingers.