Chapter 2
The Duke of Tulloch had arrived at the Earl of Windermere’s house party earlier than expected.
Anticipating a rainy day like the ones preceding, he had been surprised by the appearance of sun. With warm conditions to dry out the roads, his carriage had made much better time.
Hence he found himself arriving at Windermere Manor earlier than his hosts had anticipated him.
Leaving his luggage with the servants, he had refused offers to be shown to his room or to have his hosts called down to greet him. Instead, he had marched out onto the lawn, intending to take a constitutional before returning and greeting his hosts and fellow guests before dinner.
Yet as he crossed the green manor lawn, a gazebo came into view and he saw he was not the first guest to arrive after all.
A woman was seated inside the small, octagonal pavilion with her back to him. Around her on either side, delicate columns supported a latticed roof covered with climbing roses and trailing vines.
The woman sat upon a cushioned bench, her slender form draped in a pale blue muslin gown that billowed softly in the breeze. Though her features were obscured by the shadows cast by the lattice, the curve of her shoulders and the graceful lines of her figure spoke to an innate elegance and poise.
Deciding it would be more fitting to leave the woman to her solitary contemplation than for a strange man to interrupt, the duke began to step quietly around the gazebo.
The faint sound of weeping echoed from the gazebo.
Glancing once more towards the little pavilion, he realized the woman”s slender shoulders were trembling with sobs. Her delicate hands clutched the fabric of her gown.
Swearing imperceptibly to himself, the duke paused. He could leave the lady in peace or he could see if she required aid.
Chances were high she was crying over nothing more than a stain on her dress or a broken vase. These highborn women often seemed to care of little more than their material comforts. Tulloch did not have high hopes that the guests at Windermere”s house party would be any different than the countless women he had met over the years. Especially one in particular.
Still, this was a woman and she could well be in real distress.
With a gentle clearing of his throat, Tulloch stepped forward, allowing the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots to alert the lady to his presence and give her a moment to prepare.
As expected, he caught the sound of a gasp. The woman lifted her head, looking at first not at him but straight in front of her. And in that moment, he caught sight of two things.
The lady”s tear-stained cheek was to be expected. After all, she had been crying.
What the duke had not expected to see and, aye, what he despised, was the sight of the ugly red welt marking the lady”s otherwise unblemished lily-white features.
“Who did that to ye, lass? Who struck ye?” He spoke sharply and without thinking, anger already welling up inside of him. Injustice had always infuriated him. Even as a small boy he had started fights he had not been able to win, simply because he had been compelled to by a stubborn sense of conscience.
He had reached the gazebo steps now. The woman had not replied.
“Tell me, lass, and I swear, I’ll thrash the mon within an inch of his life,” Tulloch promised. “There’s never a call for a mon to lay hands on a woman. Tell me who the blackguard was and he’ll learn this as he should have long ago. He’ll nay harm ye again.”
The woman turned her head towards him, and as she did so a beam of light fell upon her hair.
The lady’s hair was not brown as he had assumed. No, it was the shade of a field of wheat on a hot summer’s day. Golden and lush.
He felt his throat go dry. This woman was no guest. She was the lady of the manor.
More than that–she was the woman he had married ten long years ago. His childhood sweetheart.
Tulloch swore aloud.
June was silently cursing her own weakness.
She should never have allowed herself to cry. It had been years since she had bothered to do so. Years since John’s casual cruelty had pierced through the surface of her carefully cultivated calm.
But today… Reading the lurid piece of gossip she had been handed had been too much.
It was hard enough already that she must endure John’s malicious nature at home. To be made aware that she was becoming a laughingstock to others, to the ton, was a burden she had not anticipated.
And now, to be stumbled upon by, of all people, this man. This man whom she had never expected to see again.
The voice was the voice of a ghost. She would have recognized it anywhere.
She felt her body stiffen and her cheeks go pale, but forced herself to rise shakily to her feet and turn to face him.
Disbelief. He was unchanged. Well, nearly so.
As ruggedly handsome as she remembered, and yes, still just as beautiful as a man could be.
Tall and brawny, he stood at least a good four inches taller than John. His fiery mane of red hair caught the sunlight, blazing with hints of copper and gold. Freckles danced across his cheeks. He had always hated his freckles, she recalled.
Some might have deemed his features unattractive. Perhaps in another man, they would have been displeasing.
But then, Cameron”s face always had been a masterpiece of male beauty. Chiseled and sculpted, with that patrician nose and those cheekbones that looked as if they could cut like a knife.
His gaze pierced through her. Green eyes cold and disdainful.
It was not true, she realized. He was changed.
It was the way he carried himself. She could not picture this Cameron smiling or laughing. No, this man held himself with absolute resolve and authority. He was a man clearly accustomed to being obeyed, to not having his will challenged.
She shivered, feeling a pang of sorrow deep within her heart.
She had known this man once, or thought she did. She had loved him with a passion that had burned brighter than the fiercest flame. For him, she had given up... everything.
Now he looked at her with pure hatred in his eyes.
He was a handsome stranger. She saw not a hint of the love they had once shared. And thought his beauty took her breath away, it was a beauty she knew she could no longer claim as her own.
It broke her heart a second time to look at him.
He had not recognized June in profile, sitting there in the shadows. But then, it had been ten years. Ten long years.
Now that he took her in, he realized she looked much the same. She had not aged. She was unchanged. He felt almost disappointed. Then a familiar spark grew within him. This was her. His summer love. His June. Ruthlessly he suppressed the feeling. There was no hope here.
He had not come for hope but for revenge.
Still, he had not expected to see her so soon. Nor like this.
“Cameron?” She was rising slowly to her feet, one hand upon the gazebo ledge.
“Aye,” he answered at last, relishing the look of shock and disbelief upon her face. “‘Tis I.”
“But… But it can’t be. You’re not expected. You should not be here. You must go.”
“Go? When yer own husband invited me?” He deliberately made his tone mocking. “And what a splendid mon he must be for ye to have chosen him.”
She gasped again and, raising a hand to touch her cheek, closed her eyes for a moment.
He felt a pang of guilt, then pushed it away. She had chosen this. She had chosen the man who had done that to her. She had broken troth.
“My husband is expecting Cameron McBain, the Duke of Tulloch,” she said faintly. “Not Cameron Fraser.”
“Cameron Fraser. I havena been called that in a verra long time.” He paused. “Are ye telling me ye did not know?”
“No,” she whispered, looking truly like a woman who had seen a ghost. “I did not know your name had changed. Nor that you had inherited this title.”
Cameron gestured to her face. “Yer husband did that to ye, did he not? Why did he touch ye?” Though Tulloch knew men like the Earl of Windermere usually needed no reason. Not when it came to striking those weaker or smaller than they were.
“Why?” she repeated. She shook her head. “Because of you, I suppose.” She put a hand to her mouth and her eyes widened.
The duke snorted. “Aye, I should have known. The first time I see ye in ten years and ye blame yer predicament on anyone but yerself.”
She was moving towards him, her face still white as a sheet. “You don’t understand. I never expected to see you again. Not now. Not ever.”
“Aye, I’m sure ye didna. What a surprise it must be,” he said, not bothering to keep the disdain from his voice.
She clutched a hand to the white wooden post of the gazebo. “A surprise, yes. You might say that. I had no idea what had become of you, Cameron. I thought you might be dead.”
He looked at her. For a brief moment, he yearned to believe her.
Then he hardened his heart. A lie. All lies. Nothing that came out of her mouth would be truthful. He had expected that.
“Lies. All lies.” His voice was clipped. “Nay more than I expected from ye though.”
Without another word, he turned and marched away.