While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(14)

“Where is Strickland? Does he know?” Lady Enid demanded.

Poppy resisted the urge to ask who Strickland was. Her gaze slid to the chamber door that loomed open, eager to make an escape through it. When she looked back at the boisterous group, her gaze caught on Struan Mackenzie. He watched her knowingly, almost smiling, as though he knew she wanted nothing more than to make a hasty exit. As though he thought he had ensnared her.

Squaring her shoulders, she resolved to appear comfortable among the duke’s blue-blooded family.

“Have you met Strickland?” Suddenly the duchess was looking at her as though she held all the answers . . . as though she had any clue who this Strickland person was. “Does he know about you and Marcus?”

Poppy opened her mouth and produced a long-drawn “IIIIII” sound.

Really, she needed to work on her skills of speech. “No,” she finally managed. “I have not met him.” Whoever Strickland was.

“He’s Marcus’s best friend,” the younger lady supplied, and Poppy began to suspect she would always supply the facts that others left out.

“Of course she knows that, Clara.” Enid shot her little sister a long-suffering look.

“Enough!” the duchess finally boomed in a shrill voice.

Struan Mackenzie looked on, crossing his arms over his chest as though he had all the time in the world to witness her downfall.

The duchess took several halting steps toward Poppy.

Poppy sucked in a breath and waited, certain this would be the moment she would call for the Watch or, at the very least, have her tossed out of the house on her backside.

“Our dear Marcus is alive because of you.” The elegant lady yanked Poppy into her arms in a cloud of rosewater perfume. Poppy opened her mouth, but only a croak emerged as the woman petted her back and wept noisily. “I always wanted him to find someone special, and you’re clearly that person. Everyone whispered when my late husband returned from abroad with me. Even though my family was an old one . . . my great-great-great-grandmother was a lady-in-waiting to the mad Queen Joanna.” She nodded as though this was a great attribute, and Poppy was certain it was. Even her gentrified mother could not claim to such lineage.

The young dowager continued, “I wasn’t English. I wasn’t titled, but it didn’t matter because my husband loved me.”

Lady Enid snorted slightly and looked her stepmother up and down, her gaze stopping on her impressive bosom. “What’s not to love?”

The dowager ignored her and held Poppy’s gaze. “I know it must be the same for Marcus.” She cast the duke a soft look. “He must truly love you not to care what all those Society fusspots will say of him marrying outside his class. I’m so very happy. With you to live for, I know he will make it through this.”

Poppy was surrounded then, the dowager and Clara exclaiming over her as though she were their long-lost relation and not some random individual claiming to be the Duke of Autenberry’s betrothed. Lady Enid held back, but there was no resentment on her face as her young stepmother and, presumably, half sister celebrated Poppy as though she were one of them—an actual member of their family.

She longed for that—to be part of a family, to belong to others. She always had. Poppy felt a pang of guilt to feel that way when she had a sister, but sometimes she felt alone even with Bryony for company.

Emotion churned in her belly and her heart warmed dangerously. These were good people and she was deceiving them.

Still crushed in the surprisingly strong hold of Lady Autenberry, she glanced over the dowager’s shoulder. Her gaze locked on Struan Mackenzie.

All except him.

There was nothing good about the surly Scot—aside of his handsome face and form. She winced at the inappropriate thought and quickly gave herself a mental kick. She was not so shallow as to let that blind her to his true nature.

He cast a very large shadow over the room, standing with legs braced apart like a pirate on the prow of a ship—a handsome, vigorous figure as featured in so many of her girlhood fantasies. Of course, in her fantasies, he wasn’t glaring at her with ill temper flashing in his eyes. She could practically feel his contempt radiating toward her.

He was nothing like his brother.

She sucked in a breath. And she would never forget that.





Chapter 6




Struan watched, enduring it as his newfound family rejoiced over his half brother’s lightskirt. It rankled. How easily they accepted her . . . how easily they even accepted him. It wasn’t right. His mother never had this. His mother had never been good enough. It rubbed him like a bur in his boot.

He didn’t know what made his gut clench more. The idea that he had a family willing to accept him? Or that one of his brother’s lovers (he knew Autenberry wouldn’t limit himself to only one) had just been welcomed to the family? His family. The family he never wanted. Because you thought they would never want you.

He shook off the insidious little whisper, watching as Miss Poppy Fairchurch extricated herself from the Autenberry clan, backing away to the door with promises to return even though her eyes screamed escape. Was it his imagination or did she appear eager to leave? Not about to let her depart without finishing their conversation, he made his excuses to step out.

“You’re not leaving us, are you?” The dowager blinked those doe eyes of hers at him, reminding him of a wounded forest animal. Remarkable, really. She was decked out in finery and jewels enough to feed a small village for several years and yet she managed to look vulnerable.