While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(51)

And yet he didn’t belong here. Despite how welcoming the dowager was. Despite Enid escorting him through the gallery and pointing out his resemblance to his forefathers, he felt like an interloper.

Then why are you still here?

Of its own volition, his gaze drifted toward Poppy Fairchurch. She wore an elegant gown of blue silk that he knew she could not possibly own. Clearly they’d been here long enough for the dowager to find appropriate dresses for both Misses Fairchurch. Young Bryony preened in a peach-colored gown like she was born to wear such finery. Poppy appeared less comfortable and he wondered, again, at her relationship with Autenberry. Why had his brother not showered her with silks? Why should she sit in this dining room and look so ill at ease if she was to marry into this glittering world?

He forced his gaze away from her and back to the others at the table.

“Thank you, Darby,” the dowager said in that effusive manner of hers, her elegant hand brushing the server’s arm in additional thanks. “And how is your grandmother?” She shifted in her seat to more fully face the servant and hear his response. That in itself was singular. A duchess that gave a damn about someone stations under her.

His gaze drifted to Poppy. She watched the exchange, too, looking equally mystified, that delicious mouth of hers that filled far too much of his thoughts parted slightly in wonder.

“Much improved, Your Grace.” The man bobbed his head, his eyes adoring but reflecting no surprise or bewilderment. Because this was normal. The young dowager, caring for those lesser than she, was normal. “Thank you for inquiring.”

Her dark eyes flashed in Enid and Clara’s direction. “We must call on her tomorrow. Have Cook prepare some of my abuela’s magical caldo. It cures all ailments.”

“All?” Enid dryly interjected.

The dowager fluttered a hand in her direction dismissively. “Indeed, yes. I know what I speak.”

Struan gave his head a slight shake. He wanted to dislike her. She was the woman his father had remarried. Even when his own mother had still been alive, he had chosen her. Married her. Forgot about him and the woman he’d seduced and discarded in Scotland. He’d chosen a young foreign beauty. Even if born to a noble Spanish family, the English peerage couldn’t have fully embraced her. And yet none of that had mattered to the late duke. He’d chosen her.

Struan wanted to hate her and yet he could not find it in him. The noblewoman was an anomaly—warm and welcoming. The fact that he and Poppy were even here was a testament to her kindness and openness, a definite eccentricity among the ton.

He glanced around the table and caught Lord Strickland gazing at the dowager in a way that was more than friendly. The earl was affable if not guarded. Struan usually found him unreadable. Except for right now. For a brief moment, that wall came down and Struan read the admiration in the young man’s eyes. Hell. More than admiration. If the man wasn’t in love with the dowager, he was certainly in lust.

Struan observed her as she accepted a refill of Madeira in her glass. Unlike many English ladies of her class, she did not eschew spirits. She drank deeply from her cup. Her upswept hair gleamed like a moonless dark ocean. Her golden skin beckoned a man’s fingers. What sane man wouldn’t want her in his bed?

She laughed gaily at something Clara said to Bryony, tossing her head back with abandon. Lord Strickland watched her hungrily and Struan almost felt sorry for the man. He was her stepson’s best friend, several years younger than she and of lesser rank. The poor bastard did not have a chance.

Sane or not, Struan did not want his late father’s wife. His gaze drifted again to Poppy Fairchurch. He wanted her. He supposed that proved his desire for her was genuine and not something fleeting or driven by revenge—because what better way to satisfy his deep-seated resentment of his dead father than by taking the man’s woman? Too bad he didn’t want her. Too bad he burned for someone else.

He tore his gaze away and endured the rest of the dinner, chiming into the conversation when appropriate. Unlike Poppy. She hardly spoke.

“I never imagined Marcus would find himself such a shy little dove,” Enid remarked.

“Perhaps she is simply overwhelmed,” the dowager defended.

“Overwhelmed? Of us? You?” Enid said drolly, and contemplated that prospect with an exaggerated air. “Not possible.” Enid sipped from her glass. Not Madeira. She was not quite as eccentric as her stepmother, but then her roots were English, after all.

Poppy never responded to their questioning, simply managed a tight smile. They scarcely finished their meal before Poppy excused herself.

She didn’t have to say where she was going. He knew.

He remained with the rest of the party, joining them in the drawing room, trying not to think about her upstairs with Autenberry. Since they’d arrived at the manor it’s where she always went. Tending to the duke. Hiding from Struan.

No more.

He was done letting her hide from him. Tonight they would speak.

She would talk to him. He’d make certain of it.





Chapter 19




He was waiting for her when she emerged from the duke’s bedchamber. At least it felt that way. Struan Mackenzie spoke her name as she gently closed the bedchamber door on the duke. Strange, she supposed. It was as though she feared waking the unconscious duke.

At the sound of her name she startled and whirled around, a hand flying to her throat. “Mr. Mackenzie. You startled me.”