Page 43 of Dukes for Dessert

David stumbled to a halt, his gray-blue eyes widening, his chest lifting with a startled breath.

Sophie wanted to dissolve into mist and disappear. She’d been so very certain he wouldn’t be here—Eleanor had assured her David rarely came home.

In the next heartbeat, David left behind shock and obvious dismay to become a congenial host. He removed his hat and rubbed the dust from his hair, giving them a warm smile.

“My dear friends, had I known, I’d have sent a coach to the station and extended a carpet when you arrived. I can’t promise a buried Roman villa for you, Pierson, but I hope what little I have will delight.”

David waved them into the house, out of the spring sunshine. His welcome included Sophie, but he didn’t look at her.

The interior of the house was even grander than Sophie expected. The entrance hall rose two floors, its high ceiling painted with clouds and frolicking cherubs. Paintings hung on the paneled walls, many depicting the house and grounds, while others were portraits. Sophie at once found a painting of David along with that of an older man who, by the resemblance, must be his father. A woman with soft gray eyes peered from a painting next to his.

A few of the older pictures depicted men and women in Scottish dress, and on one wall hung a family tree, wonderfully curlicued and embellished, with small names written all over it.

Uncle Lucas, his valise taken by the footman, went at once to this. “Your ancestry?” he asked David.

David strolled to him, the world-weary man returning. “My pater was very proud of the fact that we are distantly related to the Dukes of Kilmorgan, ever since Angus Roland Mackenzie married Donnag Fleming, my great-great-something aunt. I have no real Mackenzie blood, only Mackenzie in-laws, as it were.” He waved at paintings higher up the walls, difficult to see in the shadows. “The rest of the lot hanging here are the D’urbeys, who owned the property before the last scion lost his fortune at cards and died penniless. My father snapped up this property for a song after the Crown, who’d taken it back, didn’t know what to do with it. He ever loved a bargain.”

Sophie studied the names on the family tree, one branch leading from Malcolm Mackenzie, who fought in the ’45, and his son Angus, down through the ages to Hart Mackenzie, the current Duke of Kilmorgan, Eleanor’s husband. Names beneath Hart and his brothers had been written in—their wives and many children.

The other branch led from the brother of Donnag Fleming, unfolding down to David Fleming father, and David Fleming son.

“Fascinating,” Uncle Lucas said in true interest. “Every name has a story behind it, I wager.”

David looked pained. “They do, but nothing I am prepared to tell you now in the middle of the hallway after a long and dusty journey. If you are truly intrigued, I’ll pair you up with Ian Mackenzie, who is an expert on the family history. He can relate the stories in great detail.”

“That would be splendid.” Uncle Lucas meant it, Sophie knew, and would likely hound David until he set the appointment.

“Now then, it is a poor host who keeps his guests in the draughty hall. Thomas will be scurrying about upstairs, harrying the rest of the staff to prepare rooms for you. You will of course stay, unless you plan to rush for the last train out?”

David sent them a look of mild inquiry, as though he didn’t care one way or the other, but Sophie saw the uneasiness in his eyes.

“We will indeed stay, my dear fellow,” Uncle Lucas said. “We had hoped for a billet here, though we were prepared to bed down in the village if need be. I believe Lady Eleanor telegraphed to your servants, so they will be more prepared than you fear.”

“Eleanor?” David flashed a frown at Sophie. “I see.”

He clearly did not, but before Sophie could stammer an explanation, Uncle continued in his exuberant way.

“I know you must think us rude, but I had a hankering to see your house and the gardens I’ve heard so much about. They are written up in newspapers, you know. Since you flit about so much, I thought we’d simply come on our own without bothering you.”

Sophie stared as her uncle lied for her. He did it well, smiling gently, the vicar’s collar on his throat giving his words credence.

“You had but to ask, my friend,” David said. “I am glad you have come—it will keep supper from being a deadly dull and silent meal. When I’m home, I mostly eat with my valet, Fortescue, and read the newspaper, but I left the man in London. Thank heavens—he is forthright with his many opinions.”

David spoke glibly, but Sophie sensed his tension. He did not want them there, had barely stopped himself from leaping back onto his horse and riding away when he found them on his doorstep.

“It was me,” she blurted. Both men turned to her in astonishment, and Sophie’s face scalded. “I wanted to see your house, Mr. Fleming. I was curious. Uncle traveled with me for propriety’s sake.”

David gazed at her for one endless moment, stillness shielding any emotion in his eyes, then his sardonic expression returned. “Ah, it is the building that holds the Pierson family interest, not the man who owns it. Well then, I’ll leave you to have supper with my house, while I take something in my chambers. You’ll never know I am here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Uncle Lucas said. “Of course we are delighted you are home. We didn’t expect you, nor you us, but we are all good enough friends that none of it matters. Now, let us each refresh ourselves and meet again for supper—by then we will have all recovered our tempers.”

David and Sophie stared at him. Uncle liked to be the most self-effacing gentleman possible, but when he decided to take charge, he could be a force of authority.

“Yes, Uncle,” Sophie said meekly.

“Yes, Uncle,” David echoed. He shot Sophie a glance, and winked.

Pierson allowed them only congenial topics at supper that night, both to David’s relief and frustration. The history of the house and its interesting inhabitants, the joy of the unusually warm weather, the design of the gardens—by none other than Capability Brown, of course—why the house had been built in the French style, and what sort of crops grew in David’s fields.