Page 14 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

Lady Clambly joined Lord Breecher, kneeling beside him in front of Lydia and ignoring Richard’s request.

“Can you say your name, little dear?” she asked slowly. “Lydia! Say ‘Lydia’.”

Lydia shrank against Richard, her small body now trembling at their persistence. The relentless probing and suffocating attention were proving too much for her, and Richard was running out of patience for their cruel games as the muscles in his shoulders tightened.

Lydia looked up at him with pleading eyes as he took his cue. He steadied her to make their way away from the prying eyes of Lord Breecher, Lady Clambly, and the other onlookers.

Suddenly, another voice piped up.

“My lord, how nice to see you both,” Sampson offered as he intercepted them.

“Good afternoon, Lord Mortridge,” Richard offered.

Sampson’s eyes trailed down to examine Lydia in a manner that made Richard feel uncomfortable.

“We were just leaving,” Richard replied with a nod, knowing now that it was time to make their exit, social connections or none.

Better an early exit than a spectacle made of his ward.

Lydia’s cerulean eyes looked up and locked onto Sampson, her face contorting with fear as if seeing a ghost appear before her.

Then, she quickly wrenched herself violently from Richard’s strong grasp, fleeing to the gardens with a choked cry.

Damn it!

Catriona was enjoying a leisurely stroll through the lush gardens, taking in the scents of gardenia and fresh air. She could feel her heartbeat relaxing as she considered going back to join the party.

As Catriona turned a corner around a set of hedges, she stiffened at the sound of racing feet.

She looked up to see Lydia running toward her, tears streaming down her face like heavy rain.

But before Lydia could reach her, the duke turned the corner. His features were drawn tight with a mix of concern and exasperation as he strode briskly across the lawn.

“Lydia! What has gotten into you?” he yelled as he hurried toward her, his broad, muscled arms outstretched.

Lydia ran to Catriona now and threw herself at her feet. She shook her head from side to side, clinging to Catriona’s skirt with surprising strength for her size.

Catriona knew that she did not want to go back to Richard, especially as the girl refused to meet her uncle’s gaze. Her grip tightened on her skirt, almost as if Catriona were her only anchor in a stormy sea.

“Yer Grace,” Catriona said softly, picking her head up from Lydia to meet his steely gaze. Her eyes pleaded with him, trying to convey the seriousness of whatever had triggered this response in Lydia. “Please. She’s clearly very frightened. Perhaps a gentler approach would be more prudent?”

Richard’s impatience broke through his cool surface as he let out a deep roar.

“Gentler? Miss MacTavish, she ran off from me without a word! People are staring at us.” He gestured vaguely towards the curious gazes that were beginning to settle upon them from the garden patio.

“She needs to learn that such behavior is unacceptable. She must compose herself, or I fear she will be unable to find a place in society.”

“And perhaps, she needs understandin’ more than a reprimand,” Catriona countered, her own irritation rising to meet him.

“Understanding? After cutting loose like a wild animal?” Richard’s tone was incredulous. “We were lucky not many witnessed her outburst at the races, so I could keep that quiet. She has been her usual quiet self but perfectly composed all afternoon… until now!”

“Until now,” Catriona repeated to him, her gaze softening as she looked down at the trembling child. “Clearly, somethin’ has upset her deeply. Can ye nae see that?!”

“All I can see is that you continue to find a way to insert yourself in business that is none of yours.”

“Cat…” Lydia whispered softly, more fragile than a butterfly fluttering from lips.

Catriona froze.

The duke froze.

The little girl’s gaze was still fixed on Catriona as she blinked up at her, tears still fresh in her eyes.

Lydia had just spoken .

And she’d said Catriona’s name. Or at least part of it.

Catriona watched the duke as his eyes widened. She could only imagine that the last year had been filled with profound, isolating silence for them in the great halls of Wilthorne.

Catriona looked down at Lydia, pure astonishment and tenderness pulling at her chest.

Just then, Lady Craigleith rushed over to them, as quickly as she dared at such a social gathering. Her brow furrowed with concern at the growing attention their little drama was attracting and approached them.

“Catriona, dear? What is amiss?” She asked as she reached out to take Catriona’s arm and help her up, her voice laced with warning.

She knew that any demonstration of impropriety or scandal would not worsen—no—it would obliterate her chances of finding a match.

“What is going on over there?” one woman in the crowd called out. “Why is His Grace’s young ward clamoring all over Miss MacTavish?”

“Most odd indeed,” another agreed as more began to stare in their direction.

Lydia looked up at Lady Craigleith, sensing the impending separation, and tightened her grip on Catriona’s hand. She dug her small fingers into her skirt, curling the fabric into fists.

Catriona looked down at the child, her heart aching with pity.

This fragile creature, so clearly in need of comfort, had taken a liking to her. She felt a need to help her and yet…

Duty , she thought, the word hanging like an albatross around her already weary neck, the stress of the years since her father’s passing weighed on her.

How can I help this young lass when me own future is so clouded in mystery? She pressed herself to consider.

Without a proper match, she would have nowhere to go.

Yet, what kind of person would she be if she abandoned this child, when she so clearly needs a friend?

Catriona was certain her father would know just how to handle this, his memory causing her eyes to prickle with tears, which she blinked back, unwilling to let them spill over.

She gently stroked Lydia’s hand with her other one. “There, there, my sweet lassie,” she murmured. “Yer uncle is here. He is a good man. He will take care of ye. Ye should go with him now.” Her voice was soft but firm as she looked up at him.

Lydia looked up at Catriona, her eyes still filled with a lingering fear, but a flicker of trust began to dawn within them.

Hesitantly, she nodded, her grip on Catriona’s hand slowly loosening. She took a small, uncertain step towards the duke, who was still standing as if rooted to the spot, his expression held a flicker of disbelief, edged with something almost like awe.

Like a small kitten, he waited for her to come to him.

Aye, at least he is learnin’ somethin’ about rightin’ his brusque ways.

Catriona watched as Lydia tentatively reached for Richard’s hand, and he closed his around hers.

With a nod to her mother, who still wore a worried expression, Catriona turned and allowed herself to be led away.

Richard’s mind was still reeling from the sound of Lydia’s voice coming from her lips.

Cat.

They had made their way through the gardens to the patio. As he was about to steer her towards the exit, the same familiar, unwelcome figure materialized before them.

“Your Grace,” Sampson called as he looked at him in a way that was almost unsettlingly intense.

Lydia flinched at the sound of his voice, clinging all the tighter to Richard’s hand and her small body trembling anew. Still unsettled by her sudden utterance, Richard pushed aside the lingering fear, blaming it on her earlier distress.

“Sampson,” Richard replied, his gaze distant and his mind even farther away, “excuse me. My niece is feeling unwell, so we must depart. We’ll speak again another time.”

He was eager to escape the prying eyes and the lingering unease of the garden party, whose whispers continued to grow.

Without another word, he drew Lydia away, leaving Sampson standing alone amidst the departing guests.

“She will not take her supper, my lord,” one of the servants informed Richard as he sipped his brandy in the library. “Would you like me to try again later?”

“No, that will be all,” he decided. “She will eat when she is hungry; we will leave her and see if she improves after a good night’s sleep.”

“Very well, sir. We tried our best, please ring if you need anything at all, Your Grace.”

Richard drained the last of his brandy as he stared into the embers of the flames, stoking the fire with his poker. He might as well have been stoking the wanderings of his own mind.

Did the prying of those partygoers make Lydia react so severely? It was almost as if she saw a specter, the way she bolted from the scene. What could have inspired such a response?

Richard ruminated on the topic as he added more kindling to the fire, finally settling on the overwhelming nature of the garden party as the source. Surely, such functions were enough to upset even the most even-keeled person.

Yet, a persistent unease gnawed at him, creating an ache deep in his stomach. The memory of that single, whispered syllable replayed in his mind over and over and over again.

Why that name? And why then?

Cat.

Across town, in the tastefully modest drawing room of the Marchant residence, Catriona poured Eliza a cup of tea.

Her fluid movements as she prepared their cups betrayed the nervous energy that grew inside of her.

She was grateful to have something to do with her hands, to occupy her body as her anxiety prickled deep in her chest.

“It’s worse than I let on, Eliza,” she confessed, her voice low and strained in a tone that did not sound like her.

She began to explain her family’s current situation, grateful to confide in her friend.

“Aye, me faither’s heir is quite serious, the little shite.

If I dinnae secure a proposal, and soon, Maither and I will be…

I dinnae dare say it. We will lose everything. Our home, me faither’s memory…”

It was then her voice broke, the carefully constructed composure finally giving way to all that she had at stake. She could feel the weight of all that she had suffered since the tragic loss of her father buckle inside her. She could hold the artifice no longer.

Once Catriona put down the cups, Eliza reached across the small table and squeezed Catriona’s hands in hers.

“Don’t despair, my dear friend,” she whispered. “You are a most capable lady, and beautiful enough for any man of the ton. We will find a way. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to help you.”

As Eliza went on about plans, Catriona’s brow furrowed slightly at a distraction she could not put her finger on. She felt a palpable shift in the air.

Is it a mouse? A gust of wind?

She could have sworn there was a faint rustling sound from the hallway just outside the drawing room door.

She glanced towards it, a flicker of unease filling her before she ultimately dismissed it. She and her mother had now spent several weeks in the Marchant home, which had its own creaks as an old home with personality should.

“Is something the matter, Catriona?” Eliza asked.

“Aye,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea to steady her. “I think I’m startin’ to spook easy. Maybe one of the Marchant ghosts is comin’ for me!”

“Well, perhaps he could be a good match?”

Catriona burst out in laughter, her chest finally feeling a bit lighter.