Page 7 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

After attending to her mother, she moved back into the ballroom confidently, making her way through the throng of attendees with a practiced grin.

It was a smile she had honed over the past week as Lady Marchant made her review conversational points appropriate for a ball, refine her dance steps, and learn the subtle art of attracting a gentleman’s attention, without appearing too forward.

Her success with Mr. Featherstone was a good sign that these techniques were working.

Lady Marchant had said that was the real challenge for a Scottish lass like her, a “helpful” suggestion that Catriona tried her best not to feel offended by.

She was charged with maintaining a delicate balance of charm with proper reserve.

She practiced growing up in Scotland, she didn’t have the luxury of finishing school like those in London.

“Remember, Catriona,” Lady Marchant had instructed.

“Men are just like horses. Approach them with a carrot in your palm. And never let them think they have the upper hand! You must maintain an air of mystery. If you do, you will be in control and that will be your secret power over any man of your choosing, my dear girl.”

With any luck, if I make me match this eve’, I will be back in Scotland within the year.

Richard’s gaze followed the Scottish woman, focused on the delightful sway of her curves as she walked away to assist her ailing mother.

Try as he might to compose himself, he could not avert his eyes.

In some ways, he was grateful for the intrusion.

He had to remember that he was there for business, not fleeting pleasure with a woman, let alone a fiery Highland lass. He needed Arlington.

He grabbed Michael’s arm. “Introduce me around to anyone you think may be useful,” he demanded, making sure to keep his voice low as they walked around, which was not difficult given the evening’s festivities. “But Arlington. Where is he?”

Michael, ever the social butterfly, ignored Richard’s words. He was distracted by a lady with fluttering eyelashes and a suggestive smile that she shared in between the waves of a decorative fan.

“In a moment, Richard,” he said through a smile, his attention clearly elsewhere. “This is a party, you know, right? Relax a little. I’d say have a drink, but you always find the beverage table.”

Before Richard could protest, Sampson Stirling, the Earl of Mortridge, approached, his eyes gleaming with opportunistic surprise.

“Why, Wilthorne! Splendid to see you,” Lord Mortridge said as he shook his hand.

“I’ve invested in a most promising venture this past year and was hoping we’d have this opportunity to discuss,” he cooed.

“I hardly expected to see you here, such serendipity! I’ve been looking to expand shipping lanes, and a little bird told me you were talking to old Everett,” he explained with the same business acumen Richard possessed.

But Richard knew better.

Richard raised a skeptical eyebrow as he took a sip from his glass. He would need more liquor in his blood if he were to talk with this man.

“Indeed? How did you manage that, Mortridge? I recall your last promising venture went rather spectacularly down in flames.”

Sampson’s smile faltered as Richard’s quip took the wind out of his sails. “Ah, well, one makes adjustments in our line of work. I’m a quick learner and adept at finding new solutions, changing courses,” he continued as he tried to grasp Richard’s attention, which continued to waver about the room.

He was searching desperately for Arlington when his eyes again met the raven-haired Scot’s.

And then, she was heading his way from across the ballroom.

Her body swayed as she walked, another function of her beautiful curves. Her sapphire gown swirled around her like a whirlpool in the crystal seas of the Caribbean.

She was breathtakingly beautiful.

Damn her.

He ignored Sampson entirely as he began to make his way toward her, leaving Sampson talking to the air.

The distance between them was nearly closed when another man approached her with a curt nod.

A foreign, possessive heat flared within Richard, again catching him off guard. All at once the music ended, the dancers curtsying and bowing.

Richard took another step toward the Scottish lady, drawn by something he couldn’t quite name—poise, defiance, the flicker of emotion behind her eyes—but before he could speak, Michael reappeared, dragging a most reluctant Lord Arlington in his wake.

“Your Grace, allow me to present the esteemed Lord Arlington!” Michael declared with theatrical pride, as if introducing royalty in a grand hall.

“Y-Your Grace. I believe you’ve been expecting me,” Arlington said, offering an awkward smile.

“While this is not the best place, I do have some news about the matter that concerns you. They didn’t have much except for a single clue.

Well, maybe it’s really more of a glimmer of a clue—” he stammered, rifling his fingers absently through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts.

Richard barely heard him.

His gaze had drifted back to her. The proud set of her shoulders. That fierce, untouchable grace. But something had shifted—her posture had stiffened, her expression sharpened. And now he saw why.

Viscount Dormand.

Richard’s jaw clenched as his eyes fell on the gaunt, twitching lord with yellow-green irises that seemed to glow under the chandelier’s flickering light.

Dormand was a snake of a man—sharp-featured, perpetually smirking, with the sickly pallor of someone who lived in shadows and smoky corners. Richard had seen men like him before, half-rotted from too much laudanum and too little conscience.

And now he had his hand wrapped around the Scot’s wrist.

Whatever clue Arlington had could wait.

“Hang on, Arlington,” Richard said, already stepping away.

His focus had narrowed to a single point: Dormand. And the woman he should never have touched.

“Well, well,” the man drawled. “If it isn’t the little Scottish rose everyone has been talking about?”

Catriona’s blood ran cold at his words. Something about the hue of this lord’s eyes alarmed her. He looked like a serpent ready to strike, making the cold yellow-green emanating from around his enlarged pupils all the more chilling.

She had seen the same eyes in the lesser parts of London, the effect of opium or laudanum taking hold. Her temper, which was perpetually simmering beneath the surface, dissipated to a cool fear as he grabbed her wrist.

Before Catriona could utter a word, the Duke of Wilthorne appeared.

“Dormand,” the duke said, his gaze sweeping over the man he dwarfed by at least one head.

“I trust you wouldn’t dream of offending a Scottish lady.

The Scots are proud people, known for courage and loyalty.

Qualities we ought to admire greatly.” He paused as he looked at Catriona now, “Surely, you wouldn’t wish to appear…

lacking in such virtues,” he threatened the now frightened man.

Dormand paled as he sought to appease the mighty duke. His originally haughty demeanor dissolved as he offered placating apologies.

“O-Of course n-not, Your Grace. It was merely a… a jest in fun. I was making my acquaintance with Miss MacTavish.” He offered with a shrug. “Would you like the next dance?” he asked her.

“She certainly would not ,” Richard replied on her behalf, “For she is dancing with me. Isn’t that right, my lady?”

Catriona, momentarily stunned, was about to unleash a scathing retort about being able to fight her own battles when her mother and Lady Marchant returned.

Lady Marchant beamed at the duke as she gave a small bow.

“Your Grace! How courteous of you to ask our Catriona for a dance! Though we must introduce you properly first, of course! I know we had to hurry away earlier, but all is well now,” she continued with a smile.

“Allow me to formally introduce Miss Catriona MacTavish and her mother, the Dowager Viscountess Craigleith. My ladies, please allow me to formally introduce the esteemed Duke of Wilthorne.”

As the orchestra struck up a new tune, Catriona’s mother seized the opportunity. She nudged Catriona with surprising force as she pleaded, “Yer Grace, please forgive me forwardness. But I do believe me Catriona would be delighted to dance with ye. Is that nae right, me dear?”

The duke offered his hand to Catriona.

She hesitated at first, but with a single glance towards her mother, her mission came back to her.

Save Craigleith Hall. Save your home.

“Of course. It would be me pleasure to dance with ye, Yer Grace,” she said as courteously as she could.

And so, she reached out for the duke’s hand.

The moment her delicate fingers landed in his palm, it was as if the rest of the room stopped to take them in.

Ladies shot daggers with their eyes at her, which she took as a compliment. She kept her chin high as they strode to the center of the dance floor.

Any confidence she felt dissipated as she realized what would come next: she’d found a dance partner, but now she would actually have to dance.

She had been practicing with lessons before her debut, but she was far from graceful—and now, the eyes of the entire ton were upon her.

Worse still, her partner was the duke—a man who left her feeling unbalanced.

His curt manners and imperious tone still echoed in her memory, and she wasn’t entirely sure whether it was irritation or something far more dangerous that made it difficult to hold on to her carefully composed, ladylike poise.

The duke seemed to sense her unease, his strong arms embracing her and easing her as they prepared for their first step.

“Just follow my lead,” he murmured into her ear as his nose brushed her neck so lightly she swore she imagined it.

She savored the low and reassuring tone of his voice. She inhaled his unique scent, catching notes of tobacco, scotch and evergreen—as intoxicating as the champagne.

Catriona shook her head away from his touch. She eyed him suspiciously. His good looks had numbed her good sense, and she needed that tonight more than ever.

“And what makes ye think I need your lead? I can handle meself, if ye recall,” she quipped at him with a devilish smile.

She noted that a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. She liked the way his eyes looked when they were fixed on her.

“I’ve got you,” he paused, “Don’t fight me, and you’ll be fine.”

Hesitantly, she gave in to the sweeping movement of the dance as the music took over.

He held her gracefully in his arms, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man so commanding. As they began to move about the room, turning this way and that way, he subtly guided her. She liked the way his hand felt, firm but light on the small of her back.

“A turn here,” he whispered, pulling her closer. “Now, a step back there.”

“Although I appreciated your intervention, I hardly think I needed defending, Your Grace,” Catriona said coolly.

“No,” the duke agreed, his gaze steady. “But some men need reminding that not every woman can be trifled with.”

“I have been able to manage until now,” she replied, a bitter smile flickering.

“I’ve noticed.” His voice held no softness. “It suits you. Though I imagine it wears thin.”

She tilted her head. “Is that pity, or condescension?”

“Neither. Just an observation,” he said. “You don’t exactly hide the fight in you.”

“Nae much point,” she murmured. “Men like ye tend to bring it out.”

They moved in tense rhythm, the air charged between them.

“Tell me,” she said, lifting her chin. “Do ye always attempt to unsettle women under the guise of flattery?”

“Are you going to shoot me if I say yes?” His mouth twitched—almost, but not quite, a smile.

“I’ll only shoot ye if ye deserve it,” she fired back, her eyes gleaming.

The air between them thickened, and the duke’s gaze sharpened on her.

The heat between them shifted. His gaze sharpened, settling on her like a weight, and Catriona’s pulse kicked up in response. The intensity in his eyes, the way he watched her—it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

For a breathless second, she had the distinct feeling he saw her. Not just the words she wielded or the armor she wore, but something deeper. Something she hadn’t meant to show.

Her breath caught. She looked away, as if the movement could shield her from him.

“So,” she quickly spoke, clearing her throat. “How’s the girl? Is she… well?”

His expression shifted at once. Closed. Guarded.

“Her name is Lydia,” he said, tone clipped. “She is still quiet, but she is better. Better every day, but she has had a hard life for her young age.”

Catriona hesitated. Then, gently, “What happened to her?”

There was a pause, just long enough to make her wonder if he’d refuse to answer. Then?—

“Her father died earlier this year. She is his only child. She’s in my care now.”

His words were flat, but something in his face betrayed him—a tightness in his jaw, a flicker behind his eyes. There was more to it than duty. More than he was willing to say.

“I see,” she said, softer now. “I’m sorry.”

He gave a terse nod, but did not meet her gaze.

“It is a private family matter.”

“I didnae mean to sound indiscreet, Yer Grace. I was merely interested in the girl’s well-being.”

“As I said, that’s none of your concern. It is only mine.”

There was less bite in his voice now. Still distant, but not as cold.

“Right,” she said quietly.

She didn’t press him further. Something in his posture—not defensive, exactly, but braced—told her that would be the end of it. For now.

She let the moment stretch, then offered lightly, “Do ye know how to engage in polite conversation? I recently learned the merits of playing music to sheep.”

“Please don’t tell me,” he muttered. “Featherstone?”

She laughed. “Who else?”

The music wound around them, graceful and elegant, and she became aware of how close they stood. How tightly he held her—tighter than was proper, though no one else seemed to notice.

It should have unnerved her. It did unnerve her.

And yet, she didn’t pull away.

There was something about him—something unreadable and knotted beneath the surface—that made her want to prod further.

The way he’d looked at her when she mentioned Lydia. That flicker of guilt, or grief. Or care.

She hadn’t expected that from him. And now she couldn’t seem to forget it.

He looked down at her again, his expression unreadable. The muscle in his jaw shifted.

Whatever lay behind that face, it was buried deep. Locked tight.

But for the briefest moment, she wondered if she could unlock it again, if she could encounter the man beyond the stern, ducal walls.

And that was dangerous.

Very dangerous indeed.