Page 45 of His Stolen Duchess (Stolen by the Duke #7)

Chapter Two

“ A pretty, gilded case,” Alasdair McCloughan, Duke of Redmoor, murmured, as he inspected the gowns, chandeliers, and jewelry.

For him, everything about the ball sounded fabricated. The choruses and laughter sounded well-rehearsed, while men walked around looking smug with wealth or pretend wealth while the women preened, hoping to be noticed.

Everybody who had met Alasdair considered him a handsome man, with his russet-brown hair and forest-green eyes.

His beard was always trimmed and his posture impeccable beneath expensive, well-pressed coats.

However, he preferred standing near a Corinthian column, away from the ladies and their exuberant mothers.

“Ye’d think with all this glitter, they’d at least manage a dram worth drinkin’,” he complained, as his eyes continued to assess the ball.

His unlikely but loyal English friend, Seth Curnley, Earl of Whitton, sighed heavily. He himself nursed a glass of claret. Alasdair wondered when Seth would finally finish the drink. He could not really blame him.

“This isn’t the Highlands, my friend. Here, people prefer drinks that are as dull and lukewarm as their marriages. And you can see how these matches begin right here.”

“Anybody here’s playin’ a part they cannae keep up with. Nae wonder, come later, folk will feel scunnered an’ let doon. There’s nothing but emptiness.”

“Ah, you are in a mood tonight, old sport,” Seth observed with amusement. “Do try to keep away from duels this time.”

“Ha! Now that ye mention it—if anybody dares ask me again if I speak English, I’ll answer them in Latin,” Alasdair declared, suddenly feeling a little more spirited.

Seth choked back a laugh, clearly savoring the rare moment of levity amid the evening’s heaviness. But the respite was brief, for soon, a group of young lords swaggered in, their false confidence inflated by little more than inherited titles.

“Your Grace, we hear you still prefer the company of savages despite your lofty title,” Lord Haverson greeted, a thin smile playing on his lips.

Alasdair fought to suppress a look of disgust as he regarded the baron’s son, one of those would-be fashionables who mistook privilege for refinement.

“Only when I venture south, or find myself at these balls,” he replied coolly.

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the gathering. They seemed to truly believe he was some kind of wild Highlander. Perhaps there was some advantage in letting them think so.

Haverson’s tone sharpened. “Scotland must be quite charming this season, yet you chose to grace us with your presence here. Though, I suppose the Highlands are still plagued by melancholy, bandits, and if rumors serve, the occasional bear.”

Alasdair’s eyes gleamed. “The bears ken their manners better than some of the folk I’ve met here.”

Laughter burst forth, sharp and knowing. Lord Mayham, a portly viscount, attempted to steer the conversation elsewhere, but Haverson’s jab wasn’t finished.

“And I dare say you’re no stranger to scandal yourself. Word is your cousin’s divorce has made quite the stir.”

Alasdair’s temper flared, his brogue thickening.

“Aye, but I hear tell of yer uncle’s debts, my lord.

So foul he fled to the Continent wearin’ naught but his nightshirt!

The difference between you and me, Haverson, is that I couldnae give a damn about what folk say.

We can swap tales of family disgrace till the cock crows, if ye’ve the stamina. ”

The air thickened with tension.

“And that, gentlemen, is our cue to depart. Seems he’s making friends again,” Seth declared, shaking his head as he clapped a hand on Alasdair’s shoulder.

“Ye ken I dinnae come here for pissing contests, Seth,” Alasdair muttered.

“Aye, but they came for just that, and I’m here to save you the trouble,” his friend retorted.

Alasdair knew Seth was right. With his temper, it would be far too easy to give in to their provocation. Better to slip away.

They wove through the glittering throng toward the refreshment tables. Aye, a moment’s respite with a drink in hand. That was what he needed.

But no sooner had they arrived than Seth was swept up into a lively conversation with a cluster of young matrons. Their laughter tinkled like crystal as they peppered him with questions, eyes bright with curiosity and amusement.

Alasdair hung back, hoping for some peace, but it wasn’t long before a small crowd of debutantes and their mothers closed in around him.

The worst combination of all.

They eyed him like a rare trophy, smiles fixed and eyes sparkling with all the eager intent of those determined to appear clever.

“Your Grace, is it true your estate has bears roaming about freely?” one girl asked, her voice pitched high with barely concealed excitement.

“Can you actually speak proper English, Your Grace? Do say something so we may hear,” another challenged, leaning forward with a teasing smile.

A younger debutante cooed, “He has such a lovely accent.”

“And do all Scots really have to wear kilts to dinner? What happens if it’s freezing outside, Your Grace?” piped up a third, eyes wide with innocent—or not so innocent—curiosity.

Alasdair’s patience frayed like an old rope. This wasn’t overwhelm; it was irritation wrapped in silk and smiles. Whenever the questions came, whether Seth was near or not, his reply often took a sarcastic edge.

“Aye, an’ we tear haggis with our bare hands while dancin’ roun’ the fire like savages, eh?” Alasdair quipped, voice low but dripping with dry wit.

Some laughed, others blinked, unsure whether he was jesting or serious.

“So romantic, though,” a young debutante whispered, fanning herself with exaggerated flair. “So wild.”

That was all he needed to hear. While the unmarried men his age made no secret of their disdain, the women, young and old alike, were ready to accept any tale about him. They could paint him as a savage who couldn’t speak proper English yet still consider him a suitable match because of his title.

He wasn’t naive enough to believe otherwise.

Alasdair’s patience had worn thin. He wasn’t suffocated; he was done. Done with the endless pretense, the backhanded compliments, the shallow curiosity disguised as interest.

“I’ll take my leave,” he said smoothly, voice calm but final, excusing himself with an air that brooked no argument.

The murmurs that followed betrayed surprise, some thinking him abrupt, others quietly annoyed at losing their chance.

“He’s leaving already?”

“You should’ve asked about his summer in Scotland.”

“Mother, I almost did. Remember?”

“He’ll come back. Scots can’t stand crowds but he’s a duke after all, he’ll know it’s proper to return.”

Alasdair made sure to put distance between himself and the clatter of gossip. With each measured step, the noise dimmed, leaving space for the sharp clarity he craved.

He sought a balcony for solitude but found no refuge.

The first was occupied by a circle of smokers gossiping loudly about the latest scandals.

The second was dominated by a married marquess pressed uncomfortably close to a young debutante.

The third held a couple caught in a near-kiss behind the curtains, thwarted only by a footman who, with a conspiratorial grin, tipped a tray of jellied sweets onto the floor, provoking a chorus of indignant voices.

Alasdair’s jaw tightened. The ton’s farce was persistent. But so was he.

It was never his scene, but Alasdair knew the value of showing up. Escape was what he needed.

Then he spotted a narrow corridor lined with velvet, leading toward the gallery. He took the path and stepped through the doors. As they closed behind him, the noise of the ballroom faded into a distant hum, then vanished entirely.

The thick walls and heavy tapestries reminded him of home. He exhaled, relief flooding through him.

Candelabras cast an otherworldly glow over the oil paintings: portraits, battle scenes, pastoral landscapes.

Beautiful works, though he’d seen many like them.

People might call him uncultured, but the brushwork here was undeniable, violent, alive, like the knight on horseback raising his sword as if ready to strike.

The artist had flair, certainly, perhaps even a touch of the melodramatic.

But Alasdair sensed something more. The gallery’s layout suggested an inner chamber.

The paintings progressed from tame portraits to scenes of adventure, guiding him toward a partially concealed door, hidden behind velvet drapes, left ajar.

Curiosity flared. Ducking beneath the velvet rope, he followed the corridor.

“Mmm,” he murmured, “finally something interesting.”

The narrow hall no longer displayed noble portraits or heroic deeds. Here, figures were less clothed, sometimes not at all, and the lighting grew intimate, the colors warmer, more charged.

One painting showed a woman reclining, a blend of vulnerability and defiance in her gaze. Her fallen bodice revealed more than decorum allowed, capturing a moment of raw human yearning, perhaps lust for something unattainable.

Alasdair was struck by the audacity of these works. They seemed better suited to a gentleman’s club than a noble’s gallery.

He intended a brief glance before slipping back to the crowd. Seth would wonder, but he cared little.

“Oh.” A soft intake of breath drew him forward.

Ahead, a young woman stood alone, her mouth slightly parted in awe before a massive canvas.

Flickering candlelight traced her profile: smooth cheeks, a delicate nose, full lips set in quiet reverence. Her blond hair was swept into a modest chignon, with loose curls framing her face. Her gown was simply elegant.

For a moment, Alasdair thought she was part of the gallery brought to life.

Alasdair froze, unsure whether to stay or leave.

She didn’t know he was there.

Her fingers hovered, hesitant, as if itching to touch the canvas. What held her so captive?

He stepped closer, silent as a shadow. The painting showed a naked woman seated on a windowsill, light spilling across her bare back. She clutched a letter to her chest, one hand between her legs in a gesture of secret pleasure.

The emotions captured—grief, lust, longing, desire—reflected in the woman before him, watching with awe, as if absorbing all she had never known.

She whispered something, too soft for him to catch, then repeated the word, “No… no… I should go.”

Her body turned slightly, but her eyes stayed fixed on the painting. Alasdair couldn’t tell what she saw beyond the brushstrokes, but it was a longing he recognized. Like watching the hills back in Scotland.

Was she?—?

He dared not voice the question.

All he knew was that watching her made the gallery feel like home, and the ball like a distant burden. The dance of suitors and whispered alliances could wait. They wanted husbands; he wanted nothing to do with it.

Then, she turned to him, and the question spilled from his lips before he could stop it?—