Page 28 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

The house on Northumberland Street was grander than Hannah expected, larger than her father’s house just a short walk away.

Positioned at the end of a row of houses on a quiet cobbled street, the house had an elegant, understated facade and an entrance of golden stonework surrounding a single black door.

Like her father’s house two blocks away, Strathburn’s home was part of the neatly laid out streets forming the New Town, rows of imposing palatial-fronted homes added just fifty or so years earlier.

Dare had explained in the hackney ride that his house had been designed for his great-grandfather and came to him with the viscountcy, along with Strathburn Castle, a tower house in the Highlands, smaller than the family seat, Drummond Castle, held by his first cousin, chief of that ilk.

This was no modest house, Hannah thought, stepping into the foyer.

All was dark and cool and silent, with just enough light from moonbeams pouring through tall windows in a parlor and dining room just off the hall.

More moonlight streamed through an oval skylight in a cupola high above, overlooking a staircase and ironwork balustrade that curved upward at least three levels.

She felt dizzy as she looked up and into the circling stairway.

Yet the magnificence of the place was balanced by the peaceful simplicity of creamy walls, spare and elegant furnishings, and patterned rugs spanning oak floors.

“It is beautiful,” she breathed.

“I hoped you would like it. Quite dark in here.” He set down the bags he had carried inside, while Hannah carried the basket Mrs. Pringle had provided them. He crossed into the front parlor. “I will find a light.”

Within moments, he lit the oil wick of a lantern and turned, its dark-gold glow illuminating the room. “Chilly too,” he added. “We will need a fire. Do you know how to do that?”

“Of course,” she said. “You have no servants here? The house seems deserted.”

“I gave them all three weeks off while I went to London. We’ve returned a little sooner.

My sister lives nearby and may have been in and out to see that all was well.

She is an efficient soul and likes the opportunity to straighten my study or change the bedcovers and so on.

Cannot help herself, no matter how many housemaids she might have. ” He chuckled.

“Sister?” She turned.

“Mary Eleanor. Nell,” he added. “Married to a good lad, Ewan Cameron, who is away, a surgeon in a regiment in Ireland. Nell needs something to do, and I am sometimes the victim of that.” He chuckled.

“She sounds lovely. I do not know much about your family.”

“I also have a brother, Quentin, the youngest. He’s in Ireland with Ewan Cameron. We hope to see them both by year’s end. Just now, I must apologize. With the servants away, there’s likely nothing in the larder but oats and beans. And I would not expect you to cook.”

“Mrs. Pringle gave us plenty of food.” Hannah gestured toward the basket she had set down. “I am not sure what is there, but it is sure to be good. Are you hungry? I’m rather famished.”

“Let’s see what we have. The kitchen is this way.”

She followed him along the hallway to a white door tucked in a corner.

A short stairway led to the plain environment below stairs, all whitewashed walls and planked floors.

They passed a stone storage cellar and entered the kitchen, a wide vaulted room with windows that looked out onto the lower part of the street.

In the dark, in the lantern light, Hannah put the basket on the worktable, then lit a fire in the huge hearth, taking time to nurse it to life while she set a kettle of water on a hook to boil.

She went about the work capably, with little comment, feeling curiously comfortable in Strathburn’s kitchen, as if she had always lived here.

“My sister is going to love you,” he said. “She has no patience with those who expect servants to take care of everything.”

“We were taught to do for ourselves when we could, though we were fortunate to have servants in the house, and fortunate to have Mama and then Mrs. Pringle to teach us properly.” She stoked the fire as she spoke.

“So were we. It is the way of it in Scotland.”

“Where the servants are often our kinfolk and are inclined to say, ‘Oh, do it yourself, dearie, we are too busy,’” she replied with a laugh.

Dare chuckled in agreement and emptied the basket. Mrs. Pringle had provided an abundance of wrapped cold meats, bread, cheese, apples, fruit tarts, and a small pottery jug containing cool milk.

“Milk for tea,” he said, “if I can find the tea.”

“Let me look.” Opening a pantry, she found a wooden box holding three metal caddies and set it on the worktable. Prying open the lids, she sniffed each. “Green,” she pronounced, “and bohea—a very strong black, that one—and, ooh, cocoa in this one.”

“If you know tea and love cocoa, my sister will adore you,” he remarked. “Though it is late for tea. I know where the wine is kept, if you prefer that.”

She capped the canisters. “If you do not mind, I am partial to cocoa, and we have milk that should not sit about.”

“The cellars are always cool for such things. But cocoa it is, if my wife wishes it,” he said lightly, “with milk and sugar as she pleases, and cold meat with bread, wrapped as a sandwich, if that is not too ordinary for her.”

“I love picnics. Oh, the water is boiling!” Going to the hearth, she took the kettle off the hearth and set it aside, heated the milk to simmering, then found sugar in cone shapes wrapped in paper.

Breaking off pieces, she mixed it with milk and cocoa.

The divine smell of hot chocolate filled the kitchen.

She turned to find Dare slicing thick chunks of bread. He stuffed them with cold meat and cheese and set them on a platter, which he carried to a small table in a corner of the kitchen.

“There might be pickles in the cold cellar,” he said. “Cook puts them up often, I think. Is there aught else you would like with this, lass?”

“This is fine,” she said, smiling, feeling a wash of contentment as she looked around the homey kitchen. “This is wonderful.”

She added a plate of fruit tarts, then found silverware, porcelain plates, cups, and linen napkins stored in a cupboard with wide shelves and drawers.

Dare pulled out chairs and they sat together in the low, intimate light from the oil lamp and the crackling glow of the hearth fire, with darkness deep outside tall windows.

Here in his home, in her new role, Hannah felt comfortable, felt she could finally be herself after months of tension, of watching, of feeling hurt and wary. Both she and Dare would need to adjust and merge their lives and characters in a willing whole. That would take time.

And that needed honesty. Something had been tapping at the back of her mind, and she needed to ask, if she could find the moment and the words.

Dare glanced up and smiled. “You have a way with cocoa. This is good,” he said, and sipped. “You do more than just paint and draw. I saw some of your sketches. Very skilled.”

As if he knew her thoughts, he had given her an opening for what had been bothering her.

“Thank you. Did you see my armorial drawings?”

“Just the ones you did aboard ship. Masterfully done.”

“Thank you.” But she frowned, wondering. The thought would not leave her despite tonight’s happiness.

“What is it?” Again he seemed to know her thoughts—it had been that way between them from the first.

“I still wonder,” she said, pouring more cocoa for both, “why you married me. You were not obligated, and did not come to London planning to court me and propose—although I am glad you tell it that way.”

“The full truth stays between us, shared with very few.” He sighed. “It was not obligation. I wanted to marry you. But something still troubles you about that.”

“I am thankful, truly. So Papa sent you to find me?”

“It was more a suggestion, and I promised to look after you. I took it too far, and I will always feel remorse about it.”

“We know what happened. As for Dove, I was trying to take care of things myself. I am not a wilting sort.”

“I know that. And you did all you could. But Frederic Dove would challenge the most strong-willed person, and he proved he could be dangerous. He meant his threats.”

“He did. So you acted on chivalry and remorse?”

“Hannah,” he said sternly. “I acted on affection as well as concern. The affection began long before London.”

He had said so before, and it thrilled her again. Yet something still tapped at her.

“Many marriages begin on less,” he said. “We will find our way and do well.”

“I hope so, but…I must ask, since you have not said.”

“What have I not said?” His eyes, large and warm and dark, met hers. “How can I declare that I love you and have you believe it?”

“Love me?” She caught her breath, cup poised in the air as she looked at him.

“Love you,” he said. “I love you. I am not asking the same of you. It takes time—I am still sorting it out myself. I am a thoughtful lad who needs a little courage to talk about some things.”

She set her cup down, and for an instant, fought tears as her heart swelled. “Lord Strathburn,” she said. “I love you. I have loved you since we talked of strawberry jam.”

He laughed, took her hand across the small table, lifted it, kissed it. “A wonderful moment that I will never forget, Hannah Gordon.”

“Now, or the jam?” She pressed his fingers, stroked the back of his hand where the scarring felt rough.

“Both.” He kissed her hand again, released it. “But I see you thinking hard about something still. Just here, that frown.” He reached out to tap her forehead. “What bothers you?”

“This, then. Did you come to London to find a heraldry artist, and decide to take me back with you? And marriage was one way to do that?”

He raised his brows at that, as if taken off guard. He sipped chocolate, shredded a bit of bread on the plate. “You have a blunt way when you want, I give you that.”