Alasdair didn’t reply.
“You’re smiling,” Seth added with a smirk, reclaiming his brandy. “That’s dangerous, Sandy boy. Very dangerous. The last time you smiled like that was… well,never, now that I think on it.”
Alasdair folded the sketch with utmost care and tucked it back into the envelope as though it were the most precious thing in the room.
“This wee piece of art is mine. Mind that.”
Seth saluted with his glass. “Of course. But don’t think you can hide from it forever. You’ve already started collecting pieces of her. And now she’s given you one of yourself. That’s no small thing.”
Alasdair said nothing, but his jaw clenched, and not in defiance this time. He held the envelope like a promise.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows through the window. In the quiet that followed, even the ticking of the clock seemed to pause.
And somewhere in the depths of Redmoor House, a Scottish duke sat still at last.
Chapter Eighteen
“Is it just me,” Marianne murmured over her teacup a week later, “or are you watching that door like it owes you money?”
Elizabeth didn’t flinch. She kept her posture straight, eyes still trained on the grand double doors.
“I just want to be prepared for anything.”
Her sister arched an elegant brow. “Really? Are you expecting someone in particular? Or perhaps just hoping?”
Elizabeth turned toward the fire briefly, letting its warmth mask her discomfort. “No one. Just being alert and polite.”
“Lizzie,” Marianne said gently, nudging her elbow. “You go stiff when you lie. Always have.”
Before Elizabeth could craft a witty retort, the butler’s voice rang out across the music and chatter, sharp and official.
“His Grace, the Duke of Redmoor. The Earl of Whitton.”
The double doors swept open.
And there he was.
Alasdair entered like a storm that didn’t know how to whisper. His stride was deliberate, shoulders squared in a way that made other men straighten subconsciously.
Dressed all in black, he looked like sin dipped in ink—broad-shouldered, golden-haired, and exuding the kind of magnetic danger that set hearts fluttering and tongues wagging.
The light from the chandelier caught the subtle gleam of his black waistcoat. The rich darkness of his attire only sharpened the wild glint in his forest-green eyes—eyes Elizabeth knew far too well.
Next to him, Lord Whitton wore a dazzling smile and a pale blue coat that seemed deliberately chosen to contrast his friend. He looked like a charming rake ready to cause mischief or intercept it.
Elizabeth turned her head just slightly, pretending to be deeply interested in the floral arrangement beside her.
“Oh,” Marianne let out a soft laugh. “Now I know why you’ve been staring at that door like a debutante with a secret. That’s a lot of tension on those delicate shoulders. Try shrugging it off.”
“There’s no tension,” Elizabeth said through her smile. “I’m perfectly composed.”
Marianne hummed as if to sayif you say soand took another sip of tea. But her voice turned low and serious.
“You two can’t keep this up forever. If the air crackles every time he walks into a room, people will notice. And gossip.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The fire in her cheeks said enough.
But what unsettled her most wasn’t his presence. It was his restraint.