“You’ve planned all of this?” she asked softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “You didn’t even ask for my help.”
“There’s still time for hostin’, Madame,” Alasdair said, lifting his wine glass. “But ye deserve to be surprised. Wooed, even.”
“Is that what this is?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Being wooed?”
“Aye. Everythin’ here’s for ye. For yer pleasure.”
The words weren’t spoken with any flourish. He wasn’t boasting. He was simply stating a truth, and somehow, that made it all the more disarming.
Elizabeth ran her hand along the edge of her plate, grounding herself. Her chair was impossibly comfortable. She felt almost too regal in it, as though it had been carved to hold only a duchess. And across from her sat the man who had so suddenly, and perhaps foolishly, made her one.
Alasdair was too composed for someone who’d proposed with almost no notice and no planning. Then again, everything abouthim seemed to defy the rumors: the tales of brawling and belligerence, of wild tempers and unpredictable moods.
So far, he’d been nothing but calm. Kind, even.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, meaning it more than she expected.
He tilted his head. “Ye should call me Alasdair. Especially when we’re alone.”
She felt her face flush. “Yes. We are alone.” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “You do remember we’ve been alone before?”
He smiled faintly. “Aye. But not like this. Not with approval.” He set down his glass and leaned in just a little. “Our marriage gives us leave to be together without folk raisin’ a fuss.”
Elizabeth looked down at her roast and began to cut it into precise little pieces.
Why was it easier to talk to him when they were teasing each other in the shadows? Why did this room, with its elegance and quiet, feel heavier than all their stolen conversations?
“Say something, Elizabeth,” Alasdair coaxed. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, close enough to close the space between them. “Say anythin’, or I’ll be forced to ramble on about the weather. Or explain to ye how kilts are made.”
A small laugh escaped her. “Kilts are… surprisingly interesting,” she said, before she could stop herself.
“Mm. Is that so?” His grin widened. “That’s all ye’ve got to say? That kilts are interestin’?”
“They are.”
“Well then,” he drawled. “I was hopin’ for more of the woman who once tried to reform me into a fine gentleman.”
“Do remember,” she countered, raising a brow, “youasked for my help.”
“Ye did a grand job,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been usin’ cutlery and everythin’.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and hid a smile behind her glass.
“But,” he added, lowering his voice, “I think ye like that I’m a brute. Gentlemen daenae usually steal kisses in dark corners.”
That made her blush all over again. She remembered far too well how his hands had touched her in that room, how his mouth had made her forget herself entirely.
“Regardless, we are past arrangements,” she said, her voice faintly unsteady. “This is a marriage now. And I don’t know what that means for us.”
Alasdair studied her carefully. Then he rose, slowly, with deliberate grace, and walked around the table.
She expected him to pace, to lean against the wall maybe—but no.
He dragged a chair beside hers, sat down, and turned his whole body toward her. His knee brushed against hers beneath the table, and he didn’t move it.
“This is a marriage, aye,” he agreed. “But it’s not a trap, Elizabeth.” He reached out, not to touch her, but to rest his hand on the table near hers. “Ye’re the Duchess of Redmoor now. This house, this title, the staff, everythin’ that’s mine is yers, too. My people already admire ye. They’ll follow ye as their mistress. Ye can host, or not. Take visitors, or not. Sleep in, wander the gardens, sketch the moors, sing to the roses, do nothin’ at all. Ye daenae answer to me.”
Elizabeth stared at him, uncertain how to process that much freedom. It didn’t feel real.