A Highland Duchess by Karen Ranney

question.
    “I shouldn’t have asked that, should I? Perhaps I envy you. I’d only met Anthony once, and didn’t even remember it. He did, however, and appealed to my father that very night. He said meeting me was one of his fondest memories. Wouldn’t you think I would be able to recall it as well?”
    “Perhaps not. Evidently, you made an impression, while he did not.”
    “It was a party, I think. Perhaps that’s why I don’t remember. I dislike parties,” she said. “Mourning isn’t onerous for me, for that very reason. It gives me an excuse to be by myself, in my own company.”
    She was prattling—she could hear herself. What had gotten into her?
    “Rebecca, my betrothed, is just the opposite,” he said. “She knows everyone’s names and the names of their brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers. And as far as liking her, we’ve been acquaintances for a great many years.”
    “Then I wish you the very greatest happiness,” she said.
    “And I, you,” he replied, smiling at her. “Who is to be your next husband?”
    “I haven’t any idea,” she admitted. “I never even inquired as to his name. My uncle made the announcement last night, before you arrived.”
    “Quite an adventurous night.”
    She sent him a look.
    “Perhaps he will be the best of husbands,” he said, watching her over his cup.
    “Perhaps he shall. And we will grow old together in loving matrimony.”
    He put the cup down. “Your tone seems to make a mockery of marriage, Emma.”
    She was silent for a moment. When she did speak, her voice was faint, as if she were ashamed to say the words. But she felt, strangely enough, that they needed to be said.
    “You’ve listened to the rumors about me. Have you heard anything said about Anthony, then?”
    “I have, yes.”
    “Can you imagine, then, if half the rumors you heard were true, what my marriage was like?”
    It was his turn to remain silent. “Yes,” he said finally. “I can.”
    His look was too sympathetic.
    He reached out and touched the top of her hand with the tip of his forefinger. A delicate touch, one that somehow managed to feel almost intimate. She should draw her hand back but she didn’t. Instead, she stared at his finger, feeling oddly mesmerized.
    She’d never sat so close to any man other than her husband. No man, including Anthony, had ever been so charming. A few of Anthony’s friends had whispered lurid suggestions to her but no one had ever been so pleasant.
    She didn’t know what to do. Should she leave now? Prudence demanded that she do so, yet the impulse warred with her very real wish to remain exactly where she was.
    “After you get the mirror,” she asked, pushing aside her thoughts, “will you return to Scotland?”
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Tell me what your home is like,” she said, then softened her request. “Please.”
    Even as she sat there, she knew she wasn’t being wise or proper at all. She should retreat to her chamber and act the part Fate had given her. If not prisoner, she should play the role of widow. On this bright and shining morning, however, she couldn’t find it in herself to pretend to grieve for Anthony.
    For a moment they sat in silence, before Ian began to speak.
    “Lochlaven is a few hundred years old and my family has lived there since it was built in 1606. It’s perched upon a promontory,” he said, his voice soft, almost melodic. “Overlooking a lake on which there’s an island, the site of the first castle. Behind us is Ben Cuidan, and a range of mountains. Lochlaven itself faces west. Each day as the sun sets we’re treated to a show of pink and gray skies. When I was a boy, I used to think that we were the last spot on earth, the last ones to see the sun set, but then, everything in my life revolved around Lochlaven in those days. It wasn’t until I went away to school that I understood it wasn’t the center of everyone’s world.”
    The more she knew about him, the more mysterious he