Chapter 2

Marriage?

Had she heard correctly?

Had Mr. Lachlan Macfie just made a proposal of marriage to her?

Madeline stared at him, thinking she must be mistaken. Nothing in their conversation had suggested he might be interested in her romantically, let alone that he would want to marry her. His too-blue gaze held hers intently, the sunlight catching in his rakish hair beneath his hat, making golden strands glint. Her belly tightened, and a strange, new sense of awareness swept over her. He was looking at her expectantly.

"Mr. Macfie, I fear my ears are playing tricks on me," she said weakly.

"If ye heard me ask ye tae be my wife, then ye heard correctly." He drew one of his long legs up so he could drape his arm over his knee in a relaxed pose. "I'll admit, it wasnae the way I meant to go about it."

Understanding dawned and, with it, intense disappointment. For a few minutes there, she had been enjoying his company. His presence. She'd reluctantly fallen prey to his easy Scots charm. The way he spoke as if everything were a secret joke only the two of them were privy to, his lilting brogue, his handsome face, his big, brawny body. The way he'd consumed nearly an entire salad as if it were the world's most luxurious delicacy laid before him.

But no. She'd been fooled for a scant few, stolen seconds in time. Lachlan Macfie was everything she'd presumed him to be. And worse.

"You're a fortune hunter," she said baldly.

He winced. "Aye, Miss Chartrand. That I am—I'll no' lie. But I can explain."

Her brows rose. That was certainly different. Confidence men ordinarily didn't give away their games with such ease. Unless that, too, was a part of his plan?

"I don't think there's any need to explain," she said coolly, returning her plate to the counterpane.

Her appetite had been vanquished, her stomach soured. How had she allowed him to cozen her into believing he merely wanted her company on this picnic? A few minutes in his presence, and he'd won her over as if she were a hen being led astray by a fox. She stared at the plate of partially eaten food he had provided her, calling herself every kind of fool.

"But there is a need tae explain, lass."

The urgency in his tone had her glancing up at him.

She instantly regretted it, for his countenance was earnest. She couldn't look away.

Madeline swallowed hard. "Explain, then. I see dark clouds on the horizon. We should pack up this picnic and return to the manor house before we're caught in a deluge."

In truth, she didn't see any dark clouds. But the urge to escape this man's unsettling presence was strong. She had to put some distance between them before he persuaded her he wasn't a villain and that he had an admirable reason for wanting to seize her dowry.

"Forgive me for tripping over my tongue. It's no' every day I ask a lass tae marry me, ye ken."

"I should hope not," she said crisply. "As that would rather ruin the singularity of such an occasion."

"In fact, this is only the second time I've ever asked a lass tae marry me," he continued, frowning as if he were recalling the first instance.

Judging from his countenance, it hadn't been a happy occasion. But it wasn't only his reaction that affected her, in spite of herself. It was also the notion of him wanting to marry someone else that bothered Madeline. And she couldn't precisely say why. Pride, perhaps.

"Should I be insulted that I'm merely your second choice?" she asked cuttingly.

"Och." He scrubbed his hand along his chiseled jaw, which was covered with a light stubble of red-gold whiskers. Not a true beard, but enough of a shadow for it to be plain he hadn't shaved in several days. "I'm going about this all wrong. The first time was many years ago. I was young, and so was the lass."

Curiosity prompted another question, once more against her better judgment. "Did she accept?"

A muscle clenched in his jaw. "She didnae."

And her refusal had caused him pain, Madeline realized. Still caused him pain, it would seem. Not that it mattered to her either way. She had no intention of marrying this man. Of marrying any man, for that matter, as she'd so recently told him.

"I regretfully inform you that I'm not any more inclined to accept your kind proposal than my predecessor was," she told him. "Now, we really ought to see to the plates and food."

"Will ye no' hear what I have tae offer ye first?" He was frowning at her, still rubbing his jaw with one massive hand.

And for a wild moment, she thought about how that hand of his might feel on her. Stroking her own jaw, cupping her cheek. Gliding over her neck. Holding her nape.

No. What was she thinking? She wasn't attracted to this Scottish brute who had just admitted he was a fortune hunter. Why, he was no better than Charles had been. Only, Charles had kept his true motives from her until it had been almost too late. She'd avoided disaster then, and she would avoid it again now.

"I don't think it would be wise, Mr. Macfie."

She glared down at her plate, bemused to find her stomach growling again as she took in the pastry biscuit covered in stewed fruit, the Bayonne ham, the roast beef, the cheese. She'd eaten nothing more than a few berries, and she was still famished, curse it all.

"It would seem yer stomach is yer enemy once again," he rumbled, sounding faintly amused.

"If you were a gentleman, you wouldn't comment on it."

"Aye, but I'm no' a gentleman. We've already discussed my shortcomings." There was a smile in his voice that had her glancing up to find him watching her. "But while I may no' be a gentleman, I am a duke."

She stared at him. "I believe I'm acquainted enough with the vagaries of your customs here to understand that a mister can't be a duke."

"Aye, he can be if he inherited a dukedom and he hasnae told anyone—save his closest friends—about it just yet."

Interesting.

Madeline studied him for any signs of prevarication. He held her gaze without blinking.

"A duke," she echoed. "You?"

"Me." He gave her a wry grin. "Believe me, lass, it's with the greatest of reluctance that I've had tae realize there's no escaping my fate. I was fifth in line tae inherit, and yet here I sit before ye, the next Duke of Kenross."

Now she didn't know what she ought to call him. Your Grace? Duke? Kenross? Mr. Macfie?

She frowned. "Why haven't you told everyone you're the Duke of Kenross?"

"Because I've been trying tae avoid it." He sighed heavily. "I like the life I've built for myself here. But I cannae avoid it any longer. I've inherited a mountain of debt, a dilapidated castle, and people who need me tae look after them. That's where ye come in, Miss Chartrand. Or rather, yer dowry."

"You want to marry me to pay off the debt you've inherited and restore your dilapidated castle," she said, rather wounded he hadn't wished to marry her for another reason.

One that had more to do with Madeline herself than with her family's fortune.

"Aye," he agreed. "I do."

"An excellent plan." She flicked at an imaginary crumb on her skirt to hide her disappointment, which was as silly as it was irrational. "But I fail to see what your need of my dowry has to do with me. Indeed, your proposal seems suspiciously one-sided."

Not anything she wasn't accustomed to, of course.

"Ye want yer freedom," he said. "Yer mother wants ye tae marry a title. I'm a duke. I'll have a marriage contract drawn up that gives ye anything ye ask for. It'll be the answer tae both our problems. An easy solution."

"Surely not so easy if I have to agree to a marriage I don't want," she pointed out.

"The marriage I offer ye isnae quite like an ordinary one. It will be a marriage in name only."

His words gave her pause. "In name only?"

"Aye. I'll no' make any demands of ye in regard tae the marriage bed. A chaste marriage is all I'm after, lass. Well, that and yer dowry. As for the rest, ye'll be free tae do whatever ye like. Travel where ye wish, do what pleases ye. Ye'll be a free woman, only ye willnae have tae answer tae yer mother or anyone else. No' even me."

The marriage he proposed was quite unusual. She'd heard of marriages of convenience, of course. New York society marriages were notoriously cold-blooded. She knew that alliances were often made between a man and a woman for reasons other than love—money and éclat chief amongst them. But she'd never heard of a chaste marriage. At least, not anywhere other than in gossip and rumors.

"What you're proposing is my dowry in exchange for the freedom I already possess?" She shook her head. "Forgive me, but it hardly seems an equal trade."

"But are ye truly free, lass? It seems tae me that both ye and yer sister are at the whims of yer mother, who's been trotting ye about London like a pair of thoroughbreds she intends tae auction off."

Her shoulders stiffened, her spine straightening. His words were far too close to the mark.

"You ought to watch your tongue, sir. I don't recall inquiring after your opinion on my mother's marital aspirations for either myself or Lucy."

"Ye didnae, but I can plainly see they aren't making ye happy."

They weren't, and she resented him for taking note. Marrying an aristocrat had never been Madeline's dream. Nor had it been Lucy's, even if she was left with no choice but to wed the earl after their unfortunate tryst in the midnight gardens, followed by the gossipmonger Lady Featherstone's discovery of the two of them in a heated embrace. Now that Madeline thought upon it, perhaps her sister wouldn't find marriage such a dreadful fate after all. She certainly did seem smitten with the earl, even if she was fighting it.

"It's hardly any of your concern whether I'm happy," she snapped. "I'm afraid my answer to your proposal must be no."

A sound, firm no.

"Are ye certain, lass?"

Of course she was certain. Why would she marry a penniless Scottish duke when she could carry on perfectly well as she was, without a man to answer to and dictate her fate? Eventually, Mother would tire of her campaign to see both her daughters married. Indeed, Madeline already had hope that Lucy's impending nuptials would prove sufficient distraction for their mother. That landing one of her daughters an earl and orchestrating what she'd decreed would be the marriage of the century would be enough of a feather in Mother's cap without Madeline having to sacrifice herself.

"I'm certain," she confirmed, gentling her tone to take some of the sting from her refusal. "I'm sorry, but a marriage between us would never be what I wanted for myself."

She had escaped one fortune hunter's trap, and she wasn't about to throw herself into another. Even if he was a devastatingly handsome Scot with an accent like velvet to her senses, a grin that made her want to smile back at him, and the broadest shoulders she'd ever seen.

"I cannae change yer mind?"

"No," Madeline told him firmly. "You cannot."

"Och." He rubbed his jaw, giving her a rueful grin. "Ye cannae fault a man for trying. Let's at least finish this fine picnic before we return tae the manor house. It would be a shame for it tae go tae waste."

Her protesting stomach agreed.

Their picnic resumed, and Madeline steeled herself against the new Duke of Kenross's undeniable Scottish charm.

"Are felicitations in order?"Decker asked Lachlan later that evening as they squared off in a game of billiards.

Lachlan shook his head, heaving a sigh. "The lass doesnae want tae marry me."

"No? And why not, with you being such a fine matrimonial catch?" his friend and employer teased, taking aim and delivering a clean shot. "She didn't mention your eyebrows in her refusal, did she?"

"Och, leave my puir eyebrows out of this." Lachlan chuckled despite himself, for Decker had been mocking his eyebrows for as long as he could recall.

Their friendship was easy. Lachlan owed Elijah Decker his life. He'd left Scotland years earlier, adrift and uncertain of what he wanted. Fifth in line and a lifetime away from a dukedom. Far from the woman he'd wanted to spend the rest of his life with and have by his side—the woman who had thrown him over for another and crushed his heart. Decker had been building his already impressive empire then. He'd hired Lachlan on, and Lachlan had suddenly been given a new purpose. A driving force to bring him out of the darkness where Rose had left him.

Not that he'd ever shared the full truth of his past with Decker, or the state it had left him in. What he'd endured was too painful to dredge up, regardless of how close he was to his friend. Decker had never questioned the lack of female companionship in Lachlan's bed or the reason for it. Knowing his friend as he did, Lachlan suspected Decker would have thought him mad for forgoing physical relationships. But he'd never been capable of separating emotions from lovemaking the way some men could.

"Not the eyebrows, then." Decker raised a brow, his gaze searching. "Why did she refuse? I would have thought Miss Chartrand would eagerly agree to escape her matchmaking mama's clutches."

"Apparently I'm no' a sufficient catch," he drawled grimly.

Aye, he was aware that a largely unknown Scottish dukedom deep in debt hardly presented an attractive future for a spoiled, beautiful heiress who could have her choice of any husband she wanted. But he'd been hoping she might find sufficient reason to accept his offer just the same. Because he was running out of time, and because finding a wealthy wife at this house party would have been the answer to all his problems. Well, not all his problems. Just the one that was currently threatening to crush him beneath its omnipotent weight.

"You could do as I did and kidnap your bride," the Earl of Sinclair offered, grinning as he raised his glass of brandy in a mock toast.

Tall, dark-haired, and bearing a general air of menace, the earl was known for his dangerous reputation. The rumors that he'd killed his first wife had certainly added to the mystique. He'd long been friends with Decker, and Lachlan had befriended him as well over the years. These days, the earl was a happily married man just like Decker, a lion turned into a kitten.

Lachlan turned his attention to the baize, taking aim. "Miss Chartrand is an American. If I tried tae kidnap her, she'd likely shoot me in the arse."

"Only if you give her the opportunity, my good man," Sinclair countered.

"The way to a lady's heart is paved with cream ice," Decker interrupted as Lachlan scored a point.

"Och, 'tis a wonder ye havenae turned tae cream ice by now," Lachlan grumbled good-naturedly.

Decker was known for spoiling his beloved wife, and that often involved plying her with cream ices. Lachlan himself had fetched her favorite flavors on more than one occasion.

"Women want to be wooed," Decker told him with feeling. "They want to be seduced."

"They do," Sinclair agreed, nodding. "Have you courted the lady in question?"

"Courted her?" Lachlan snorted. "I dinnae court."

He had once, but he tamped down that thought with brutal ferocity.

Decker snorted, casting Sinclair a wry look as he took aim again. "As you courted Lady Sinclair? Ha!"

"I did court her," Sinclair defended himself, frowning. "After we married. And I'll have you know that she fell in love with me quite soundly."

"Against her better judgment, no doubt," Decker teased his friend, grinning as he scored a point for himself. "To say nothing of all ration and reason."

"She ought to have run screaming in the opposite direction," the earl agreed easily. "Fortunately for me, she stayed."

Lachlan took his turn, finding it difficult to concentrate. Despite his best attempts at aiming, he missed Decker's ball, ceding the point to his friend. It seemed rather representative of his earlier efforts where Miss Madeline Chartrand was concerned.

"Forgive me for saying the obvious, but I dinnae find either of ye tae be reliable sources of advice when it comes tae winning a woman."

True, Decker and Sinclair were both happily wedded men who were deliriously in love with their wives. But that was the point. Lachlan didn't want a love match. He didn't want to woo a woman and win her heart. He didn't want seduction and niceties and cream ice. He wanted a woman who would help him to look after his people and the land he'd unexpectedly inherited.

"I'm wounded." Sinclair pressed a hand to his heart, his expression schooled into melodramatic sadness more suited to the stage than an earl swilling brandy in the billiards room.

"I'm of half a mind to give you the sack for the insult," Decker said without bite, grinning at him as he took aim and scored another point, well on his way to victory.

And that, too, was suiting. It would seem Lachlan was destined to lose at every endeavor he tried his hand at today.

"Fortunately, I've inherited a penniless dukedom and a derelict castle," Lachlan replied dryly. "I havenae any need for yer position."

Decker sobered. "You know I'm more than happy to give you anything you need. Wife hunting isn't necessary."

Decker was generous. More generous than he ought to be. But Lachlan couldn't accept alms from anyone. Becoming the next Duke of Kenross was an albatross he'd have to shoulder alone rather than drag down his friend.

"I dinnae want a loan, but I thank ye," Lachlan said, taking aim and missing his objective. "Damn and blast, I havenae any luck at all today."

Or ever. But never mind that.

"I'm not speaking of a loan," Decker said quietly. "I'm talking about a gift in return for all your years of service and friendship."

"Charity," Lachlan scoffed. "I'm grateful for the offer, but nay. I'll no' take that any more than I would a loan from ye. This problem is mine tae solve, and that's that."

His pride wouldn't allow it. He thought again of the lovely Miss Chartrand. Of how her eyes sparkled in the sun and her long legs could keep pace with his. Of how her delicate floral scent had carried to him on the breeze, wrapping around him in subtle invitation. Of how full and inviting and lush her lips were. Of how bold and direct she was, her defiance a mantle she wrapped around herself as if it were the finest Parisian habit. She would have suited his purpose quite fine as a wife. But it wasn't meant to be. He'd simply have to settle for someone else.

Perhaps someone whose dowry wasn't nearly as massive.

But even a small fortune would do wonders to restore Kenross Castle. At least, he hoped it would. There were other unattached ladies in attendance. Perhaps he could persuade one of them to wed him.

"You might have better luck with finding a lady to marry you if you let it be known that you're the new Duke of Kenross," Sinclair suggested, before taking a pensive sip of his brandy. "We all know how the ladies adore dukes."

"Och, aye, but do they love overly tall Scottish dukes with uninhabitable castles who are in desperate need of an heiress?" Lachlan queried grimly.

He wasn't accustomed to being a duke.

To being Kenross.

It was a title he'd never aspired to, and one he most certainly never should have inherited, given how distantly he'd been related to the previous duke. Lachlan was last in line; the title was so ancient and moldering that there was no one to take it on after him. He intended to do his duty to the people and land that had become his responsibility. But beyond that, the title could go rot.

He was Lachlan Macfie first, damn it, and the Duke of Kenross second.

"Don't forget the bit about slamming doors and not knowing your own strength," Decker added, grinning.

"Point well taken," the earl said agreeably, raising his brandy in another salute. "Now, if you don't mind, Decker, finish trouncing the Scot so I can have my turn at giving you the drubbing you deserve."

"You'll never win against me," Decker warned smugly, taking aim and scoring yet another point, which left him perilously near to victory. "I'm the undisputed king of billiards."

"King of something is what ye are." Lachlan couldn't resist teasing his friend.

"King of what?" Decker asked with mock outrage. "Are you trying to tell me something, old chum? And here I am, on my best behavior, attempting to offer moral support and guidance, et cetera."

"Ha, the only best behavior ye have is when ye're sleeping." Lachlan grinned.

He missed his mark yet again, his own ball landing in the pocket and handing Decker a victory.

"My behavior is exemplary at all times," his friend countered. "Just ask my wife."

"I'll be sure no' tae do that," Lachlan said, surrendering his cue stick. "The puir dear lady is so in love with ye that she cannae see yer many faults."

"As is the duty of every good wife," the earl said amiably, taking up the cue. "They're saints and angels for enduring us."

Lachlan knew a brief pang of envy for the way his friends spoke of their wives with unabashed admiration and love. Once, long ago, he had hoped to marry and have half a dozen bairns and live in unbridled happiness. Once, he'd been young and na?ve and foolish enough to think that Rose had loved him as deeply as he'd loved her. When it had come down to it, she hadn't loved him at all. But that hardly mattered now as she was another man's wife. And he was about to marry another woman.

Not Miss Madeline Chartrand, alas.

But the next lass he could find and persuade to take him on.

With all haste.