Chapter Seven

F eeling irritated, James pulled on his riding boots without bothering to call for his valet and stomped down the stairs. The land for the proposed new cottages needed inspecting, and he was not going to let the arrival of this unnamed chit get in the way of his business. He had a castle full of servants, after all; if she needed anything, she was hardly alone.

As he rode hard and fast across the estate, he tried to imagine what it would be like not to know who he was, or not to want to know who he was. Being the future Duke of Dunloch, and then taking on the title, had been an essential part of his character for as long as he could remember. Indeed, his parents had very deliberately raised him for this monumental task.

So he could not think of himself as separate from the title. That was what everyone saw, including himself: the title. The Duke.

He thought perhaps his sisters saw beyond it, for they certainly did not treat him with the respect the rest of society did. But they were silly girls, and their constant idle chitchat distracted him from more important matters.

Although, he had to admit, the castle was rather quiet now that they had left.

"Good morning, Your Grace," a local farmer called, tipping his hat.

James nodded in greeting from atop his horse. "Good morning, Mr Jarvis. How are those sheep of yours doing?" He took pride in knowing all of his tenants by name, as well as what they farmed. For how could one yield good results from the land if one was ignorant?

"They’re doing well, thank you Your Grace. Although there is a fence down in the left field they keep escaping from, no matter how often I fix it."

"I can take a look, if you like, once I’ve inspected old Acorn farm. See if there’s anything I can suggest."

"Much appreciated, Your Grace," Mr Jarvis said with a bow, and James trotted on his way.

He knew what he was doing when it came to looking after his estate. He was confident in his decision-making, and his tenants trusted him. He had no issues with riots or protests like some of his neighbours had, and he thought that was because he always tried to make sure he was fair. Whether the men he dealt with were farmers, labourers, men in service, or other local gentry, he believed they all deserved a fair chance at making a living for themselves and their families.

Was there a family out looking for the lost woman he was currently harbouring? He wondered again if he ought to ask around in the local village or send notes to the grand houses in the area. But while it might reveal who she was, it would also mean that people knew of her existence. And things would be an awful lot simpler if she simply regained her memory and disappeared back to wherever she came from without needing to mention his name to anyone. Then there would be no talk of impropriety, and he could go on with his life as usual. Undisturbed.

When his valet, Timothy, came to remind him that it was time to change for supper, James was pleased that he at least felt he had got some work done.

As the valet helped him pull off his muddy riding boots and change into something more appropriate for supper – something he liked to do even when dining alone, for he did not want the appearance of his station to be let down – he remembered that he was not alone.

The lady, whatever her name was, must surely have been up in her bedchamber for the entirety of the afternoon. Or perhaps she had come out to explore a little, not that he’d seen hide nor hair of her.

"Would you make sure that somebody knocks to tell the lady that supper will soon be served?" James asked as Timothy tied a fresh cravat for him.

"Of course, Your Grace."

She was already waiting for him in the great hall when he arrived, and he wondered if the staff had thought to tell her before he had reminded them. They were very diligent, and it wouldn’t have surprised him. He bowed stiffly, still entirely unaware of the rank of this young lady.

"Good evening. I trust you are well?"

At the opposite end of the table, the young lady nodded her head. "Yes, I am feeling much recovered, thank you."

"Any sign of your memory returning?" he asked her. He presumed she would have mentioned such a thing immediately, but one never knew with women. Their minds worked in very different ways.

"I’m afraid not, Your Grace," she said, as the footman came in and filled their glasses with wine. "Have you had a pleasant day?" she asked.

He didn’t know why, but the question rather surprised him. Perhaps because his sisters never really took an interest in what he did with his days. "Oh, a productive one, thank you." He took a sip of his wine and then realised he probably ought to return the question. "I hope yours was as pleasant as it could be?"

"Oh yes. You have a beautiful home, Your Grace. I do love castles and beautiful countryside like this."

"That sounds rather like a memory," James said, and for some reason, the girl blushed. "Hopefully it’s a good sign that the rest will soon return."

"Where exactly are we?" she asked. "I know this is Dunloch Castle, but not precisely where in the country I have ended up…"

"You’re in Scotland," he said. She did not have a Scottish accent, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t reside somewhere in the border between Scotland and England; after all, he had lived here all his life and still retained the English accent of his parents, and of his schooling. "About thirty miles outside of Edinburgh.

She did not ask any more questions as the first course – a hearty soup – was placed before them, and they ate without speaking. But when the plates were cleared away, she asked, "Is the owner of this dress not in residence? I wouldn’t wish to be rude and not thank them in person."

"No. I am the only one in residence at present. If that bothers you, I suppose I could see if any of the other local houses have womenfolk in residence and would be willing to take you in."

She shook her head. "Oh, no. I do appreciate your hospitality. I just wished to thank the lady in question, that’s all."

She really was a strange one. She didn’t seem particularly bothered at all that she was alone in a house with a man she knew nothing about. Of course, he knew that he only ever had good intentions, especially when young women who seemed like they were probably of good families were concerned. But she didn’t know that. "It belongs to my sister. My eldest, I think – although I must admit I do not pay much attention to their clothing, other than to the amount they charge to our account at the modiste."

"How many sisters do you have?" she asked.

"Three. They are presently all on their way to London, either for the Season or to attend finishing school. You remember the Season, I presume?" he asked, unsure what the boundaries of her memory loss were.

She nodded. "I do believe so. And so there is no…duchess in residence?"

A seed of suspicion began to sow in his mind. She wasn’t trying to fill the position herself, was she? Turning up here out of the blue, with no idea as to her identity… Was she simply seeking a rich, titled husband?

But then he did not think anyone, no matter how conniving, could have feigned the state she was in when he found her in the boat. He had thought her close to death, and had he not found her, who knew how long it would have been before she succumbed to the cold and the water filling her lungs.

And so he answered her and tried to put his mistrust aside, if only to make their interactions easier.

"No. My mother was the last duchess, and she has been gone a long time."

◆◆◆

So he was not married. She had thought as much, but she had just wanted to be sure. For what was the point in getting to know him, testing his character, if he ended up having some wife away in the country?

And they were in Scotland, as she had suspected. Her little boat had travelled quite some distance in the storm, and she thought once again that she was lucky to have survived such an experience.

As they ate roast chicken, she found herself glancing up at him several times. He really was quite handsome, with his short dark hair – a little shorter than society would normally choose – and his sharp jawline, even if he never smiled. That would be a good test, she decided: was there a way to make him smile? Something that would make him cheerful? It did not seem that speaking of his sisters did so.

She needed to be careful, though. She was not an accomplished liar, she knew that, and she had already nearly ruined the ruse by telling of her love of castles and the countryside.

"Will you join your sisters for any of the Season?" Penelope asked. It was rather difficult, she was finding, to make conversation whilst concealing so very much. So many opportunities to accidentally spill her secret. And then, she rather thought that he would be mad. He wouldn’t understand that she had never got to know a gentleman outside of a ballroom. That she just wanted to know whether a connection could be made, before her parents married her off to some lord old enough to be her grandfather.

"I shouldn’t think so," he said, pursing his lips. "I do not find London particularly appealing, I must say."

Penelope was about to agree with him when she remembered that she had lost her memory. "But your sisters enjoy it?"

He waved a hand dismissively through the air. "My sisters are, as many women are, rather silly. Yes, they enjoy the frivolity of London – and hopefully there they will make their matches and be secure and happy in whatever way they wish."

Penelope frowned. He certainly had a rather low opinion of the fairer sex. She rather wished she could meet these sisters, and see if they really were as silly as he made out.