Chapter One
“Enough,” Hugo Blythe, the Duke of Arrowfell, ground out, his disheveled light brown curls falling in front of his eyes as he stormed into the hall. “What in the devil is going on here? Where is the lady of this house?”
He watched as several servants looked toward him without a word before hurrying along on what was clearly pressing business, at least to them. The slight made his blood boil, and he balled his fists at his sides.
It was one thing not to be greeted upon entry, but to be ignored was something altogether unacceptable.
“Let me fetch the butler, M’Lord,” a small wisp of a woman shrieked as she rushed past him, rags clutched in her hands as she spun about like a whirling dervish. “Mr. McDonough! Oh, where are ye?”
“You would do well to address me asYour Grace,” he warned, his shoulders tight with frustration as he raised an eyebrow at her.
“A thousand apologies, Me Lord!” she shouted as she flitted away toward a side hall, to where he could only imagine it led, before poking her head back around to say, “I mean, Yer Grace!”
The long journey from London had left him utterly drained. The only thing more depleted than his stamina was his patience. He had arrived at Inverhall, his newly inherited Scottish estate, expecting a quiet, manageable house.
Instead, utter chaos reigned.
The constant scurrying of servants, the muffled shouts from unseen rooms, and the general air of disarray put him on edge.
“Me apologies for the lack of a proper reception. This way, Yer Grace,” the butler mumbled as he approached him, a portly, nervous man Hugo had already decided must be replaced.
He gestured toward a set of French doors, the late afternoon sun descending in the distance.
“Lady Inverhall is through this way, in the gardens. I am Mr. McDonough, the butler.”
“Let us be on with it,” Hugo gritted out and followed him.
He wanted to sell the land and be rid of it. But Lady Inverhall, the Dowager Marchioness, was a most unexpected complication.
He had no connection to Scotland, save for the distant uncle whose lands and title he’d inherited. His uncle’s predecessor left behind a widow, one who was a burden Hugo had never asked for.
I must find a way to remove her.
Preferably by marrying her off to some suitable lord. It was the only logical way to clear her from his responsibilities and finally wash his hands of this Scottish entanglement.
Hugo stepped through the doors, bracing himself for whatever fresh hell awaited him, and took a deep breath. But nothing could have prepared him for what was on the other side.
What sort of madhouse is this?
The garden, a space he had imagined would be verdant and neat, perhaps formal, with arborvitaes, fragrant flowers, and trim bushes, was a muddy wonderland. Children, dressed in what could only be described as rags, shrieked with unbridled joy as they splashed barefoot through puddles, their laughter echoing off the ancient stone walls that encased the grounds. Nearby, villagers, clearly of the poorest sort, lounged on hay bales and tattered blankets. They were sharing simple food and wine, their murmurs a low hum and their accents so strong they were unintelligible, carried by the warm Highland wind.
Hugo was speechless.
This is a bloody carnival! And at its heart is some pagan queen…
There she was in the middle of it all, covered in mud. Her dark brown hair was threaded with colorful wildflowers, her emerald-green eyes sparkling with an almost feral delight in the chaos as the sun set behind her. She looked more like a woodland fairy than a human.
Hugo watched in silence as she orchestrated games, leading the children in a circle around a particularly large puddle.
“All right, lassies and laddies! It is time for the next game, and it will be a good one! Just let me fetch some more buckets and?—”
“Lady Inverhall,” Hugo’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the merriment like a cool knife.
He watched as the laughter died down quickly, heads turned toward him, and silence descended like a sudden shroud. Even the sun seemed to lower itself at the sound of his summons. Small whispers swirled around him, yet no one stepped forward.
“I demand to speak with the person in charge of this… this pandemonium!”
The creature turned then, her mud-streaked cheek only serving to highlight the vibrant green of her glittering eyes. She put herhands on her hips, a defiant posture that grated on his already frayed nerves. She moved away from the puddle, her walk a saunter that swayed from her hips.
