Perhaps it is Scottish sorcery, after all.
He watched her pass out the candy, his eyes landing on the sway of her hips and her soft curves.
He saw the genuine kindness in her eyes as she made sure each child had their fill, the way she treated each child with respect, not as an object of charity, but as an individual. And as he watched her, a warmth spread through him, a feeling he had long suppressed.
She was not just a beautiful woman on the outside; she was more than a pretty face.
He was still infuriated by her defiance, by the way she turned his world upside down, but he was also undeniably drawn to her.
And, to his surprise, he felt himself softening, just a little.
Later that evening, after the last glitter-covered orphans had been returned to St. Jude’s and the staff had begun the monumental task of restoring order to the drawing room, Elspeth found Hugo in his study, poring over ledgers with a grim expression.
He looked tired, a faint smudge of glitter still clinging to his light brown hair. It twinkled in the soft candlelight, bringing a smile to her face.
“Yer Grace,” she began, holding out a small, intricately carved wooden box. “I… I wanted to thank ye for yer patience today. And for yer assistance in managing the children. They really listened to ye, and nae just because ye are a formidable duke.”
She knew the words were inadequate, but she was genuinely grateful for his help with the children.
“I brought ye somethin’. A tea blend from the Highlands. Me maither taught me how to mix it when I was a wee lass.”
Hugo looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly on the box. “Tea?” he questioned, skepticism evident in his voice. “And it is not Earl Grey?”
“Aye,” she said, a small smile touching her lips. “It is good for calmin’ the nerves. And I imagine yers are quite frayed after today’s creative endeavors. Truly, ye were so good with them.”
He took the box and opened it to reveal a fragrant mixture of dried herbs and flowers. He sniffed it cautiously, then nodded. “Very well. I suppose a cup of tea would not go amiss. I will try your potion, sorceress,” he jested.
Elspeth left the room and returned a few minutes later with a pot of hot water. She sprinkled the herbs in the pot and let them steep.
“See how it flowers,” she said softly. “Once it has bloomed, it is good to taste. Ye need to get the tea good and ready. Let me pour ye some.”
She poured the tea into a small cup and watched eagerly as Hugo took the first sip. His eyes, which had been narrowed in suspicion, widened slightly. A look of genuine surprise, then pleasure, spread across his face.
“Well, I must hand it to you,” he murmured, taking a longer sip. “This is—I have never tasted anything quite like it.” He looked at her then. “You made this? The blend, I mean. You did not buy it from an apothecary?”
“Me own blend with very specific ratios,” Elspeth confirmed, a quiet pride swelling within her. “From herbs I gathered from yer garden, just like I did back home. One night I had thought of it, and then I started plantin’ the herbs in the garden, so I could make the brew for meself here in London.”
Hugo finished the cup, then held it out for a refill.
“More,” he commanded, a faint smile touching his lips. “If you’d please, My Lady.”
“As ye wish, Yer Grace,” Elspeth said as she refilled his cup, then poured another for herself. “Do ye mind if I sit?”
“Since when have you asked for my permission?”
“Cannae sit or nae?”
“Sit, sorceress,” he said, pushing his ledgers aside. “You said your mother taught you how to make this blend?”
“Aye, when I was a wee lass.” She brought the warm cup to her lips, hiding a smile. “I remember one time in particular.”
“Tell me,” he demanded, angling his body toward her.
“Are ye nae busy?”
“Not now. Tell me, Elspeth.”
“I still feel the sting of young Hamish McDuggar’s words, like a nettle rash. ‘Ye’re too odd, Elspeth Fraser,’ he had sneered at me once. He wrinkled his freckled nose as if I had just crawled out of a bog. ‘Always with yer head in the clouds, talking to the trees.’”
