Page 2 of A Highland Duke to Claim Her Heart

“Come now, Alaric, let us not assume the worst,” Ewan said, although he could not help but feel a flutter of the same fear. He’d had his own doubts, when his brother had come asking him to help arrange a match for him.

“I must have a fortune, if I am to make my own way,” Christopher had said, just three months ago, pacing back and forth in front of Ewan’s desk in his study, the crackle of the fire the only sound other than Christopher’s footsteps. “I stand to inherit nothing, only the meager allowance that you bestow upon me.”

“It is hardly meager,” Ewan had pointed out, but his brother had merely shrugged this off.

“You would not be able to live off of it,” Christopher had said. “And neither can I. I cannot invest it, or start my own venture. I need a woman with a dowry, someone who will help me to make my mark upon the world, to help me build a legacy.”

It was this, perhaps more than anything, that had convinced Ewan to help his brother find a wife. He did want Christopher to build a legacy. It would be good for him, he knew, to have ownership over something.

The waywardness his brother had heretofore exhibited was, in Ewan’s opinion, a result of his lack of responsibility. If he were to try and build an enterprise, he would rise to the occasion.

At least, that was what Ewan hoped.

And he very much hoped he was not condemning this poor woman, the daughter of the Earl of Pembury, to a life as the wife of a gambler and layabout.

He had to believe his brother would step up. He had to.

With some effort, Ewan forced a smile. “We should be joyful. A wedding will soon take place. We have every reason to feel optimistic about the future.”

The edge of Alaric’s mouth twitched. “I would much prefer if it wereyourwedding that we were preparing for,” he said. “It is after all, high time that you—”

“No,” Ewan snapped, before his friend could say another word. A strange feeling had come over him, like he was going to be sick, and it made an unjustifiable anger flare in his belly. He took a deep breath, calming himself, and when he spoke again, his tone had returned to normal. “I am not ready.”

Alaric looked suddenly apologetic. “Of course,” he murmured. “I should not have pushed. I am sorry.”

“Do not apologize,” Ewan said. “It is only that Margaret’s death still seems so fresh…”

He sighed, turning away to look out over the fields again, which were shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. “I know that five years may seem like many to you, but to me, it still feels as if it were only a few months ago.”

“I understand,” Alaric murmured. “I will not speak of it again until you are ready. I only think, sometimes, that little Annabelle deserves a mother.”

“That she does,” Ewan conceded. He then squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Now, shall I show you where the pipecollapsed? We will need to be in touch with our man at the quarry…”

Several hours later, after clearing away the rest of the collapsed pipe, Ewan and Alaric made their way back to the castle. Alaric had managed to avoid any hard, physical labor himself, but Ewan was covered in a thin layer of sweat and dirt. He was exhausted but happy, the way he always was when he had been out working. He would be much more tired had he spent all night socializing at a ball.

When they arrived back at the castle, the sun was low in the sky, casting a red glow over the sandstone walls, illuminating the ivy that crawled up the outside, and the drawbridge of the small moat.

Inside, the hall was cool and dark, the flagstones ringing out as he strode over to the staircase, past marble busts, suits of armor, and tall oil portraits of his ancestors on the wall.

“I shall check on Annabelle before I bathe for dinner,” he told Alaric.

“I will come with you,” Alaric said, somewhat to Ewan’s surprise, and his friend followed him up the wide staircase to the second floor, where they walked along the long, carpeted corridor to the nursery.

Ewan heard his daughter’s voice from inside even before he opened the door, and when he did, it was to find her sitting in her small wooden desk, reciting Latin prepositions, while her governess, Miss Lillian Ashworth, nodded encouragingly.

“Navigabimus, navigabi—Papa!” Annabelle shrieked, the moment she saw Ewan standing in the doorway. Abandoning her lesson entirely, she scrambled out from behind the desk and hurled herself toward him, catching him around the middle and burying her face in his shirt. “Papa, Imissedyou!”

“It has only been a few hours,” Ewan said in surprise, as he patted his daughter on the back a little awkwardly. He always felt slightly uncomfortable with these large displays of affection. He wanted very badly to return them, but he did not always know how. Showing so much did not come naturally to him.

“But I drew something for you!” Annabelle said, looking up at him with eyes, eager eyes. Ewan felt a shudder go through him. It was always like this, when he looked into his daughter’s eyes. They were exactly the same as his late wife’s had been, the same startling green. When he saw them, he felt as if no time had passed, as if Margaret was still alive, and it disconcerted him more than he could ever explain to anyone else, the way love and grief, guilt and resentment, burned through him all at once.

“Mistress Annabelle has been very excited to show you her drawing,” Miss Ashworth said. She had stood as well, and shesmiled as she held out the piece of paper, although, as Ewan took it, he couldn’t help but notice that her eyes slipped to the door, where Alaric stood waiting, and the faintest blush crept over her cheeks.

It was a drawing in charcoal of four stick figures standing on what appeared to be a castle rampart. There was a woman, two men, and one girl. Each had been labeled: Miss Ashworth, Papa, Uncle Alaric, and Me. Atop the whole drawing, Annabelle had written:The Whole Family.

As Ewan gazed down at it, contradictory emotions swirled inside of him. He was proud, of course, at his five-year-old daughter’s nascent drawing abilities.

And happy to think that she considered Miss Ashworth and Alaric family. But he couldn’t help but notice that there was noMamain the picture, and Alaric’s words from earlier came painfully back to him:Little Annabelle deserves a mother.