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“They’ve anticipated yer visit, as well.” He included Marjorie in his remark, but she was attending to divesting her bundled daughters of their outer garments and didn’t notice. She was an attentive, gentle mother, and she quite obviously adored her children.
Keane had never experienced a mother’s love. Well, not that he could remember, in any event.
No one had ever mentioned whether his mother had loved him. Until now, he’d never been curious about what he’d missed, but something in Marjorie’s demeanor caused a queer pull he couldn’t describe.
As soon as the lasses had removed their outerwear, he escorted the Kennedy entourage into the great hall and, with a casual flick of his hand, called for refreshments. As he’d directed prior to the Kennedys’ arrival, bathwater warmed in the kitchens for them. A pair of maids scurried from the hall: one to oversee the food and drink and the other the baths, no doubt.
He had yet to glance in Marjorie’s direction again, mindful that showing too much attention could easily be misinterpreted by those present. Chatter that his interest in the beautiful widow was more than simple courtesy was something he didn’t want started.
Nonetheless, he felt the daggers she glared at him as surely as if she hurled the blades at his chest. Obviously, she’d not forgiven him for reprimanding her daughters, or for refusing to dance with her last August.
She hadn’t any way of knowing he seldom danced, and that he wasn’t rebuffing her when he’d not asked her. Something so nonsensical as her rejection shouldn’t sting, and yet it did.
Still, he admitted to himself, he had been an insufferably rude bastard. But he hoped they wouldn’t be at cross purposes her entire visit. Scraping another approving glance over her fine-boned face and delectable figure, he reconsidered his initial appraisal. Mayhap, his bold admiration of her womanly assets a few minutes ago had prompted her current pique.
In truth, there was something about the widow that drew him unlike any other woman, and it intrigued as much as disturbed him. From the moment he’d met Marjorie Kennedy, instinct had warned Keane to tread carefully. But last summer, he’d stupidly allowed whatever the enigmatic force was to mesmerize him those first few minutes they’d eaten together.
Once again, as he had been dozens of times these past months, he was transported to Killeaggian last August.
Keane had glanced around, taking in the stunning redhead and her lasses. She had smiled and chatted animatedly beside him as her daughters sat across the table, their mouths stuffed to overflowing.
Sitting there, the four of them, they’d looked like a happy family.
Odin’s toes. A family.
The notion had utterly terrified him, far worse than the hand-to-hand combats he’d fought.
When the two lasses’ antics had escalated to the point that they had spewed crumbs onto the table, he’d seized the opportunity to break the discomfiting atmosphere by condemning their behavior. He’d been out of line and had gone beyond the mark.
A first for him—scolding someone else’s children.
And now, the alluring Englishwoman with hair the shade of sunset was in his home, and, by God, the atmosphere felt dangerously similar to that of last August.
What was this scintillating, potent current between him and Marjorie Kennedy?
Did she feel it too?
He couldn’t discern if her avoidance of his gaze was because she was still miffed or if she was similarly disturbed by his presence.
Hands resting on his hips, Keane scanned the assembled crowd of perhaps two score and assured himself all was well. Their numbers would double by tomorrow evening and swell even further as the villagers and his tenants joined the Hogmanay celebration.
He hadn’t entertained on this scale before.
This gathering was part of a calculated plan to change the perception of the Roxdale duchy—a long overdue and disregarded necessity. Whereas the previous generations of dukes had been self-serving, demanding, harsh, and cared little about those they were responsible for, Keane strove to change that perception to one of fairness and benevolence.
Sending another circumspect glance around the hall, he nodded to himself, satisfied. Aye, this was a good start. Well-fed and most nursing a cup of ale or a glass of wine, his guests sat or stood in clusters discussing whatever inanity people found to babble about at such functions.
Trentwick’s interior wasn’t gaudy or ornate. Nonetheless, the castle was magnificent in its own right. A hearty fire burned in the hearth large enough to accommodate five average-sized men within its immense spans. The flames cast cavorting shadows on those huddled nearby absorbing the hearth’s warmth.
Pennants and weaponry adorned three of the stone walls, as did various garlands of greeneries. Clean, hospitable, and welcoming. Exactly as Keane had ordered, and his servants hadn’t failed his expectations.
A swell of pride engulfed him. Despite his lineage consisting mainly of monumental arses—the prior dukes, that was—they’d maintained the keep and grounds to a standard even he couldn’t fault.
The coffers and grain houses overflowed. The fields, barns, and stables were full.
It seemed the only areas his forefathers had lacked mastery in were kindness and benevolence. And morals. Don’t forget that. His forefathers had rutted liked wild animals, drunk like pished tipplers, and, to his knowledge, not a one had been faithful to his duchess.
Even his esteemed sire had brazenly kept his mistress at Trentwick for a couple of years. She’d run off with one of his guards when Keane had been eleven or twelve. After she’d caught him, yet again, tupping another maid.
