Page 33 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Just then, Lady Craigleith rushed over to them, as quickly as she dared at such a social gathering. Her brow furrowed with concern at the growing attention their little drama was attracting and approached them.
“Catriona, dear? What is amiss?” She asked as she reached out to take Catriona’s arm and help her up, her voice laced with warning.
She knew that any demonstration of impropriety or scandal would not worsen—no—it wouldobliterateher chances of finding a match.
“What is going on over there?” one woman in the crowd called out. “Why is His Grace’s young ward clamoring all over Miss MacTavish?”
“Most odd indeed,” another agreed as more began to stare in their direction.
Lydia looked up at Lady Craigleith, sensing the impending separation, and tightened her grip on Catriona’s hand. She dug her small fingers into her skirt, curling the fabric into fists.
Catriona looked down at the child, her heart aching with pity.
This fragile creature, so clearly in need of comfort, had taken a liking to her. She felt a need to help her and yet…
Duty, she thought, the word hanging like an albatross around her already weary neck, the stress of the years since her father’s passing weighed on her.
How can I help this young lass when me own future is so clouded in mystery?She pressed herself to consider.
Without a proper match, she would have nowhere to go. Yet, what kind of person would she be if she abandoned this child, when she so clearly needs a friend? Catriona was certain her father would know just how to handle this, his memory causing her eyes to prickle with tears, which she blinked back, unwilling to let them spill over.
She gently stroked Lydia’s hand with her other one. “There, there, my sweet lassie,” she murmured. “Yer uncle is here. He is a good man. He will take care of ye. Ye should go with him now.” Her voice was soft but firm as she looked up at him.
Lydia looked up at Catriona, her eyes still filled with a lingering fear, but a flicker of trust began to dawn within them.
Hesitantly, she nodded, her grip on Catriona’s hand slowly loosening. She took a small, uncertain step towards the duke, who was still standing as if rooted to the spot, his expression held a flicker of disbelief, edged with something almost like awe.
Like a small kitten, he waited for her to come to him.
Aye, at least he is learnin’ somethin’ about rightin’ his brusque ways.
Catriona watched as Lydia tentatively reached for Richard’s hand, and he closed his around hers.
With a nod to her mother, who still wore a worried expression, Catriona turned and allowed herself to be led away.
Richard’s mind was still reeling from the sound of Lydia’s voice coming from her lips.
Cat.
They had made their way through the gardens to the patio. As he was about to steer her towards the exit, the same familiar, unwelcome figure materialized before them.
“Your Grace,” Sampson called as he looked at him in a way that was almost unsettlingly intense.
Lydia flinched at the sound of his voice, clinging all the tighter to Richard’s hand and her small body trembling anew. Still unsettled by her sudden utterance, Richard pushed aside the lingering fear, blaming it on her earlier distress.
“Sampson,” Richard replied, his gaze distant and his mind even farther away, “excuse me. My niece is feeling unwell, so we must depart. We’ll speak again another time.”
He was eager to escape the prying eyes and the lingering unease of the garden party, whose whispers continued to grow.
Without another word, he drew Lydia away, leaving Sampson standing alone amidst the departing guests.
“She will not take her supper, my lord,” one of the servants informed Richard as he sipped his brandy in the library. “Would you like me to try again later?”
“No, that will be all,” he decided. “She will eat when she is hungry; we will leave her and see if she improves after a good night’s sleep.”
“Very well, sir. We tried our best, please ring if you need anything at all, Your Grace.”
Richard drained the last of his brandy as he stared into the embers of the flames, stoking the fire with his poker. He might as well have been stoking the wanderings of his own mind.
