He narrowed his gaze on her. “What’s the condition?”
“You must come visit her, and do so more often than once a week.”
He opened his mouth to object, to explain all of the many reasons why that was unreasonable. But she held up her hand and cut him off.
“It is only an hour’s drive. And, Duncan William Buchanan, a woman who liked and valued you before knowing of your relative wealth and assets, who saw past the fearsome demeanor and quiet grumpiness you exude, is well worth the effort.”
Chapter Six
“Ifirst met Duncan’s father at a ball in London, if you can believe that.” Mrs. Buchanan always lit up when speaking of her late husband.
In the weeks Sophia had spent living with the dear woman, she’d grown exceptionally fond of her. The regal bearing that had earned the older lady the teasing title of “Mary, Queen of Scots” had grown thin over those two weeks, revealing a tenderhearted and caring woman. It seemed that Duncan had inherited from his mother the tendency to wear a protective mask. Sophia had learned to see beyond both.
“You have told me many times that Duncan is much like his father,” Sophia said as they turned a corner of the garden path. “And I cannot for the life of me imagine Duncan at a Society ball.”
“Fingal attended on forfeit of a wager,” Mrs. Buchanan explained. “And I was introduced to him by a young lady who, as it turned out, rather disliked me and thought that obligatingme to dance with an unsophisticated Scotsman would be a humiliating experience.”
Sophia could easily picture the situation, having known a great many ill-mannered young ladies. “Clearly, she made a significant miscalculation.”
“Clearly.” Mrs. Buchanan stopped to take in the fragrance of a bright-yellow rose. “His Scottish manner of speaking was nearly as pronounced as Duncan’s has become, and he was as rough and unrefined as the land he called home. While I was, at first, merely curious, I quickly became enthralled, and quite unexpectedly found myself deeply in love with him.”
“What did your family have to say?” If Sophia’s family had been in any position to object to the direction her heart was leading her, they would have done so loudly and incessantly.
“They were properly horrified.” Mrs. Buchanan’s mischievous smile filled in the gaps: Her family had objected, but she hadn’t cared one whit.
“Did you ever regret marrying your rugged Scotsman?”
“Not for the briefest of moments.” Mrs. Buchanan’s slow, fond gaze slid over the garden, the house, the distant land. “I fell further in love with him every day of our lives. His home became my home, his people my people. Those first few years, I traveled to my family’s estate, hoping to maintain that connection, but they were horrid to my husband and son. That, I am afraid, is where Duncan gained his distrust of the English. It is the only thing I regret about my life here: not putting an end to those visits before my relations soured him so fully.”
“How could you have known?”
Mrs. Buchanan nodded slowly. “Mistakes are always easier to see when looking backward.”
Sophia picked a small, pink flower from an obliging bush, spinning the bloom between her fingers. “Do you suppose Duncan will ever fully let go of his distaste for the English?”
“As a whole, likely not.” Mrs. Buchanan slipped her arm through Sophia’s and leaned in a bit closer as they walked on. “But on an individual basis, I know of one instance in which he already has.”
She forced down a smile, not wanting to appear too eager or desperate. “The first time I asked him to be my friend, he turned me down on the instant. He seemed almost horrified at the idea.”
“He has made the journey here nearly every night these past two weeks,” Mrs. Buchanan said. “A man does not go to such effort for a lady whose company horrifies him.”
“He has told me several times that he is fond of me.”
Mrs. Buchanan laughed out loud. “I promise you, he is far more than merelyfondof you; he’s simply unwilling to admit it, stubborn man.”
“Why does he continue working at Haddington House? He certainly doesn’t need the income; he has told me himself that this estate is profitable. I know he doesn’t remain out of loyalty to his employers.”
Mrs. Buchanan indicated a nearby stone bench. Once the two of them were comfortably settled, she answered Sophia’s question. “That is also the fault of my relations, I am afraid. They spoke at length of the lazy Scots, which convinced my little boy that he had to prove himself a hard worker to dispel that impression. And to compound matters, he became keenly aware of how very English it was to live off one’s inheritance without making contributions to the outside world.”
“Above all else, he did not wish to be seen as English.” Sophia was coming to understand him better all the time. The more she knew, the more miraculous it felt that he’d ever agreed to interact with her, an Englishwoman from the gentry. She must have seemed to him the embodiment of all he disliked.
“You have been good for him, you know,” Mrs. Buchanan said. “He is happier than I ever remember him being. He smiles, and he laughs, and he speaks of this as home again, as a place where he means to live and not simply visit.”
“I am happier with him as well.” Sophia found her hostess to be an easy person to talk with. The past fortnight had been delightful. The only way she could imagine improving her situation would be to have Duncan home.
“It seems, Sophia, that you are about to be exceptionally happy.” Mrs. Buchanan motioned up the garden path.
There he was. The man who had laid claim to her heart, not through grand gestures or flowery speeches, but through weeks and months of constancy and goodness. She never tired of his company and never grew less eager to see him again.
