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Why would Gordan continue to avow his innocence?

Even after his wife had given him a son and heir?

Honor? Pride?

Perhaps. But perhaps it was something more.

“Keane, son, must we introduce ourselves to yer guests?” Uncle Bothan chided, his grizzled eyebrows contorting high on his prominent forehead.

“No’ at all, Uncle.” Necessity required Keane to introduce his uncle and cousin. Stifling his annoyance and reluctance, he did so as succinctly as possible.

“My lady,” Lorne said, bowing low over the hand Marjorie dutifully extended. “I’d be honored if ye’d agree to dance with me after dinner.”

Marjorie’s practiced smile didn’t falter, but nor did it light her magnificent eyes. She smoothly withdrew her hand and promptly gathered her daughters near. “I regret I cannot make such a promise, Mr. Buchannan. I do not know how long it will take for my daughters to settle this evening, and I shall not leave them if they’re ill-at-ease.”

She flashed Keane a swift glance, a spark of defiance in her eyes.

Ah, she’d meant that as a warning for him as well.

He hadn’t taken her for one to hold a grudge. But then they’d only met once before, and neither had been on their best behavior.

“Perfectly understandable,” Keane agreed with forced cheer and a jaunty smile, mainly to irk Lorne.

As expected, his cousin dredged up a disapproving scowl, his mouth turned downward into a sullen pout. Such petulance from a grown man was nauseating. He behaved like a coddled child denied a sweetmeat.

“Please feel free to request a tray if ye feel the need,” Keane told Marjorie, redoubling his efforts to peeve his peeved cousin. “Though, of course, we’ll miss yer company as we sup.”

Astonishment and perhaps a little gratitude riddled the look she cut him from beneath ginger-tipped lashes. He’d managed to surprise her.

“Och, well, she canna remain in the nursery the entire week,” Uncle Bothan insisted. He winked, his sly gaze sliding between her and Lorne. “My son wishes to further yer acquaintance, my lady.”

And what Lorne wanted he generally took. Without regard to what anyone else might desire.

Alarm flickered in Marjorie’s eyes, and she practically shrank into herself.

A violent urge to protect her had Keane stepping forward and offering his arm. “Permit me to escort ye to yer chamber.”

Something akin to a jealous growl escaped Lorne before Uncle leveled him a quelling glare and slapped him upon his back. “I could use a wee dram. How about ye, Son?”

As if they hadn’t indulged in several not-so-wee tots already, as their slightly bloodshot eyes attested.

Lorne grumbled his acquiescence before spearing Keane with a rancorous scowl and marching off with his sire, all starch and stiff-legged offense. Two years older than Keane, Lorne often behaved like a recalcitrant pup—a trait wholly unbecoming in a grown man.

“My lady?” Keane indicated his extended elbow.

Her gaze flicked from his arm to his face and back to his arm. Would she refuse him? The slim column of her throat worked as she swallowed. “That’s not necessary, Your Grace,” Marjorie demurred, no artifice in her tone.

He liked her voice. Though she spoke with an English accent, her voice held a husky undertone. Rather than putting one off, the tenor invited a man in, tempted him to explore the uniqueness that was Marjorie Kennedy.

God’s ballocks.

Was he, Keane, Duke of Roxdale, truly waxing poetic over a woman he scarcely knew? A woman who’d intruded upon his thoughts too many times to count these past months?

When she still resisted taking his arm, he quirked an eyebrow in mock offense, amused at her show of defiance.

“Though I truly appreciate the gesture,” she rushed to assure him.

Och, so she’d detected his true motives.