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Keane wasn’t capable of the former and wasn’t agreeable to the latter. Not now. Mayhap not ever. As a child, he’d learned to shut his warmer, more vulnerable emotions off. After years of doing so, he didn’t know how to feel again.

Except if he didn’t marry, his wastrel cousin would eventually inherit the duchy. And that he could not—would not—permit.

But for all he knew, Marjorie was still in love with her dead husband—a man known for his kindness and humor. Keane didn’t want to address that issue right now. One thing at a time: reestablish the duchy’s reputation, and then contemplate marrying—several years in the future.

The music ended and, eyes shining, Marjorie laughed up at him, a breathtaking apparition in her unfettered joy. His gut clenched at the enchanting vision, wanting her more than he’d ever wanted a woman.

He couldn’t.

Not a Kennedy.

Not after what his mother had endured at a Buchannan’s hands.

He didn’t have the right.

“Thank ye for the dance,” he said, staring past her. “Excuse me. I have other guests who require my attention.”

With that brusque comment, he gave a brief bow and strode away. Before the guilt from the shock on her face at his curt dismissal had him pulling Marjorie into his arms and begging her to forgive him for being a callous brute.

At the edge of the dance floor, he glanced back, unable to resist assuring himself she was all right.

He was ten kinds of an arse, and yet his actions were for the best. For both of them.

She stared at him, one slim hand to her throat, confusion and hurt in her soft doe-eyes.

Then the practiced mask descended upon her lovely features, except for a glint of defiance in her eyes. Turning her back, in a wash of green and gold splendor, she left the ballroom.

At her departure, the room grew dim, as if the sun had ceased to shine.

Instead of playing the host and circling the room to chat with the company, he made his way to his study. Once there, he poured himself a healthy dram of whisky. Eyes closed against the memory of Marjorie’s wounded eyes, he swallowed a gulp of the spirit, the sharp sting burning a slow, sizzling path to his belly.

“There ye are, Keane. We need to speak.”

Hell’s bells.

He stiffened at his uncle’s churlish tone. He’d hope to postpone this confrontation until the morrow. Opening his eyes, he turned to face his irate relative and cocked an eyebrow. “Ye’ve somethin’ ye need to get off yer chest, Uncle?”

Heavy brows twitching like an annoyed cat’s tail, Uncle Bothan gripped Keane’s arm. “Ye’ve banished yer cousin over that worthless Sassenach slut?”

The air left Keane’s lungs in a forceful whoosh and instant ire replaced it. With controlled calm, he stared pointedly at his uncle’s hand gripping his forearm, then raised his eyebrows in expectation.

His color already ruddy, Uncle Bothan flushed an unbecoming brick hue, but he stepped backward and released Keane’s arm. “Well, did ye?”

“Aye, I did.” Keane drained his glass and gave the decanter a speculative glance. Nae. He was not his father or uncle. Or cousin. After placing the empty glass atop his desk, he folded his arms and leaned his hips against the piece of furniture. “Lorne forced his unwanted attentions on Lady Marjorie and frightened her.”

“That’s nae what he said.” Apparently, his uncle wasn’t ready to quit the battle just yet. “He said she teased him, that the redheaded hoor wanted it too. Ye ken how women are, Nephew. They pretend nae to want the rogerin’, but we men ken they do.” He winked and chuckled lewdly. “I like my women to resist. It makes a mon’s blood flow hot, if ye ken what I mean.”

Keane hadn’t thought he could become more enraged, but at his uncle’s carelessly slung words, he slowly drew to his full height, grateful for the Kennedy blood that ran in his veins, which afforded him a full six inches over his uncle.

“Lorne lies,” he managed through his teeth, despising his father’s identical twin more at that moment than he thought possible. “And I have never, nor will I ever, force myself upon a woman.” He curled his lip contemptuously. “Unlike ye and yer spawn, I believe when a woman says nae, she means nae.”

Mouth pursed, Bothan slid his gaze around the study in the same covetous manner he did whenever he visited Trentwick. “So ye intend to side with the Kennedy wench over yer own kin?”

A Kennedy by marriage only. That detail mattered very much.

“I intend to stand on the side of truth.” Keane rested a hand on his hip. He should’ve had this confrontation years ago. “Lorne will leave in the morn. Ye can stay or go, but if ye remain, ye will adhere to behavior appropriate for a Buchannan. Ye and yer kind have done our family’s reputation enough damage. And I’ll have the name of yer spy in my household while I’m at it.”

His uncle laughed then, a guffaw that raised Keane’s nape hair.