Marguerite Kaye - Scandal At The Christmas Ball - A Governess for Christmas / Dancing with the Duke’s Heir

Though her head buzzed with questions, when the man in question finally did find her alone in the breakfast parlour the next morning, suggesting a walk through the succession houses, she knew they would remain unasked. Let the past be. Weren’t they both here to make a fresh start?

The Duchess’s famous orchid collection was housed in a wooden-framed glass structure, comprised of a central block three storeys high, flanked by a low wing on either side. As the door closed, a blast of hot humid air hit them, followed by the sweet, earthy smell of the carpet of moss which acted as groundcover for the rare and precious blooms, whose heady, perfumed scent hung in the air like incense in a cathedral.

Steam rose from the damped-down floor. Drummond unbuttoned his greatcoat and draped it over his arm. He wore a pair of tight-fitting buckskin breeches tucked into a pair of Hessian boots with brown tops which showed off his long muscular legs to perfection, Joanna thought. His navy-blue coat fitted tightly across the breadth of his shoulders and had, like all his coats, a military cut to it. His cravat was simply tied, his linen shirt dazzlingly white. Hatless, his hair began to curl in the steamy air. Her own would begin to frizz. Her fawn-striped woollen gown with long ruffled sleeves was one of her favourites, and least patched, but as she unfastened her cloak, when compared with Drummond’s immaculate attire, she felt decidedly dowdy.

‘I am thoroughly enjoying this break from routine,’ Joanna said, ‘but I must confess I am unused to being so idle.’

Drummond folded her cloak neatly and laid it on top of his greatcoat, on a gilt-painted wrought-iron bench. ‘Then salve your conscience by giving me a lesson in botany,’ he said with a teasing smile. ‘Let us take a tour of our hostess’s spectacular collection.’ She tucked her hand into his arm and he pulled her closer, so that their hips touched, their legs brushed as they moved.

In the central atrium, a selection of palm trees, exotic ferns and succulents soared towards the glass ceiling like a miniature patch of jungle, and some of what appeared to be the more common orchid specimens were planted in waist-high containers around this magnificent centrepiece. The two wings faced east and west, the latter, according to a helpful plaque, housing the rarer specimens, and so Joanna and Drummond headed through those doors. The orchids were artfully planted in beds built to resemble a mountainside, with streams burbling between the rocks, a shoal of tiny fish swimming in a pool. The colours of the blooms were breathtaking: delicate blushing-powder-pink; impossibly fragile pale lemon; tiny icing-sugar-white clusters like constellations in the night sky; huge single blooms on mossy mounds, ranging from pale blue to speckled green and poisonous purple.

‘Latin name, origins, habitat, donor. The Duchess has been most meticulous,’ Joanna said, peering down to read a label. ‘You can educate yourself without any help from me.’

‘Never mind that. Which ones do you like?’ Drummond asked. ‘Did your father grow orchids?’

‘Oh, no, even a small succession house was quite beyond our humble means. His hobbyhorse was roses. He loved to experiment with them, to graft different varieties and create new colours and scents.’

‘Did he name one after you?’

‘He did. An English rose. Apricot, with a blush of pink. He called it Joanna Athena—after the Roman goddess...’

‘Of learning—you see, they did manage to beat some Latin into me at school.’

Joanna led them over to a gilded bench set into a nook beside the waterfall. ‘What about your family, Drummond? Are your parents still alive? Have you brothers and sisters?’

He sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. ‘My father is still hale and hearty, to the best of my knowledge. I lost my mother about ten years ago. I am the bairn of the family. My eldest sister, Fiona, moved in with her brood to look after my father when my mother passed away. Eilidh and Catriona, the other two, are both married, and have a thriving clutch of weans apiece. In fact the county of Argyll is awash with my nieces and nephews, for none of my sisters has strayed far from the ancestral home.’

‘Ancestral home? Good grief, do you mean a castle?’

Drummond laughed. ‘Aye, though I reckon if you saw it, you’d likely be disappointed. It has turrets right enough, and battlements and even a section of dried-up moat. If your taste runs to crumbling ruins, it’s romantic. I’ve often thought it would make a fine setting for a Gothic novel.’

Joanna chuckled. ‘Are you aware that your accent broadens whenever you talk about your homeland?’

‘Then it’s going to be nigh on impenetrable on New Year’s Eve—or Hogmanay, as we call it. His Grace asked me to brief him on all our Highland customs for the party. He has a piper coming, of all things, and has plans for us all to dance a few reels.’

‘Will you be wearing the kilt?’ Joanna asked, fascinated by the idea of him in such a garment, with those fine legs on display.

His smile faded. ‘I’ve not worn the plaid since I was last home, which was a long time ago. Too long. When my appointment with Wellington is confirmed, I’ve promised myself I’ll visit, for depending upon my posting, I may be abroad for the foreseeable future.’

And yet he had not returned in the last three years despite having ample opportunity to do so once he had left military service. His absence from the Highlands was deliberate then, but why? ‘So, instead of returning to the Highlands you chose to settle in Shropshire,’ Joana said, thinking to tackle the issue from another angle. ‘You have friends there? Fellow officers, perhaps?’

‘To my knowledge, there is not a single officer of the Scots Guards in that county or any neighbouring it. That was part of the attraction.’

Having no idea what to make of this, Joanna said nothing. It was an uncomfortable silence. Drummond had a habit, she’d noticed, of touching the scar which ran through his eyebrow, when he was discomfited. He was doing it now.

‘I have never thought of Shropshire as my home,’ he said finally. ‘It was simply a place to—to bide my time. And soon enough I’ll be posted abroad. Have you ever travelled to the Continent?’

‘I’ve never even been to Scotland, though I would love to stay in a romantic castle such as the one you described. I have a secret weakness for Gothic romances, I am embarrassed to admit.’

To her relief, Drummond’s harsh expression softened. ‘The reality is such places are full of cobwebs and mice, and the walls are crumbling with damp, and there’s always a gale howling down the fireplace. There’s nothing romantic about that.’

‘You’ve pretty much described my current abode,’ Joanna said.

He took her hands between his. ‘Is it really that bad?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve suffered much, much worse living conditions while on campaign.’

‘Not always. I spent a winter in Seville, once. We officers were barracked in a palace, all tiled terraces and fountains, and marble courtyards. Oh, and orange trees, lots of orange and lemon trees. The scent in the morning, it was one of the most delightful aspects of staying there.’

‘And were there delightful Spanish ladies to keep you company?’

‘Oh, indeed,’ Drummond said with a wicked look. ‘One only had to pick one from the bunch, like plucking a ripe orange from a tree.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘You know I’m teasing you?’ He caught her hands between his. ‘I’m thirty-two years old, Joanna, I’m no virgin, but I’m not a rake. There have been women from time to time and I’ve had my share of amorous fun, but there has never been anyone serious.’