Waiting for a Scot Like You (Union of the Rakes #3) - Eva Leigh Page 0,2

it was going to mean something. Even so, he couldn’t find a thread of fear from this close call with mortality. Having encountered death so many times, he could barely be bothered to acknowledge its presence. Like seeing the same face in the taproom again and again. You nod once in its direction before resuming your ale.

The war had been over for two years, and, presumably, he should have developed stronger ties to life in that time. What did it say about him that all he could muster after nearly meeting his end was indifference?

He truly needed something to motivate him. God above, he hoped what Rotherby offered was the answer.

“Suppose,” the tradesman said, scratching under his cap, “I can buy ye a pint, if you’ve worked up a thirst.”

Pulling out his timepiece, Duncan consulted its face. “My thanks, but I’ve an appointment in five minutes, and this little dance with the Devil has cost me time.”

“Sure whoever you’re meeting don’t mind if you wet your gullet first, given that you almost met old Mr. Grim.”

“Old Mr. Grim and I are good friends.” Duncan returned his timepiece to his waistcoat pocket and dusted a streak of grime off the leg of his trousers. “Just as I’m good friends with the man I’m about to meet. And if I’m late, he’ll give me a roasting like a joint of beef.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. “Good day.”

The rest of the journey to Rotherby’s colossal mansion was blissfully uneventful, and within minutes, Duncan stood beneath the columned portico and knocked smartly on the door.

The butler immediately appeared. “Major McCameron.”

“Symes.” Duncan stepped into the vaulted entryway and handed a footman his hat. In early September, there was yet no need for a coat, and Duncan eschewed the affectation of a walking stick. He had functioning legs, didn’t he?

“His Grace awaits you in his study.”

There was no need to show Duncan the way. He’d been to Rotherby’s home countless times—as far back as when Noel had merely been Lord Clair—so he made quick work of the acres of corridors between the entryway and the study. He didn’t slow his steps or pause to admire the artwork and priceless decor. As usual, though, he lifted two fingers in an affectionately rude salute to the portrait of Rotherby that had been painted soon after he’d inherited the dukedom.

The door to the study stood open, and Duncan walked straight inside the chamber. He found Rotherby seated at his desk, staring balefully at several mounds of documents stacked in front of him. The responsibilities of a duke seemed vast and generated tremendous amounts of paper.

“Do you think anyone will notice if I burn these,” Rotherby asked without looking up, “and then the house down around them?”

“Her Grace might object to losing her home,” Duncan noted, dropping into one of the two chairs facing the desk.

At the mention of his wife, a smile flashed in Rotherby’s appallingly handsome face. They had been wed a month, after an engagement of mere weeks. “I’ve six country properties, so that should soften the blow. Still, if you think Jess will be upset . . .”

“She’s an adaptable woman, but I don’t think arson is something to which she’ll readily agree.” Duncan had been barely affected by his close call with the plummeting brick, but now that he was in Rotherby’s study, with its relative quiet that offered little distraction, energy pulsed through him.

He surged to his feet and, walking to the cold fireplace, he shook out his hands as though preparing for a fight. Surely if he concentrated hard enough, he could light a fire with his mind alone. Given how restless and flinty his thoughts had been for the past two years and three months, it wouldn’t quite surprise him if he could conjure flames merely by thinking.

“Soon, I’ll be entrusted to one of those homes,” he said, affecting enthusiasm. “Again, you’ve my thanks in offering the position of Carriford’s estate manager to me.”

The unexpected proposition had been made a month prior, at Rotherby’s wedding breakfast. At first, Duncan had laughed, thinking it was one of his friend’s occasional forays into whimsy. But no, Rotherby had been in earnest, and after realizing this, Duncan had accepted the position. Second sons generally did not find employment as estate managers, yet his family had always emphasized the importance of making oneself useful. Better to work—at a gentlemanly profession, of course—than be idle.

“I’m acting from pure self-interest.” Rotherby waved