“You didn’t need to do it all on your own.”
“I haven’t. I’ve had Chrissy. And I’ve had Holland. And now I don’t even know if she’ll stay, so . . . you’d better get yourself back to London after this weekend.”
“What?” Now it’s my turn for wavery amusement.
“You heard me. You have to leave, Sandy.”
“In case she tells you it’s her or me?”
“Yes, and after last night, I wouldn’t blame her. Whatever possessed you to strong-arm her into dinner and embarrass her like that? It’s unforgivable.”
“Holland already forgave me.” I atoned between her legs. “But you’re right. I am an arse.” I look away, not able to hold my sister’s gaze. “I just didn’t want her anywhere else.”
“Well, unless you want to look after Hugh and Archie, leave the girl alone.”
“It’s nice to know where I stand in the order of things,” I answer, amused. On the surface, at least.
“Sandy, you are a duke. And even if you weren’t, you’d have women everywhere fawning all over you.”
“That doesn’t sound like my life at all.”
“Then I suggest you smile more and scowl less. I need Holly here. I want you to promise you won’t frighten her away.”
“What on earth do you take me for? I’m not an ogre, Izzy.” But my childhood nickname for her doesn’t warm her to me.
“You’re too much for most women. I want you to consider that before you run after a woman not—not of our world,” she adds a little uncomfortably. “A woman who is far too young for you.”
“That’s a little old-fashioned, isn’t it? Them and us.” And isn’t age just a number? I didn’t feel too old for her last night, and she felt just perfect.
“Don’t play with words. And don’t play with her.”
“I have no intention of—”
“Of what? Making her dance to your tune? Working her out of your system? Because that worked so well with poor Portia.”
“Poor Portia?” I scoff. Isla can barely stand her. “There’s nothing poor about Portia. She knew exactly what she was getting herself into. And truthfully, I don’t know why she’s still hanging around.”
“Because she fancies being a duchess, no doubt. But I imagine she didn’t count on falling in love, and that’s why I feel sorry for her. You won’t marry her, and you won’t ever love her back.”
“I could marry her,” I retort. “I’ve thought about it.” Briefly. Very briefly. We’ll call it a moment of madness brought on by tedium. Isla is both right and wrong. Portia doesn’t love me. She’s certainly never said so, and we’ve never had what you might call a loving connection. Or even a passionate one, despite her sad doe-eyed moment last night at the dinner table. “She is of our world. Would you allow me to marry her?”
Even as I’m goading my sister, I’m mentally preparing what I have to say to Portia. An apology is due, and I’ll need to set her straight. End what little there is between us.
“Don’t be a callous arse,” she retorts vehemently. “Just leave Holly alone. I can’t imagine she’s hung up on you, not when she told me she had a date this weekend.”
“Did she?” My answer is mild. Internally, I don’t feel so sanguine. “Anyone I know?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if last night didn’t drive her into his arms,” she says, choosing not to answer my question. Perhaps she doesn’t know. “I can only imagine what she must be feeling this morning.”
A little sore, I should think. A little achy, I consider as I rub a hand over my abs.
“If I were her, I wouldn’t let you within two feet of me.”
“It’s a good thing you’re not her then,” I say, pushing to my feet.
Maybe I am my father’s son, after all. Debauchery may be in my blood, but I’ve never behaved this way so close to home. But Holland isn’t just a flash in the pan. I’m not sure what she is, but she’s old enough to understand my feelings on forever and young enough for them not to mean throwing away her future.
“You see the sense in what I’m saying,” my sister demands. “You embarrassed them both.”
“That wasn’t my intention.” But I meant what I said when I told Holland I can only think of myself while she’s around. And I have no intention of letting her go. “But I understand you feel they both deserve better than me.”
“They deserve not to be played with.”
She’s right. But the knowledge doesn’t make me want Holland less.
Or make me any less determined.
As it turns out, I do find myself a little peckish, so I brave breakfast where I behave like cordiality itself. There are no strange questions or funny looks because I am the duke. And because Griffin and my sister aren’t there, fortunately. I even arrive in time to wave our departing guests a fond farewell while suggesting someone find Portia—someone other than me; she’s a little lower down my list this morning—and ask her if she’d like to join Matteo, Van, and the ghillie (the man in the know about all things hunting) in a romp through the heather-covered hills this morning, deer stalking. I have very important dukedom business to attend to, of course. Or so I tell them. Once the trio has departed in the ghillie’s dilapidated Land Rover, I dutifully report to Chrissy, contrite as any schoolboy. Or rather, I bump into her again during my hunt for Holland. Not that I admit to anything or answer her questions, tacitly suggesting it would be ungentlemanly of me to speak to her about Holland without her knowledge.