Unlaced by the Highland Duke

Clever Langdale for seeing what others had missed. It was clear their love had overcome her defences. Instead of a dormant volcano, Langdale secured himself a sweet, giving and supportive young woman. If only Langdale been less reckless, she would still be where she deserved. In his home, his bed...

The soft knock at the door dragged him out of his thoughts.

‘Enter.’ His voice was a little too loud and he clasped his hands behind his back, annoyed at his discomfort. She entered and paused just inside the door, looking as neat as usual despite the ghastly grey dress.

He cleared his throat, turning his mind to business.

‘Thank you for coming. A word before we begin. I have been remiss about making provisions for you after we amended our agreement to extend your stay, Mrs Langdale. Please give Mrs Merry a list of anything you need and what she cannot provide or purchase in the village, Angus can purchase on his weekly trips to Kilmarchie or when we go to Glasgow.’

‘If I need anything, I can purchase it myself in the village, I am sure.’

Her words were stiff, but her cheeks turned a little pink and her discomfort relieved some of his and he smiled.

‘I see how it is to be. Every offer of goodwill on my part will be politely rebuffed, but if I tell you I do not need your help with Jamie or the accounts you will regard it as proof of my obstinate insularity. Double standards can be very annoying, Mrs Langdale.’

She didn’t disappoint him. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and the pixie smile bloomed.

‘Are you trying to embarrass me into accepting your largesse, Your Grace? All this sheep rearing has clearly made you believe people are just as easily herded.’

‘I would say you have more characteristics of a goat than a sheep, Mrs Langdale. A mule even. Two very stubborn animals.’

She laughed. ‘Mrs Merry and Beth have already provided me with all I need for my stay, even a pair of stout boots and a thick cloak, so you need not worry. Now show me the ledgers and we shall see if I can offer anything half as useful in return.’

He stood aside as she went to sit at his desk.

Clearly the grey-eyed pixie would not willingly accept any favours from him, which meant she would likely find it hard to accept the dresses he had commissioned from Bella’s old seamstress in Glasgow. Hopefully they would arrive soon because he was tired of seeing her in these sacks.

Perhaps he should even tell Mrs Merry to accidentally spill tar on these grey horrors and then Jo would have no choice but to accept the new gowns when they came. Though Jo Langdale might be stubborn enough to remain in her chemise just to make a point.

Unfortunately that thought led to a memory of that moment on the ship—her wet skirts caught about her legs, the elegant lines revealed...

His senses sank their teeth into the memory—bringing back the scent of the sea air, the crash and hiss of the waves, and then the sudden unwelcome sting of lust and the stretching of his muscles as his body readied itself to reach for her, to clasp about the curve and line of her ankle and move upwards.

Perhaps it was not a good idea to be concerning himself with her wardrobe. Those grey horrors were an antidote to any misplaced ideas. Or at least they should be.

She was leaning over the ledger, one elbow propped on the desk and her forehead on her palm as she reviewed the entries. Her hair was drawn into the usual severe bun, uncovering her nape and just a few soft inches of the sweep of her shoulders. She did not have Bella’s perfect milky white skin. In fact, he remembered Bella once saying it was a pity her cousin was so sallow, blaming it on a childhood spent out of doors like a village urchin. He had been too enamoured with Bella during that summer in London to feel more than a twinge of conscience at Bella’s occasional cutting remarks, writing them off as the natural bias of someone who was so extraordinarily beautiful she strove to raise the world to her standard. Now he wondered if Bella felt some envy for her unfortunate cousin, or at the very least resentment that Jo so evidently refused to adore her as everyone, including himself, had.

He did not think Jo Langdale merited the term sallow. Her skin was a few shades darker than ivory, a faintly warm colour that would probably take the sun well.

‘Do you freckle?’