Free The Duke by Catherine Coulter Page B

Adella’s sudden pleasant words had he not seen the look of malice she gave Percy, followed by a big smile.
    Bertrand said quietly, but he was leaning forward, energy radiating from him, “I have seen to the estate for many years now, yer grace. I myself am much concerned. At yer leisure, I will show ye the account books and all I’ve tried to do. We have such an abundance of raw materials, but we’re lacking funds to get us started up again.”
    â€œYes, I see that. I will be at your mercy tomorrow, Bertrand.” The duke looked up as Morag removed his empty soup bowl and placed a large platter before him, heaped with something he couldn’t and didn’t want to identify.
    â€œHaggis,” Claude said and smacked his lips.
    â€œHaggis?” the duke repeated, eyeing the atrocious-looking mess heaped up on that huge, dented silver platter not six inches from his plate.
    Constance leaned toward the duke and said brightly,“A mixture of oatmeal, liver, beef suet, and the like. Cook always serves it with potatoes and rutabagas. It’s quite tasty. Just give it a chance, yer grace.”
    Ian raised a tentative forkful to his mouth.
    Percy tossed in, “The whole mess is boiled in a sheep stomach.”
    The duke swallowed convulsively, hoping he wouldn’t throw up. A damned sheep’s stomach? Good Lord, what were these people? He tired another bite. He tasted strong black pepper. He quickly drank more of the heavy sweet wine to avoid sneezing.
    He tried several more bites. He chewed. He swallowed. He tried not to think about the sheep’s stomach. He looked up to see various pairs of eyes gazing at him expectantly, some smiling, some malicious, some just curious.
    â€œIt’s delicious. My compliments to Cook and to the sheep.” Oh, damn, not the sheep. He almost gagged.
    Brandy found herself grinning at Percy’s disappointment. She hadn’t realized before that he wasn’t very talented at hiding his feelings. He looked thwarted, his mouth sullen. But he was her cousin and for just a moment, a very brief moment, she felt a stab of pity for him.
    Ian looked around the table as everyone ate. Lady Adella, his great aunt, sat like royalty at the foot of the table, attacking the haggis as if she hadn’t eaten in a month. She must be at least seventy, he thought, maybe a hundred, trying to remember his grandmother, her sister. All he could recall was a vague, wispy wraith of a stooped old lady who seemed to have spent most of her remaining days reclining on a comfortable sofa with his own mother in constant attendance. Surely, she couldn’t have had the iron personality Lady Adella appeared to enjoy in abundance. Lady Adella had welcomed him graciously enough,yet had seemed to derive pleasure in pitting him against Percy and Bertrand.
    He glanced at Claude, who sat on Lady Adella’s left, seemingly quite content to noisily chew his dinner with his few remaining teeth. He had been introduced as a nephew, and Bertrand, his son, as a grandnephew. Why the devil hadn’t one of these men inherited Penderleigh? He disliked mysteries and determined to unravel these confusing relationships on the morrow.
    He looked at Constance, so lovely and trying so hard to make herself noticed and admired, then quickly at Brandy, and back again at Constance. He found it difficult to believe that the two girls were sisters. The one with the unattractive braided hair, and the other with lush, thick black hair that curled provocatively over her rounded shoulders. Brandy wore a shapeless muslin gown, far outdated, and topped with a pale yellow shawl, and Constance a daringly low-cut violet silk gown that showed the promise of a maturing bosom. And Fiona, the redheaded little urchin who had almost dashed herself under his horses’ hooves, in coloring at least was very different from both of her sisters. He looked back down the long expanse of table toward Lady Adella