The Great Grey

It had been meant to be a day like any other—or, perchance, even better. The season had drawn to its close, the weather had turned crisp, and a steady rain had driven the ton from the streets. Perfection itself, by Emma’s reckoning. Her departure for the country had been delayed by a most inconvenient obligation—attendance at a dear friend’s birthday fête, scheduled for less than a fortnight hence—but it mattered little. She was content, for there was nothing more pleasing to her spirit than the sound of rain pattering softly against the windowpanes. Storms, with their brooding clouds and distant rumbles, were her delight. The ton might prattle endlessly about the glories of summer's sunlit gaiety, but Emma's heart inclined toward autumnal quietude. It was a fondness she shared with no one, but then, she had grown accustomed to her solitary tastes.

At present, she was most comfortably situated upon a mahogany sofa upholstered in a soft beige fabric. Her posture was one of complete ease, a volume of poetry—The Lay of the Last Minstrel and The Lady of the Lake by Walter Scott—held loosely in her hands. A pot of warm tea sat upon the low table before her, accompanied by a plate of biscuits. She had rung for it earlier, caring not a whit that it was barely past two o'clock. Why should she? Her hosts were occupied elsewhere, and she had no one to answer to—no one save herself. Freedom, such as it is, she mused.

Her friend was a recent acquaintance, but their friendship had afforded Emma the welcome opportunity to distance herself from her mother—a much-needed reprieve. She knew well enough that her brother, Edmund, now the head of their family, would raise many objections to her absence, but she also knew that Elijah would convince him to let her be. In truth, being a sister had its advantages. And its shortcomings. If it weren’t for Elijah and his charismatic charm, she wouldn’t have such liberties. Needless to say, her brother also used her as an excuse to prolong his stay in London, the reasons for which remained unknown.

Her reverie was shattered by the butler’s appearance. His face bore an expression of composed urgency as he cleared his throat to speak. “My lady,” he announced, “you have a caller.”

Her gaze lifted from the page, her brow drawing together in mild confusion. For a moment, she could not quite comprehend his words, for it was rare indeed that anyone called upon her. She stared at him, her thoughts sluggish with disbelief. The butler, a man of admirable patience, repeated himself with careful precision, his tone just firm enough to rouse her.

“His Grace, the Duke of Argyll, Alistair Campbell.”

Her breath stilled in her chest. Her fingers, which had turned the pages so fluidly a moment before, froze in place. Slowly, deliberately, she closed her book, set it aside, and rose from her seat. Her movements were precise, though her mind was not. A duke? she thought. A duke calling upon me? She had received callers before, but none whose visit could be construed as pleasant. The recollection of those past encounters was enough to set her nerves on edge.

Her eyes darted to her reflection in the nearby glass, her breath coming in short, measured sips. Her gown, a pleasing shade of deep blue that matched her eyes, fitted her well enough, and not a single strand of hair had fallen from its pins. She was, at the very least, presentable. Not that it mattered, for what woman could deny a duke admittance? Her heart thudded dully against her ribs. She glanced at the butler, gave him a small nod, and folded her hands in front of her, willing herself into calm.

Not a moment later, a maid slipped into the room, taking up a quiet position in the farthest corner. Emma cast her a glance, her thoughts swirling like autumn leaves on the wind. She resisted the urge to pace, though her feet itched for movement. Why would a duke call upon me? she wondered, her mind racing through possibilities. Most gentlemen, if they sought her company at all, did so for ulterior motives. It was not she they sought but information—information about her brother, Edmund, or Elijah. Men forever asked after his brothers, as though Emma might reveal some secret means by which their friendship and profit might be won. Emma always declined to help them, for she knew her brothers too well—that their minds shall remain unmoved until the end of days, she thought grimly.

Her gaze flitted to the teapot, its gentle hiss filling the quiet. Her mind, however, had no peace. Could it be? she thought suddenly. Could the Duke of Bedford and the Duke of Argyll be acquainted? The notion struck her like a draught of cold air. What if I am the object of some wager? Her heart constricted at the thought, and she could not quell the gnawing sense of unease. Men with wealth and power so often sought amusement in the humiliation of others. Her thoughts ran circles around her, each one more disquieting than the last.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight. She ought to have feigned illness. She ought to have instructed the butler to refuse callers for the day. She ought to have disappeared, vanished entirely like the ghost she so often felt herself to be. But no. It was too late now. Too late for regrets, she thought, but I shall learn from it nonetheless.

When the butler returned, his face bore a quiet pride, as though it were his honor, not hers, to receive such a guest. He announced the Duke’s arrival with the gravity of a clergyman reading from sacred scripture.

Emma’s breath caught as her gaze fixed upon the man who entered. Her heart gave a traitorous thump. Of course, she knew him. One could hardly move through society without hearing his name whispered with either reverence or envy. Alistair Campbell, Duke of Argyll. A man of impeccable lineage, abundant fortune, and, much to the chagrin of many, excessive charm. If his reputation for arrogance had not preceded him, his countenance would have told the tale just as well.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with the bearing of a commander fresh from the field, he possessed the sort of presence that could not be ignored. His hair, thick with unruly curls, gleamed dark as polished onyx, and his eyes—oh, those eyes. Clear as a Highland loch, sharp as a cutlass. His very presence had weight, as though the air grew denser in his proximity. Emma's eyes lingered longer than was prudent, her mind betraying her with an absurd observation: That man will sire beautiful children. She clamped down on the thought, pressing her lips together so tightly it was a wonder she did not swallow them whole.

Compose yourself, she told herself sternly. Her eyes dropped to the floor, then rose to meet his gaze with all the steadiness she could summon. She curtsied with the precision she had been taught from childhood.

“Your Grace,” she said with a small, practiced smile. “It is a great honor that you have chosen to grace us with your presence.”

She winced inwardly. What nonsense am I spouting now? Her nerves had seized her tongue, and it moved without her consent.

"May I offer you a cup of tea, Your Grace?"

No. No, no, no. The words had slipped from her lips before she could snatch them back. She had spoken as though she were the mistress of the house, a lady at ease with entertaining dukes as if they called daily. The words hung in the air like a tangle of threads she could not undo. Her cheeks burned with mortification.

Heaven help me, she thought. Earth, swallow me whole.

Most of the ton had retreated to country estates for the off season. This suited Alistair just fine, in truth; he was still very unprepared to face the scrutiny of his peers after so long away, and with the death of his father still hanging over him. Gossipmongers had never been to his liking even before he could provide them a particularly sumptuous buffet. Now, as soon as they returned there would be so much chum in the water that he could taste it even now.

Alistair did not truly expect to find a suitable bride among those young women that had remained in London during the autumn and winter. They were, generally speaking, not from families with any means or importance. Some exceptions existed, but not nearly enough to give him a particularly broad crop to choose between. In spite of his mother's nagging, the need was not so great as to rush out and propose to the first woman below the age of thirty and with all of her teeth.

These afternoons were the bane of his existence right now – along with the endless paperwork that had begun to haunt his very dreams – but there was also a benefit to it. It was uncharitable to these young women, but they also represented an excellent opportunity for him to practice manners and small talk that had been rusting by the wayside for the past five years or so. Remembering the entire song and dance of it was not so difficult, really, but it was certainly proving to be a process, and he'd rather suffer that process when there were so few to witness it.

Ms. Emma Stafford was a perfect example; a younger daughter, though of a marquess, remaining in the city for at least part of the off season. There was no ton to titter about a younger daughter receiving a visit from a duke, most of her family had already left... The staff would be there, of course, as was only appropriate, but that hardly mattered. Maybe it would even be a pleasant conversation. Alistair's secretary, Mr. George, had described her as an attractive young woman; a bit shy, perhaps, known to be bookish, but these were hardly damning traits.

It wasn't quite nerves that bothered him as he waited in the entry hall, hands clasped behind his back as he stood idly. There were a great many privileges that came from his family's history and title. One did not easily send a duke away. But then again, Ms. Stafford was without much in the way of supervision or interest, this would be the perfect time for her to decline to see him.

It was a fear that apparently was unfounded; the butler returned to guide him to the sitting room, and he followed with no inclination at all of any nervousness. There wasn't anything to be afraid of, really; for God's sake, he was a duke, a well-experienced explorer, and far too old to be acting like a boy courting for the first time. Any lingering doubts or concerns were put firmly to rest by Ms. Stafford being obviously a bit flustered; Alistair had compassion for the young woman, and favored her with a crooked smile at her greeting.

"The honor and pleasure is mine, my lady. Tea would be lovely, thank you. Just a splash of cream." He couldn't quite make himself fill the space with his voice as he usually would; the poor girl was already clearly uncomfortable. He wouldn't act the brash explorer and further her discomfort. His Scottish burr, though, went unchecked. Alistair took a seat only after she had resumed hers, settling himself in for perhaps the next ten minutes or so; however long it took to drink the tea, really. Barring some other development, he didn't want to burden her unduly with his presence.

She is quite pretty, was the almost off-hand note made in his own mind; his gaze also noted the book upon the couch, and he couldn't help but inquire, "Ah, I seem to have interrupted your reading. I apologize for that. May I ask what book you're reading?" A safe enough topic, in his mind... Barring some strange and scandalous title, he supposed.

She almost took a step forward to pour the tea herself, as was her way. It was, in truth, a bad habit—this desire to do everything unaided. She fancied herself a self-sufficient lady, though she was far from it. How could she be, when she was the daughter of a marquess? True, she had done much to distance herself from her father, an action that seemed the only declaration of defiance she could muster. To be his offspring was not something she cared to celebrate. But to be her brothers’ sister—that was a pleasure she held dear. And it was only for their sake that she stopped herself now, before she embarrassed the entire household.

The maid, ever observant, rushed to her aid and did what she was employed to do. Emma, however, turned her attention to the Duke of Argyll. Tanned skin, in the ton, was rarely admired—yet she found it quite beautiful. It told stories, spoke of time spent in the open air, of a life lived freely, far from the confinement of drawing rooms. It was the mark of someone who embraced the world, who lived boldly. If she had been a man, she would have done the same. She was certain of it.

A thought flickered through her mind, and she stifled a smile. Were she a man, she most certainly would have been a rake—but not one like her brother Elijah, of that she was sure. Or at least, she liked to think so.

The thought gave her a measure of peace. The Duke of Argyll, she decided, was not here because of her. Emma was undeniably beautiful, but her beauty was not of the sort that caused men to stumble over their words or fall to their knees in awe. She lacked the usual talents of the ladies of the ton, those arts that captured a man’s admiration and were common currency among the society’s fairer sex. Perhaps, she mused, if riding in breeches were allowed, or if fencing were considered a suitable pastime for women, she might catch their attention differently. But these were secrets she would never share with a stranger, no matter how enamoured one thought themselves to be.

She studied the Duke once more, unsure of his intentions, and yet, in some way, certain of them all the same. For a lady raised in the warmth of familial love, she ought to have more confidence, more esteem for herself. But she did not—could not—when all men seemed to see her only as a confidante, a friend, and nothing more.

“Book?” she panicked. What book—oh, for the love of all that is holy—was she reading? Was it one of those romantic tales, or, God forbid, one of the forbidden ones? The satires, the macabre stories Edmund was wont to hide from her, the ones her mother would surely faint at if she knew Emma was reading them. “Ah, yes. The book” she repeated, her wits suddenly abandoning her.

She glanced at it as surreptitiously as she could, attempting to maintain the composure she prided herself on—though Emma had never quite mastered the poker face, nor the art of deceit, for that matter. With a restrained sigh, she finally answered, "The Lay of the Last Minstrel and The Lady of the Lake, by Walter Scott. Perhaps you have read it, Your Grace, or at least heard of it. It is said to be a romance."

Her smile was polite, but there was a touch of discomfort behind it. It was a perfectly respectable choice for a lady like her—safe, predictable, and somewhat dull. Not that she disliked it, not at all. Emma rather enjoyed it, in fact. But her heart longed for something far more daring, more scandalous. Some books were beyond even Elijah’s reach. The shameless man would dare to call them unladylike, all the while forgetting that it was he who had taught her to fence, and who had been the one to gift her the breeches.

Her thoughts turned to her brothers, and with them, her nerves began to settle. She met the Duke’s eyes again, then glanced at the couch. Surely, he didn’t expect them to stand all day? She refrained from raising an eyebrow, though, truth be told, Emma was hardly a master at hiding her feelings. She could feel a flicker of irritation at the waste of time, though she quickly suppressed it.

It would be easy to feign illness, or invent some polite excuse. But no—she had panicked instead. Damn you for being a fool, Emma Edevane.

In a way, he almost felt bad. He could see the nervousness in the young woman, the uncertainty as she found herself without anything to do but play hostess. It was almost, though, because this was a duty she would need to become accustomed to. Whether it was a duke or viscount or what have you, there would inevitably be a great number of men calling upon her eventually.

The name of the book, or at least its author, did put a bright, boyish grin on his face. "Breathes there the man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, this is my own, my native land!" The quote was given in an accent stronger and timbre deeper than Alistair's usually speaking voice. A quote from the Lay, well memorized and very dear to his heart. "I'm Scottish, my lady, of course I know the works of Walter Scott." His father's doing, of course; ever proud of his heritage, he had instilled a love of Scotland in Alistair practically from birth.

Belatedly he realized that she was waiting for him to take his seat, and so he finally did so with a gesture to her own seat, he took his – swallowing back a grimace as his right knee chose that moment to click loudly as he sat. The old injury was nothing new, but the weather of London little agreed with it, and often seemed to aggravate it. It wasn't too painful, at least, but never ceased to be an annoyance.

"Are you most fond of romance novels, then? I'll admit that gothic romance is a guilty pleasure of my own. There's quite a lot of time to read on a ship, though, so one can't quite afford to be too picky, unless you'd like to read the same book a few times over." It was small talk, but there was a hope that he could tease out more of the woman's interests and personality.

Certainly she was pretty enough; it wouldn't be the ideal match his mother lusted for, but given his age and his father's untimely death – and his own dangerous hobbies – it would be good enough to satisfy the ton, and grant his mother the grandchildren (and heir) she so desperately wanted from him.

Emma gazed at that smile, wondering how many ladies would have swooned had they been fortunate enough to see it. She was certain her mother would have been flustered by such a simple yet devastatingly effective gesture. But what she had not anticipated was the accent. Usually, it was barely noticeable—if present at all—but now Emma found herself mesmerized, studying those lips as if she could decipher the subtle movements, the delicate way the tongue must curve to mimic such speech. She had never been to the Highlands, but she was inexplicably drawn to the lochs, the atmosphere, the vast landscapes so vividly described in the novels she adored. The tales of battles felt as if they belonged to another world, one of myth and fantasy. The reality of the bloodshed would likely make her faint, but the legends themselves called to her like the siren’s song, urging her to disregard logic and abandon everything in search of adventure. Given her preference for the countryside over the bustle of the city, it seemed an alluring prospect—one she imagined Elijah would eagerly support, if only to fulfill his own desires.

She sighed, her heart longing for what a woman could not freely seek.

"Scottish," she said, breaking her reverie. "Had I not been able to deduce it from the quote, I would have known it by the unmistakable affection in your tone, your grace. Is the monument as magnificent as I have heard? I’ve been told that many monuments fall short of expectation, though, of course, I am hardly in a position to offer an informed opinion, as I’ve never ventured beyond the borders of England."

Emma’s cheeks flushed at her own confession, a tinge of embarrassment at her ignorance.

When they finally settled into their seats, she heard it. The sound was unmistakable and loud enough to stir a slight ache in her chest. She glanced briefly at Lucilla, the maid, who, after a single look, seemed to understand what Emma required without the need for words. Their years together had bred a familiarity so deep that even silence spoke volumes. Emma reached for her tea, the warm cup a balm for her fraying nerves and an anchor to steady the conversation. Books—always a safe and familiar subject. One could always talk of books. And then, of course, there were the usual topics: the weather, the latest balls, fashion, the state of the country, the whispers of gossip, the eligible bachelors—though truth be told, that subject rarely passed between the men—and the latest trends in dance. None of it thrilled her, but then again, what she considered exciting was hardly the realm of a lady.

Her brows arched in mild surprise when he spoke again. She had, without realizing it, formed a judgment—a natural thing to do, even without conscious thought. Gothic romance didn’t seem like the sort of genre one would expect him to enjoy, but somehow it suited him.

"I would hardly call any genre a 'guilty pleasure,' your grace," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Even the highest scholar deserves a respite from the rigors of History and Science. Gothic romance, when well-written, is indeed a delightful genre. Though, I confess, I find little enjoyment in it if I’ve already solved the mystery by the second chapter." She wrinkled her nose and, after a quiet sip of her tea, added, "That being said, I am rather fond of History. Yet, I would never deny myself the pleasure of a well-crafted romance... if only to entertain the notion..." She blinked, the words slipping from her before she could rein them in. Her cheeks flushed with color, and she cleared her throat, placing the cup back on its saucer.

At that very moment, Lucilla appeared, bringing with her a tray of remedies, as though sent by some higher force to rescue her from the awkwardness. The maid was ever so discreet, offering only the gentlest of glances at Emma before turning to the gentleman, prepared to ease his possible discomfort. Not that Emma assumed he had any physical pain, but she had a natural inclination to care for others—a trait honed over the years of tending to younger siblings, which had become second nature.