however, that no amount of...persuasion...will convince me to change my mind.”
Their eyes met, cool blue and unreadable black. Christina could feel her heart racing. Then Lucas inclined his head. “I apologize,” he said. “It was a misjudgment on my part.” His tone had changed. It was respectful, practical. “I can offer other testimonials. The Duchess of Strathspey will vouch for me. She knows me well and will assure you of my honesty.”
Christina raised her brows. “Are you giving me orders now, Mr. Ross?”
Lucas smiled again. It was difficult to resist that smile. It was so wicked it made her feel quite hot all over.
“Merely a suggestion,” he murmured.
Then, unexpectedly, the duke spoke. Christina had almost forgotten that he was there. He had been staring vacantly out across the gardens as though his mind had been fixed on his latest academic project or ridiculous architectural design, but now his pale blue gaze swung back to focus on her. He smiled benignly.
“Hemmings and Grant need help in the gardens, my dear. Some sort of assistant, an under gardener, what?” He turned to Lucas. “You’d be ideal, young fellow. Since my daughter don’t seem to want you in the house, you’d be better off outside.”
“Papa!” Christina was mortified, torn between fury that her father was undermining her and embarrassment that he made Lucas sound of no more account than the horses in the stables.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lucas accepted swiftly, undermining her further. “I would be delighted to accept.”
“Good, good,” the duke said absentmindedly. “You’ll find Hemmings in the hothouses. He’ll tell you what to do.”
“Papa,” Christina said again. “You cannot simply appoint Mr. Ross as under gardener on a whim!”
The duke turned his pale blue myopic eyes on her. “Why not? It’s my garden.” He sounded like a spoiled child.
Christina repressed another sharp retort. It was only her father’s estate when he decided on impulse that he wanted to do something. The rest of the time, when he was closeted with his academic papers, it was very much her responsibility.
“I know that both Mr. Hemmings and Mr. Grant are elderly and need some assistance in the gardens,” she said carefully. “But Mr. Ross applied for a job as a footman. He is not qualified—”
“He looks qualified to me,” the duke said irritably. “How difficult can it be?”
“I am most grateful, Your Grace,” Lucas said, ignoring Christina’s fierce frown. “I am very eager to acquire a job at Kilmory and am happy to take whatever is on offer.”
“Splendid, splendid,” the duke said, beaming again. He slapped Lucas on the shoulder and strolled off toward the house.
Christina shut her mouth with a snap. She could see Lucas’s lips twitching as he tried not to laugh. She was neatly outmaneuvered.
“Well, then,” she said, masking her irritation. “As the duke quite rightly said, you will find Mr. Hemmings in the glasshouse, Mr. Ross. He will give you instructions on your work and find you a place to live. The outdoor servants have accommodation in the stables cottages, but they take their meals in the servants’ hall.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Mr. Galloway can advise you on anything else you need to know. Galloway—” she turned to the butler “—pray send to Strathspey Castle to request a reference for Mr. Ross from the Duchess of Strathspey.”
“Ma’am.” The butler bowed, stiff and proper again. His tightly pursed expression suggested that he absolutely deplored this turn of events. Christina shared his feelings but she knew there was no point in objecting. The duke liked to think that he was head of the household and could be very stubborn when contradicted.
“Thank you, my lady,” Lucas said. “Mr. Galloway.”
“How diverting this has been,” Allegra said. “Welcome to Kilmory, Mr. Ross.”
“Allegra,” Christina said, her patience hanging by the thinnest thread, “is it not time for your pianoforte practice? Mr. Ross—” she turned to Lucas “—a word, if you please.”
Allegra gave an exaggerated sigh and strolled off across the grass with one last, provocative glance over her shoulder at Lucas, who ignored her. His gaze was fixed firmly on Christina. She had never in her life been the focus of so much masculine attention. It unnerved her; her mouth dried.
“More mutual blackmail, Lady Christina?” Lucas asked lazily, when everyone was safely out of earshot. His voice was low and intimate. “Financial irregularities...most imaginative. I do congratulate you.”
“Let me offer you some advice, Mr. Ross,” Christina said briskly. “Last night I gave advice and you chose to ignore it. This time I suggest you think very carefully before you do the same. If you do not wish your time at Kilmory to be cut short, I counsel you not to put a foot wrong. You will behave with absolute decorum. Is that clear?”
“As crystal,” Lucas said.
“You will not speak of last night,” Christina continued.
“What aspect of last night?” Lucas queried.
“Any aspect of it,” Christina said shortly. “We will never mention it again. And,” she added, “I would like my pistol back, if you please.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Lucas said.
“Thank you,” Christina said. “Good day to you, Mr. Ross.”
She did not look back as she walked across the lawn to the house but she was certain that Lucas was watching her.
Trouble, trouble, trouble.
She did not need a crystal ball to see that Lucas Ross was very bad news indeed. She was not entirely sure what he was—other than dangerous—but she had a bad feeling that she was going to find out.
* * *
LUCAS RELEASED THE breath he had been holding in a long, silent sigh.
So that was what his lady smuggler looked like. He had known from the moment she had walked past him in the castle that she was the woman he had met the previous night. As soon as he was close to her, the recognition, the awareness between them, snapped into life.
He watched Christina walk away across the lawn. She did not look back. Lucas grinned. Of course she did not, although he was willing to wager that she burned to turn around and check if he was watching her.
He was. He could not take his eyes off her. He watched her all the way to the house. She did not hurry, but she did tilt her parasol back to block his view of her face. He would swear that was deliberate and nothing to do with the angle of the sun. The parasol was made of spotted damson muslin and trimmed with lace to match her gown. It looked frivolous but she was not a frivolous woman. Everything about her, from her height to her authoritative manner spoke of cool, calm competence.
He estimated that she was about a half dozen years older than he, not a grandmother, but not a debutante, either. He could see now why people might overlook her, because most people judged on
