A Scandalous Scot by Karen Ranney Page B

misdeeds. Instead, he’d had to explain himself in detail. If there was discipline meted out, his nurse was the one to switch him.
    What explanations had he given in this exact spot? He’d wanted to explore, rather than study his letters. He didn’t want to come to supper as much as he wanted to collect frogs. And he wanted scones and biscuits more than he’d wanted anything.
    Back then Cook had taken credit for his growing height, and the fact by the time he’d turned thirteen he could look his father in the eye.
    Standing there, all those years, had been a lesson in itself. How to keep his pride and at the same time be humble enough to admit his mistakes.
    He moved around the desk and sat in his father’s chair, half expecting to be chastised for doing so. He stood again, walked to the windows and threw open the drapes, letting the Highland night into the room. Despite the hour, the sky showed no sign of darkening, and wouldn’t until near midnight.
    The air was rife with the scent of leather, sandalwood, and tobacco, the same scents that had been there all those years ago.
    He returned to the desk, sat, and surveyed his father’s library. This time, not with the viewpoint of a penitent, but as the Earl Denbleigh.
    If the circumstances were altered, and he was fortunate enough to have progeny in the future, would he send for his son to stand before this desk? Would he make the boy stand there until he finished with his work, then slowly put down his pen, look up, and survey him with grave disapproval?
    Morgan would have been more comfortable with a beating than his father’s disappointment.
    He’d wanted to be like his father, more than anyone else. The man was beloved by everyone, a hero in Scotland, a statesman, a man renowned for his honor and wisdom. After Morgan’s mother had died at his birth, his father never remarried. Nor had he kept a mistress. If he had female companionship, the world—and Morgan—didn’t know of it.
    Morgan had watched his father with an eye to being just like him.
    As a boy he’d even tried to emulate his father’s walk, gestures, and way of speaking. He followed behind his father, listening as he’d given instructions, making mental notes of the way the man stood, arms folded, feet apart. On those mornings when they walked through Ballindair, he learned a great deal. To always talk to others with dignity. To speak only the truth or withhold it when provident, but never lie. To value those possessions you held in trust, and think not only of your forebearers, but those who will come after you.
    When he cried at the death of his beloved dog, his father had bent down and whispered in his ear, “Toughen up, lad.”
    Morgan had taken the comment to heart. No one ever saw him cry after that, regardless of the provocation. He learned how to be stoic. He could experience a number of emotions without anyone knowing.
    Except for lust. He’d been blindsided by lust.
    The disaster that had become his life began innocently enough at a house party hosted by the Duke of Blankenship. He’d found himself supremely bored. The hunting was good, and the horseflesh was magnificent. But he’d much rather have been at home, in his library, working on a new proposal before the House of Lords, than standing and watching the dancing.
    He’d hired a dancing master two years earlier, someone who was reputed to be an excellent teacher. Perhaps he was a lost cause, because the Frenchman—Monsieur Doran—declared him incapable of learning. He was told that he had neither the grace nor the patience for dancing.
    Therefore, he had carefully avoided all occasions such as the house party, and would have left had the Duke of Blankenship not indicated a desire to talk to him about the new Poor Law.
    “Are you alone?”
    He had turned, then, to find himself facing Lillian Carstairs, a beauty of the past two seasons. Lillian was not, rumor had it, eager to be married. Four suitors had gone to her father, and