Page 11 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Eight

“ Y ou have a poisonous tongue,” Eliza said to Miss Wentworth, whose color was high on her cheeks.

As always, the ballroom was disagreeably packed.

Adrian stood at the edge of the room as the two young ladies giggled and advanced into the crush without him. He glowered at any young lady who attempted to approach him.

This was about as far from his idea of ‘fun’ as anything could be.

Watching his cousin and newfound responsibility flirting with other gentlemen.

The lemonade was tart, and there was very little else of worth to drink.

There would be a dinner later, but he doubted it would be particularly good fare.

At least it wasn’t Almack’s, known for its stale bread and watery lemonade.

And at least there, there would be betting in the other rooms, even if the stakes were not particularly high.

He was about to head over there when he glanced back at where Lady Isobel was standing. Her back looked rigid from this view, and she appeared to be standing beside Miss Wentworth.

Adrian frowned. The lady had never struck him as being especially accommodating, and he had cultivated a strong dislike of her.

Not to mention Lady Isobel’s briefly stricken expression when she had mentioned that all men had their vices—it was obvious she was not talking about something as mundane as racing or gambling.

No. This went deeper. And he couldn’t shake that instinctive desire to protect her, to stand between her and whatever she faced.

Ludicrous. Ridiculous. Unnecessary. She had proven time and time again that she did not want his defense. Still, he found himself striding over to her.

He came to a stop behind Lady Isobel.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, hearing the threat in his own voice and having no desire to remove it.

“Oh. Your Grace,” Miss Wentworth fluttered her eyelashes at him. The attempt left him cold. “We were just conversing about her family in Scotland.”

“Conversing?” Eliza’s jaw was clenched. “She was insulting Lady Isobel’s heritage.”

“I merely said that I had never heard of your family’s seat, is all.” Miss Wentworth gave what she no doubt thought was a placating smile. “It is nothing to get too worked up over, I assure you. I was not trying to assert anything?—”

Lady Isobel spoke, her voice low and her accent accentuated. “I’m afraid I daenae believe a word that ye say.”

“Neither do I,” Eliza said with a toss of her fair head. “She was trying to disparage Lady Isobel.”

Miss Wentworth chuckled softly. “Heavens, such vitriol. One would think you had been brought up in a barn, not polite company.”

Adrian raised a brow. “Be careful with your words, Miss Wentworth. Lady Eliza is my cousin.”

“Oh—” Miss Wentworth blinked, but Adrian had no desire to smile, even in grim victory. “Well,” she said faintly. “Yes, of course. And I was not attempting to suggest anything negative, of course. But Lady Eliza would do well to keep her tongue in check.”

“That is not a matter I am disputing,” Adrian said, sending his cousin a quelling glance. “But it sounds as though you suffer from the same affliction, Miss Wentworth. You would do well to keep your thoughts and opinions to yourself. They are not always welcome, especially in polite company.”

An ugly flush covered her face. Adrian knew that, for the most part, she was considered extremely pretty, but he had never cared for her simpering style of beauty.

Now, having had her bad behavior thrown in her face, all her loveliness had fled.

Lady Isobel looked equally flushed, but her eyes gleamed with a mixture of satisfaction and triumph, and the expression did nothing to hinder her attractiveness.

A pity , he thought viciously.

“I find it hard to believe that you, Your Grace, are defending a nobody from who knows where, who might not even be from a reputable family.”

“Let me put that to bed.” His temper flared, and he forced it back down with iron control.

“Lady Isobel’s family is perfectly respectable, and she is a guest of my mother’s, the Duchess of Somerset.

There is nothing of reproach about her, save that just like my dear cousin, her tongue can sometimes run away with her. ”

He gave her an apprising look that she returned with her chin tilted. Flushed and beautiful. He despised the sight of it, even as his body stirred at memories of that soft mouth on hers, and her soft body pressed against his.

“Ye flatter me,” she said dryly.

“I believe I do.” He extended her his hand. “Would you do me the honor of the next dance?”

“I—” She sucked in a breath, looking stunned.

No doubt she had not anticipated his asking her to dance, and truthfully, it had not been his intention. But there was nothing else he could do that would more firmly snub Miss Wentworth the way he thought she deserved to be snubbed.

Eliza nudged Lady Isobel in the side with a pointed look, which Lady Isobel returned in kind. There was a lot to be said about her, much of it unflattering, but she could certainly be said to give as good as she got.

Perhaps that was what drew him to her. Miss Wentworth was silent in her rage and humiliation where Lady Isobel would have fired back at him.

No doubt she would fire at him when they were dancing together.

He could not find it within himself to regret his decision.

“Very well,” she said, accepting his hand. “Ye see, I can be kind, too,” she murmured as he led her out to where couples were gathering.

A waltz—that was just his luck. For a heartbeat, he thought she might not know the moves, the dance being a more modern addition to ballrooms, but she did not hesitate as she accepted his hand and allowed him to place his other hand on her waist.

Heat erupted from the contact. He looked down into her face, alarmed by his own temptations. Women never usually tempted him like this; they were pleasant enough as occasional lovers, and he enjoyed getting his needs sated—he was a man, after all—but this felt entirely different.

Rawer. Visceral. Desire did not so much exist in him as take hold of the reins and demand that he acquiesce to its urging.

He did not. Instead, he swept her smoothly about the room.

“People are staring,” she said.

“I know. Tell me.” His hand crept a little higher up her back. “Did you consider rejecting me in front of Miss Wentworth?”

Her eyes sparkled, green in his light, like moss or light through forest leaves. She was a wild, fey thing, and he held her too close to his body.

“I did,” she said.

“Why?”

“I told myself I wouldnae dance with ye.”

“Why?”

“Because I daenae like ye.”

“I know that much.” He cocked a brow as he looked down into her face. “And yet you accepted.”

“The look on her face was too tempting to resist,” she admitted.

“Ah, so you can be petty too.”

“I never claimed I couldn’t.”

“I thought you were different from other ladies.”

“I hardly see why,” she countered, her hand on his shoulder contracting slightly. “I never claimed such a thing.”

He felt the contact, felt the press of her fingers through his body, though it shouldn’t have affected him so much.

“And yet your behavior indicates it from every angle.”

“ Every angle?” Her gaze darkened, and he knew she was remembering that shadowed hallway.

Their kiss.

Good God, he was a fool, and yet he wanted to do it all over again. He longed to ask her if a gentleman had kissed her before.

Foolish.

“Do you disagree?” he asked quietly, looking down at her.

“Ye make it impossible for me to do so.”

“I doubt you ever find anything impossible.”

“Ye flatter me.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

For the first time, her eyes dipped. “Then ye think it’s the truth? I am not as bold as ye think, nor as daring.”

“Is that so? So, you didn’t come to my house in a storm and demand to see my mother, and insult me to my face when I refused?”

He’d intended the comment as a challenge but realized after the event that it sounded more like a compliment, followed on as it was from his last statement.

And perhaps, in many ways, it was a compliment. He didn’t trust her, but he could respect her audacity and her courage in doing it.

“Will you tell me why you came to London?” he asked. “What happened with an English lord?”

Surprised, her eyes flashed to his. “What do ye mean?”

“You mentioned that you have met English lords before.” He drew her a little closer. It was addictive, the feeling of having her body so close to his. “It only follows that you have had an encounter with an English lord in Scotland. So, who was it? What happened?”

“Yer Grace, I?—”

“I realize you don’t trust me to be on your side, but I can’t do anything but mistrust you when you keep secrets.”

“And if the secret isn’t mine to give?”

“What sort of secret is so precious?”

Her lips tightened at the word ‘precious.’ He frowned, glancing across her face as though she would reveal her secrets to him that way—though he knew she wouldn’t.

Whatever her secrets were, she deemed them too precious for him.

Or precious was perhaps the wrong word. But what was the right one?

She was running from something, that much was for certain—but was she running from ruin? She had certainly been happy enough to kiss him the other night.

Had her virtue been compromised? Could she be with child?

Surely she would not have risked traveling so far and certainly not throwing herself on his mother if she was.

Unless she planned to marry before she showed.

But if that was her plan, he could hardly imagine it would succeed.

Her situation would be discovered all too quickly.

“Very well,” he said, letting the matter lie. “Let us discuss other things.”

“Miss Wentworth,” she said and cocked a challenging brow at him. “Ye don’t like her.”

“I do not find myself drawn to bullies.”

“Even if ye would be sometimes classed among them?”

His eyes narrowed and he leaned in closer.

“You are mistaken, Lady Isobel. I never pick on those weaker than me. If I choose to use my influence, it is for the better.”