Page 12 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

“According to whom?” she shot back. “Ye?”

“And those I protect.”

“Och, like me, I suppose?” She snorted, but her eyes held his—green and compelling, taunting and bold.

He briefly forgot they were in a ballroom with other couples around them. If he could have done, he would have damned the consequences and captured her lips again then and there—but would that not make him as bad as she was claiming? Her reputation was delicate enough as it was.

Of course, if it happened that she was deceiving and intended to deceive his mother too, he would care nothing for her reputation.

Until then, he would have to protect her. For both their sakes.

Isobel felt as though the world was swirling around her. This was not the first time she had danced the waltz—as a girl, her dancing master had made sure she knew all the steps, and she had danced several times at balls in Scotland.

But this was her first time dancing with a man who dominated allher senses.

His arm, warm and strong around her. His fingers at her waist, very properly positioned. His hand clasping hers. And his eyes, intent on hers, like the stormiest of seas.

His face was so very hard, so very intent. Angled so perfectly, as though carved from granite—by a master, no less. The only thing that saved him from looking unbearably cold was the softness of his mouth.

She had noticed it the first time they’d met, that mouth. And now she’d felt it against hers, opening her own.

She’d felt, far more powerfully than she did today, the strength of his body.

Her head spun; her breathing felt as though it came too quickly.

“What would you like me to say?” he demanded, his voice low. “That I regret standing up in your defense? Or that you would be better off without my protection?”

No, of course she would not be better off without his protection. And the thought rankled. If he was on her side, she would have the power of the ton behind her; who would oppose a duke?

And yet, she did not have him on her side. Aside from the heat in his eyes, there was a sharpness that marked her every movement, a soldier watching the actions of an enemy.

“Ye are protecting me now,” she said quietly. “But how long can I rely on that protection? Better I never rely on it at all than to have it removed.”

“Are you anticipating that I might discover something about you to make me remove it?”

“Not precisely.”

Not about her . She had done nothing wrong, unless you count striking a man to be wrong. Yet in a world of men, what did her wrongdoings matter? And if she was being hunted—if her life was as much in danger as she suspected—would the duke continue to speak up for her?

Or would he leave her in the cold?

His thumb swiped across her waist, a movement so gentle and tender that it had her head snapping back up, searching his eyes.

Nothing about his face had softened save for the expression of his eyes, which appeared almost concerned.

“Tell me,” he said.

His breath brushed her lips, and her body felt taut and loose at the same time. She felt the same tug to him she had felt before. To be closer, closer, to lose herself in his warmth and his strength.

Kiss me . The words almost escaped her lips.

She swayed closer, and his hand at her waist shifted marginally, holding her closer.

“Lady Isobel,” he murmured.

“I—I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Can it not be both?” She ought to pull away, but his gaze was magnetic, and she could taste him on her tongue as she inhaled. “I will tell the whole story to your maither. Is that not enough?”

“Are you afraid of me?” A black brow rose.

She almost smiled. “Och, no, Yer Grace. Not of you.”

“Then who?” A bald, hard question.

“Please,” she breathed. “Do not ask me to state that which I can’t tell you.”

Heat blared in his eyes—a struck match. His gaze fell to her lips, and she wondered if she had been asking him to stop begging her for answers or whether she wanted him to stop tempting her in other ways.

She could not afford to give into temptation when she had a husband to find.

But her mind stuttered to a stop as he drew her still closer so her chest pressed against his. Her nipples pinched, suddenly sensitive, and she gasped a little. His eyes looked so, so very dark when he looked at her next. The storm had swallowed the sea, and all that was left was lightning.

They should not, they would not—they were in public—but being so close to him like this made her want .

The music stopped, and the duke stopped dancing. He still held her close, even as the other couples moved away in search of refreshments and other conversation.

Isobel knew she should pull away, but she was trapped in his gaze. Her knees felt weak.

Goodness, if this was how he looked at all ladies, no wonder he had the reputation of being a heartbreaker. Not as though he cared about her, precisely, but as though he could swim oceans if only he could claim her mouth again.

He blinked, and the intensity left his face. He dropped her arm and stepped back.

“You should return to my cousin,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I believe I have done my duty.”

“Yer Grace…” She didn’t know what she wanted to say.

“I will see you later to escort you back home.” He bowed and strode away, leaving her in the middle of the ballroom, feeling flushed and foolish.

Ridiculous. The ballroom was hot, that was all. Reaching into her reticule, she found her fan and snapped it open as she went in search of Eliza, who grinned at her approach.

“That certainly showed Miss Wentworth,” Eliza said, handing her a glass of lemonade. “You know, I can’t remember the last time my cousin asked someone to dance.”

Yes, he had done it to snub a lady who obviously had feelings for him. Of course.

The thought should not have made her feel as though her stomach dropped through the floor.

“He is a good dancer,” she managed.

“Oh yes. But I do warn you, Isobel, not to get too attached too soon.” Eliza’s ready smile slipped from her face. “He has never opened himself to attachments. Of the romantic kind.”

“Nothing could be further from my mind,” Isobel snapped. “As though I would want anything to do with such an—an unfeeling brute. If ye’ll excuse my language.”

Eliza linked arms with hers. “No offense taken! He is an unfeeling brute, isn’t he? And yet somehow, I can’t help but be fond of him.”

Isobel sipped her lemonade and did her best not to notice that she didn’t see the Duke of Somerset again that evening.