Page 13 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Nine

T he carriage ride back to the house was in insufferable silence. Isobel alternated between staring at the duke and gazing out of the window.

For his part, the duke did not seem to be looking at anything in particular. Sometimes, Isobel thought he might be looking at her, but every time she glanced in his direction, he stared fixedly elsewhere.

So be it.

If only she couldn’t still feel his hands on her waist. The heat of his breath against her face. And the odd—almost tender tone as he asked what she was fleeing from. He had seen through her, and only fear kept her from confessing the whole thing to him.

She could not. Would not.

And yet she wanted to, and that scared her more than anything.

The carriage pulled up outside the duke’s townhouse. Gathering herself, Isobel accepted the duke’s hand as he helped her from the carriage, but she stalked ahead of him as he thanked the coach driver and sent the man on his way.

If she could escape to her bedchamber, she might not have to face whatever was brewing between them.

Unfortunately, his legs were longer than hers, and he’d reached her before they got to the front door.

“Thank you, Johnston,” he said to the butler, who nodded. “I can take it from here.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Isobel raised her chin. “Do ye have something to say to me, Yer Grace?”

“Did you enjoy the ball?”

“Aye, thank ye.”

“Are you any closer to finding your future husband?” A twitch of his brow, as though the question irked him, although she could hardly see why.

If he didn’t want her in his home, that was the fastest way of expelling her.

“I danced with some charming gentlemen,” she said—none had compared to him, but she had no intention of letting him know that. “Did ye enjoy the card rooms? I heard that play was challenging.”

“You should know nothing about such things.”

“Tell that to Eliza—she is the one who mentioned it to me.”

“You have done an excellent job of ingratiating yourself with my relatives.”

Irritation bit at her. “Ye were the one to dance with me.”

“A mistake, I assure you.”

“Why? Because ye dislike being seen with me? I know what most people think of me. Do ye think me blind or stupid? Miss Wentworth was not the only one. My heritage, my accent, my hair sets me apart.”

“Your hair?” He looked as though she had slapped him. Then he glanced around the darkened hallway. “This way,” he said curtly, taking her hand and leading her into the drawing room. “At least here, the servants need not know what you think of me.”

She folded her arms as he went about the room, lighting candles from a taper.

He made no sense—one moment he behaved as though he cared about her and her wellbeing, and the next, he behaved so coldly toward her. If he had been another man, she might have thought him jealous, but she knew as well as he that he had no desire to marry her.

If he had, he would not have compromised her reputation so much by keeping her in his home. He would have treated her with respect.

And yet—he had . On occasion, at least.

“What about me do ye dislike?” she inquired.

“Your lack of manners,” he said shortly. “And your dislike for convention. But I am a fair duke.” He turned on his heel and came to stand before her. “Why not turn the question back on you? What do you dislike about me?”

“Your temper,” she said simply. “And the fact that ye cannae seem to decide whether you despise me or…”

She stopped, and the duke arched an eyebrow.

“Or what?”

“Never mind.”

“No, no; I asked you a question, and I expect an honest answer.”

Isobel bit her lip, “Or whether ye want me.”

An unholy light lit in his eyes. “So, you would like to discuss that, would you?” His eyes raked over her. “Your accent is stronger than usual,” he murmured, coming closer. “Is that because you are angry, I wonder?”

Angry, aroused, she was not sure which. All she knew, as she looked up into the duke’s face, was that if he tried to kiss her, she would not do anything to stop her. In fact, she would welcome it.

When he was around, he made her so infuriated—and he made her want him more than she wanted anyone else.

Phantom hands alighted on her waist in her memory, her hand clasped in his.

“Lady Isobel,” he said, but her name sounded more like a curse, and she knew this was the moment when he would take her mouth with his own?—

Suddenly, a door slammed outside.

“Yes, Johnston, thank you,” a cultured female voice said. The duke froze then moved back, his expression suddenly unreadable. “I am fatigued. Send Rosemary to my room as soon as she’s had a moment to defrost. It has been a terrible journey.”

Isobel turned wide eyes on the duke. “Is that your maither?”

He barely spared time to nod before striding out to where an older woman stood in the hallway, surrounded by baggage footmen were still bringing out.

Isobel trailed in his wake, feeling a little like a deflated flower. All thoughts of kissing vanished from her head.

This was not how she had hoped to meet the duchess.

Her mother would be disappointed in her. She’d gotten so distracted by the duke, and all his hateful, compelling ways, that she had not given enough thought to other considerations. Her reputation. Her virtue .

“Mother,” the duke said with a nod.

She looked remarkably like him, if twenty years his senior. But although she had to be in her fifties, there was still color in her hair—the same rich brown of which the duke boasted. But her eyes were dark rather than his blue, and she had a more open, kindly face.

“Adrian! Is everything all right? I came as soon as I got your letter.” She placed a hand on his cheek, her eyes searching his—he flinched, as though scalded by fire.

So, he did not get his coldness from his mother, then. That was a relief, although if she was so close to Isobel’s mother, that was hardly a surprise. Her mother was one of the warmest, most welcoming people Isobel knew, and someone she admired greatly.

So why did he flinch away from his own mother’s touch?

“Nothing quite so alarming as that,” the duke said, taking a step away from her.

Then Isobel recalled that, with Eliza, his cousin and a lady he seemed close to, he was at best carelessly tolerant. At worst, irritated and short. So his demeanor made sense.

And yet, his eyes and his voice seemed somehow softer around the dowager. At least with his mother, he allowed warmth to escape into his gaze.

So, he’s not totally made of ice .

The duchess glanced over his shoulder, spotting Isobel, and she went still.

“Heavens. You look exactly like an old friend of mine, dear.”

Isobel curtsied. “I know that, ma’am. Pardon me; I am Lady Isobel MacAlister. Me maither is Lady Glenrannoch, and I assume that is who I remind you of.”

The dowager nodded, “You are Catherine’s daughter?”

Isobel nodded back, “Yes. Me maither sent me here with the hopes that ye could sponsor me in London. I have a letter—the duke has a letter,” she corrected quickly.

“Do you know her mother?” the duke asked.

“Of course.” The duchess brushed past him to where Isobel stood.

“I didn’t know you were to come here, my dear, or I would never have left for Cornwall.

What horrible timing. But never mind that now.

You’re here.” She embraced Isobel, her arms gentle.

“Your mother and I were close when we were young—and we have remained so over the years. We were inseparable at events, and…”

Her voice trailed away; her eyes distant but still warm.

“So, you are acquainted with Lady Isobel’s mother,” the duke stepped forward.

“Acquainted? Once, Lady Glenrannoch even saved my life. I have been in her debt ever since that moment.”

Isobel chanced a glance at the duke, who was watching them with a conflicted expression. Now, he knew how it felt to be wrong.

His gaze flicked to hers, and amidst the suspicion still there, she thought she saw something softer. A flash of an apology.

“You never told me this before,” he said.

“Well,” the dowager sighed, “I suppose it was a long time ago, and your father rarely liked speaking of the past.”

Isobel noticed the duke’s face darken at the mention of his father. His fists clenched ever so slightly. But instead of addressing that, he merely drew himself up.

“I have the letter she brought,” he said, nodding at Isobel. “It’s in my study. I thought to leave it until you could read it yourself, Mother. I’ll fetch it now.”

“Thank you, Adrian.” The duchess gave Isobel a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, my dear. We will have this matter solved in a trifle.”

Isobel doubted it, but having the duchess here—so warm and welcoming, when she had not been made welcome by anyone but Eliza—made her feel oddly as though she wanted to cry.

“You look just like her, you know,” the duchess said. “Your mother. You have her eyes, and I can already see that you have her spirit. I’m sure she would be proud of you coming here like this.”

Isobel smiled. “I hope so, even if this matter is not… I am not so sure it can be easily fixed.”

“Perhaps not, but I will offer you all the aid that I can, and that of my son, too. You may rely on him, even if he doesn’t seem very forthcoming. I have rarely met a man so loyal.”

Isobel hardly knew what to say to that, but before she could respond, the duke returned with the letter in his hand. He passed it to his mother, who broke the seal and read it through with a line between her brows. Isobel watched anxiously, having to fight to bite her nails.

“I see what you mean,” the duchess said with a long sigh. “Still, I think it will all be well. All we need to do is to find you a husband, and you will be out of the public eye—and protected by your husband, of course. Though your stay here with my son may not have helped things.”

“Eliza has been taking me to events with her family,” Isobel said.

“Ah, she’s a kind-hearted girl. But I shall have to start making reparations before your reputation is too damaged.

The rumor mill must be working at full power.

” She clucked her tongue. “You must stay here now. I’m back, and to do anything else would be to suggest that you have been behaving improperly.

I shall invent a chaperone—who has been done away with now I am here, of course.

An old aunt who was too ill to accompany you to events.

You went to all of them with Eliza, I suppose? ”

“Aye, ma’am,” Isobel said, startled by the speed of the other woman’s thoughts.

“Excellent. Then that is a lie we can put into action. Rosemary—my lady’s maid—has a sharp tongue and she will work with Johnston to keep the servants in line. No word of this shall get out.” She sent her son a sharp glance. “But you should have known better, Adrian.”

“I did not know better,” he said evenly. “I had no way of knowing whether Lady Isobel was telling the truth with you absent, and it would have been irresponsible of me to send her elsewhere.”

“I see. Very well,” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I don’t mind admitting that I am exhausted after that awful journey. Don’t worry, Isobel. All will be well.”

For the first time since she arrived, Isobel thought that might be true.

Adrian was not accustomed to feeling as though he had miss-stepped. Ordinarily, he ensured his behavior was such that he never needed to fear repercussions. Logic ruled his every decision; emotion was an unnecessary indulgence. Survival depended on critical thinking, and emotion clouded that.

Yet she had provoked an unmistakably emotional response from him. And if she was telling the truth…

“Lady Isobel,” he said as she passed him.

When she glanced up, her eyes hazel in this light, almost entirely brown, he nodded at her.

“It seems as though I owe you an apology. For doubting your connection to my mother,” he said, each word an effort.

A mischievous smile lit her eyes. “So ye do.”

“Allow me to offer it now. But even with the letter, and my mother’s word proving you are who you say you are, and that your mother did indeed have connections to your family, I think there is still more you are not telling me.”

“Aye?” Her brows rose. “Based on what?”

“Instinct, Lady Isobel. And instinct rarely leads me astray.”

“Are ye saying I have secrets?” She cocked her head. “Then let me tell ye something, Your Grace. We all have secrets, and that means ye do too. Are ye willing to give up yers?”

He gave no answer, staring at her in the half-light.

“Good night then, Yer Grace,” she gave him a quick curtsy, looking like she’d expected his answer—or lack thereof—and made her way up the stairs after his mother.

Alone once again, Adrian ran a hand through his hair.

He shouldn’t be so consumed with thoughts of her, but he did not deal well with mysteries when the answer was not given so easily to him. She was hiding something, and something he fancied was important.

His secrets were not the same as hers. His secrets were ghosts from the past, and hers, he deeply suspected, were ghosts from the present.