Page 15 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Hatchards, as usual in the middle of the afternoon, was exceedingly busy, and Adrian squeezed himself between the shelves, listening to a young lady discussing the merits of Wordsworth to his right and a gentleman discussing the merits of that same lady to his left.

Ahead, Isobel smiled to herself as she stroked a finger down the spine of a book.

Adrian looked away.

Heavens , what was happening to him? A lady could not usually attract his interest for more than a night, and yet even after kissing her, he found himself compelled by her all over again.

She glanced up at him, and— damnation —he moved closer.

“I didn’t know you were fond of books, Lady Isobel.”

“Ye never asked, Yer Grace.”

“Very well,” he said, smiling a little. “I accept the criticism as leveled. I never did ask, but I am asking now. What do you prefer reading?”

“That depends on my mood.” She glanced at him. “I like poetry.”

“Robert Burns?” he guessed.

Her eyes lit for a second. “Aye, he’s got a little something to him. And Wordsworth. Blake.”

“All the modern greats,” he said.

“Is there something wrong with modern writers?” she inquired. “Should I only love the ancient greats? The Odyssey , perhaps?”

He laughed and was unreasonably delighted to see an answering smile spread across her face. He disliked just how important it was to him that she smiled—or that the cause of her smiling was him.

“There you are,” his mother said, bustling back to them with several packages wrapped in brown paper. “Here, Adrian, hold these for me. Lady Isobel, my dear, come with me. There is a new romance novel out that you simply must see.”

Adrian followed, trying to ignore the way Lady Isobel’s eyes had flittered to him at the mention of ‘romance novel.’ That meant nothing, and he wouldn’t have wanted it to, even if it did.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Having the duchess in the house made an enormous difference to Isobel. She no longer had to worry about what people thought—what the servants thought or whether she should leave the house.

And she didn’t have to walk through every corridor, hoping she would encounter him , and dreading it at the same time.

Wanting to, because she desperately wanted to know what would happen if they were alone again.

Dreading it, because she should not want that as much as she did.

She was here to find a husband, and the duke was not him. Not only that, but if she gave him too much, she ran the risk of ruining herself.

She was in the library when she heard voices in the hallway. She crept to the door, peering out to find a strange man standing by the butler, something in his hands that she couldn’t immediately identify.

The men greeted one another as though they were familiar before the strange man followed the butler through the house.

Curious, Isobel followed, peering behind doors as they disappeared outside.

Intriguing.

She moved to a small, unused parlor, staring out of the window as she found the duke standing with a sword in his hand.

No, not just a sword—a fencing sword. She had seen pictures, but never before had she seen one in the flesh.

It was long and thin, something on the end to prevent causing damage, or so she presumed.

The strange man approached the duke, bowing and smiling. They exchanged a few words before putting gloves and wraps on their hands and arms.

Still more intrigued, Isobel made her way to a side door, where she could see without the obstruction of a window.

The duke bowed and extended his sword. The master did the same, and they engaged in what appeared to be a strange dance. A parry, a strike, footwork taking them back and forth.

April sunlight beamed on them, and the duke first paused to remove his waistcoat. Then, as sweat soaked through his shirt, he removed that, too.

A gasp escaped Isobel’s mouth, and she clapped a hand over it.

But, somehow, that was enough for the duke to hear her. His head snapped around until he found where she hid, staring.

His skin appeared bronzed, as though this was not an infrequent occurrence. His shoulders were broad, and the muscles in his chest shifted as he moved. She found herself transfixed by the ridges across his stomach. There was a line of hair between them, disappearing down beneath his breeches.

Her mouth felt abruptly dry.

“Lady Isobel?” he called, one brow raised. “Were you looking for something?”

Despite the embarrassment flushing her cheeks, she raised her chin. “No, thank ye, Yer Grace,” she said.

Without waiting to see his response, she strode away, trying to get the image of his bare chest from her mind. The muscles—she hadn’t realized how muscular a male chest could be. She had known that he’d been hard under his clothes because she had been close enough to observe such things.

“Who is that, Your Grace?” she heard the dancing master say.

“A guest of the duchess.” The duke’s voice was unnecessarily curt. “En garde.”

That was the last she heard before entering the house.

So, what if something about seeing him like that, sweat dripping down the side of his face and glistening on his skin, made her stomach tighten with—what?

Interest? Desire?

No, it could not be desire. She would not let it be desire.

She had to find a husband as soon as possible. And forget about the duke before he ruined everything.