Page 16 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Eleven

“ S top fidgeting,” the Duke murmured to her.

Isobel craned her head to see the musicians on the stage of the music hall. The cushioned chair seemed almost uncomfortable underneath her, and she shifted, peering past a lady’s large peacock feather in her cap.

Beside her, the duke sighed.

“But that’s Muzio Clementi ,” she hissed.

He raised his brows at her. “I’m surprised you know who that is.”

“I was born in Scotland, not a barn, Yer Grace.”

The duke glanced back toward the stage, where the virtuoso was taking his place by the piano. Isobel wished she was taller so she could see better.

The opera was all very well—but the pianoforte! She had never been particularly good at the instrument, preferring the fiddle, but she loved to hear it. And to hear it played so well would be an honor beyond compare.

Unexpectedly, she felt her throat close. Her nostrils flared, and she did her best to keep the emotions contained within.

The duke, however, saw through her deception immediately. She disliked how easily he seemed to read her, though she always kept herself hidden away.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Aye,” she muttered.

On her other side, Eliza and the duchess were in a spirited conversation about the virtues of music. The duchess, unsurprisingly, believed them to be numerous. Eliza, the little heathen, expressed her opinion that there were greater pleasures to be found in the world.

Under any other circumstances, she would have joined them, defending music from Eliza’s callous views.

Instead, she found herself thinking about her parents and what they would have given to be a part of this now.

Muzio Clementi had only been in London for a short period of time.

No doubt he would shortly return to Italy.

Her parents, for all they loved music as much as she did, would never get the chance to hear him—unless he traveled all the way to Edinburgh.

What were the chances of that?

It hurt a little to think that she would be experiencing things that her parents would never see. How wrong it felt when she was the youngest of them all.

But she couldn’t tell the duke that and admit to so much weakness. So, she forced a smile. “Did ye know, he engaged in a piano competition with Mozart?” she asked.

“I did not.”

“That hardly surprises me. I suppose you are more interested in other activities, like fencing.”

The corner of his mouth curled in a smile, there and gone before she had time to comment on it. “Do you think about that incident a lot, my lady?”

Her cheeks burned. “What incident?”

“I think you know.”

“I daenae.”

“Did you know, your accent gets stronger when you’re flustered,” he commented. She scowled. “I can only assume that you think about it quite often.”

“Ye are a brute.”

“Mm.” He leaned back in his chair, long legs tucked under him. “And yet I think you’ll find that you are no longer thinking about whatever made that melancholy expression appear on your face.”

“Ye were trying to distract me?”

“I successfully distracted you,” he corrected. “Do you want to tell me what occupied your thoughts?”

“Do ye know how long Clementi will continue to perform for?” she asked.

Clementi tucked the points of his coat behind his seat, and the murmuring of the audience slowly faded.

“No,” the duke murmured. “But he seems spry enough yet. I’m sure he has time left in him.”

On her other side, Eliza gripped her arm. “Am I going to be bored?” she whispered.

“I won’t be,” Isobel whispered back as Clementi gazed at the instrument for a long moment before placing his hands on the keys.

Isobel strained to see, and eventually, the duke shuffled a little to the right, creating a space for her to put her head—without getting too close to him. She sent him a grateful glance before looking at the man sitting at the piano.

His fingers moved faster than seemed possible, each note unerring and precise.

He wrought such a melody from the instrument as though it transformed from wood and strings and hammers to a trickling stream and the wind through the trees.

She caught her breath at the sight of him, lost in his own playing and the music that wove around them in a tapestry of sound.

She felt the duke’s gaze on her, but she refused to look away from the performer.

If her parents could not be here with her to see this, she would absorb all she could from the sight. She would make the most of every moment and recount it in her next letter; it was the least she could do.

And at least now, she did not have a gentleman whispering in her ear about the next social engagement they would attend. The duke at least kept silent so she could enjoy the moment.

And if she felt tears brim in her eyes at the beauty, the soaring overwhelm it made her feel, and if she subtly wiped them away with her glove, knowing the duke was watching her, then what did that matter?

It hardly made a difference what he thought of her. She now had the duchess as a buffer for public disapproval, and she had been the one to compel his compliance. And truly, since his mother’s return, the duke had been almost nice to her.

At the end of the first movement, Clementi finished with a flourish. As Isobel brought her hands together, she glanced at the duke.

For once, he wasn’t watching her as she took the opportunity to study his profile. Such a strong face—hard jaw, strong brow, and stern eyes. It was a face to make a sculptor weep.

He glanced across at her, their eyes meeting. Her stomach flipped. Their eyes locked, and she couldn’t look away. Her breath came too fast. There was heat in the back of his gaze, and she recalled with painful clarity the sight of his bare skin in the sunlight. The sweat on his skin.

The way his mouth had felt against hers.

That same mouth parted, and she felt it as though it passed straight through her.

“Lady Isobel,” he said—or at least, his mouth moved, framing her name, but the sound of the overwhelming applause drowned his voice.

She couldn’t be certain he had spoken at all.

Eliza caught her arm, distracting her attention.

“I wasn’t bored after all,” she said with simple delight. “I thought I would be, you know, because I have never been particularly fond of music when one cannot talk through it, but he was reasonably good.”

Isobel blinked at her friend. “ Reasonably good? Eliza, he is a master.”

“Well, you seemed to enjoy it,” Eliza said, looking a little surprised.

“Aye. More than anything.”

“How fortunate that Adrian could accompany us.” Eliza sank back on the seat. “Now everyone is envious of our escort, and that means we shall have even more people to speak to after the event is over.”

Isobel giggled, although she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the duke had accompanied them. Her fingers tingled, but she didn’t dare glance back at him.

“And you have begun to be more popular since the duchess returned and the duke has accompanied us to events,” Eliza added.

Isobel sighed, “Indeed.”

“You see? It is all for the good.”

“Aye. I hope so.”

“It will be.” Eliza said with confidence. “We shall find you a husband in no time.”

Isobel was bored.

In all ways, things had begun to look up since the duchess had returned. Her newfound popularity showed no signs of abating, and every ball she attended resulted in a full dance card and sore feet.

Yet here she was, bored to tears.

“You should see my hounds, my lady,” her latest admirer said, pushing red-gold hair off his face.

At first sight, she had thought him almost angelic, with a fine-boned face, blue eyes, and that red-gold hair. But as soon as he opened his mouth, she realized he had nothing in his head but thoughts of hunting and his own magnificence.

As though to back up this assumption, he glanced in a mirror, preening as he admired himself and his build.

Not that his build could compare to the duke’s—but she banished that thought from her mind.

“Your hounds?” she asked, doing her best to sound as though she was invested in the conversation and wouldn’t rather smash a vase over his head for some peace and quiet.

“They’re all well-bred.” He smirked at her and flicked his hair back from his face. “As I’m certain you can tell from one look.”

She blinked at him. “Aye,” she said slowly.

“Have you ever been hunting?”

“Actually—”

“Of course you haven’t.” He patted her arm in a patronizing way. “Well, I would be delighted to regale you with some tales from my recent expeditions. I am sure such a foreign subject to you would still be interesting, no?”

Isobel gritted her teeth. In the Highlands, she had been free to roam across her father’s land as often as she liked, often on the back of a horse.

There, she had joined the hunts, and she had stayed with them right through, jumping with the best of them.

Not everyone believed she ought to be behaving in this way, but she had enjoyed her childhood.

She missed it.

The nostalgia came in a rush.

“Perhaps,” she said to placate the gentleman, knowing it was her duty not to repulse anyone who might provide her with security.

Even if it came with a healthy dose of patronization.

He smiled at her, complacent in his knowledge that she had been wooed by his display of manly prowess.

“Excuse me,” she said, putting her glass of ratafia on the nearest table. “I find I have a headache. Let me find the Duchess of Somerset. I think I must return home.”

His expression twisted into one of faux concern. “I hope you feel better soon, my lady.”

“Thank ye.” She inclined her head and escaped, finding the duchess deep in conversation with Eliza’s mother.

Just as she had known, however, the duchess came to her rescue.

“Oh, you poor dear,” she said as soon as Isobel looked pleadingly at the door. “You look so pale. Are you feeling ill? Here, come with me. We’ll get you sorted. Pray excuse me, Lady Northley.”