Page 19 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Thirteen

“ W ell now,” the dowager duchess said, a little in exasperation. “What’s going on now ? Did you argue again?”

Isobel was not surprised when, at breakfast the next day, the duke barely looked at her. For her part, she did not want to look at him, either. She did not want to dwell on the way she had almost begged—begged—for him to take her virginity.

Her mother would be shocked. She was shocked at herself. For all she had been raised with freedom and the wild Scottish Highlands in her bones, that did not mean she could abandon propriety entirely.

Still, what happened in the drawing room after hours stayed there.

They would simply not speak to each other until she had found a husband, married, and moved out.

The duchess glanced between them. “Will anyone respond?”

The duke leveled a perfectly steady expression at her. “No, Lady Isobel and I have not gotten into an argument.”

Hearing his voice again after everything that had passed between them felt all the more upsetting, but Isobel held onto the last of her composure.

“Isobel,” the duchess said. “Is something the matter?”

“No at all, Yer Grace,” Isobel said, dropping her eyes to the plate.

The duchess tossed her napkin at the plate.

Aside from that small altercation, the rest of the day went smoothly enough.

A ball was planned for the evening, and as Isobel dressed and her maid did her hair, she did her best to remember what she had sworn to herself and her mother.

She would find a husband in London. She would protect herself. She would remain true to her mission until its completion.

That was all there was to it.

The duke and his mother waited for her in the hallway, and they all went out to the carriage again. Once more, Isobel sat there doing her best to ignore the man sitting opposite her, his knees almost close enough to touch.

Once they arrived, at least she had Eliza to act as a buffer and a distraction. And the duke strode away to the other end of the room where his charming friend waited.

“Come and have some ratafia,” Eliza said, tugging at her arm. “And then I simply must introduce you to one of my latest beaus. I think he would suit you very well.”

“ Your beaus?”

“Oh, don’t take it seriously, dearest. I have no real interest in him.”

Isobel squared her shoulders. Just because she had engaged in illicit activities with the duke did not mean her goals had changed. If anything, the timeline had shortened; the sooner she married and removed herself from the duke’s home, the better.

She could not go another month or more, avoiding his gaze and doing her best to force away the memory of his hands on her.

“Well, let’s meet him, then,” she said to her friend, who beamed.

With very little inclination to marry this Season, Eliza had been doing her best to ensure Isobel did—and as quickly as possible.

Fortunately, the fact that Isobel was the daughter of an earl—even a Scottish one—and her sudden arrival in London had made her intriguing, and plenty of gentlemen had shown her interest.

“Ah, here he is.” Eliza brought Isobel up to a gentleman she hadn’t seen before.

He was tall, his shoulders broad from the back, and his hair a light, sandy brown. The sight of it stirred a memory within Isobel, but she thought nothing of it until the man turned.

And then she came face to face with the man of her nightmares.

He looked just the same as he had when she had seen him forcing that young lady against the wall.

Dark eyes, a strong chin, and a patrician nose.

There was a certain calculating cruelty that oozed from him like slime.

No one else had seen the rot that lay underneath—but Isobel had.

She had watched the young lady flee, sobbing.

She had slapped the young lord, his cheek red from the force of her blow.

Not two weeks later, the young lady had perished unexpectedly. A rogue horse—one tragic kick to the head.

No one else had suspected him, but Isobel had known the danger. Her mother had sent her over the border to escape him, knowing that her life might be in danger. She’d thought that she would be safe in London, especially once she married.

Yet here he was.

“Lord Moreton,” Eliza said, oblivious to the panic racing through Isobel’s veins. “This is my very dear friend, Lady Isobel. Isobel, meet the Marquess of Moreton.”

Isobel knew how she ought to act—as though she saw nothing out of the ordinary about the sight. Just another gentleman. She ought to behave as though he was a stranger, and perhaps he might even believe that she didn’t recognize him.

His dark eyes met hers, malice in their depths, and she shivered.

No, that would not have worked. He would have known; he would always have known.

“Lord Moreton,” she croaked.

Her throat felt too dry. Her limbs locked, unsure whether to fight or flee.

What could she do?

“Lady Isobel.” He held out his hand, and she stared at it stupidly, seeing blood staining his fingers, even though she knew it only existed in her mind. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me?”

Eliza beamed, thrilled that her plan had succeeded so well. Isobel’s breath stuttered in her lungs.

In a dance, they could have a private conversation, and she did not want to know what he had to say.

“I—” She searched for an excuse.

Her pulse fluttered. She felt as though she would pass out, but she couldn’t. Not here, in the middle of the ballroom. The ton had only just decided to accept her. If she ruined it now, she might disrupt the fragile sense of safety she had established.

How easy would it be for him to contrive an ‘accident’ between them?

She didn’t even want to think about it.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she blurted. “I’m afraid—it’s too hot in here. I must?—”

She broke away, away from the smile sliding from Eliza’s face, away from Lord Moreton’s dark eyes, away from the ballroom so oblivious to her fear.

“Have you found anything more out about the girl?” Joseph asked, swirling wine in his glass.

Adrian grunted. He’d discovered far more about her than he’d ever intended, and the knowledge haunted him. What sort of man did that with a guest of his mother’s? An innocent lady—and her response to him, while enthusiastic, had proven her innocence, as though every sensation had been utterly new.

“Nothing of note,” he said. “Her family is good, my mother knows hers just as Lady Isobel said, and everything seems above board.”

“And you have not put any more effort into discovering more?”

“What more is there to discover?” He shrugged, keen to drop to the topic. “What of you and your marriage plans?”

“Ah, you should know better than anyone that I have no immediate plans for matrimony.”

Adrian grunted again. Neither did he, although now he had passed the age of thirty, he found the pressure on him increasing exponentially. His mother, in particular, kept urging him to find a wife. An understandable pressure, given the circumstances, but one he did not relish.

The thought of sharing his life with someone—especially any of the young ladies making eyes at him at these tedious events. Unlike Joseph, he disliked flirting without intent.

His thoughts flitted back to Isobel, and he tilted his head, looking for her. He had been doing that periodically since arriving at the ball, and he disliked that even as he couldn’t stop.

The last time he’d seen her, she’d been talking with Eliza. Safe .

But this time, Eliza was standing alone. No sign of Isobel.

Movement by the door caught his attention, and he saw Isobel slipping through the door to the balcony.

From the way she moved, he could tell she had been running.

“Excuse me,” he said to his friend and crossed the ballroom in pursuit of the young lady.

Just to ensure she did nothing that might endanger his family’s reputation, of course. If she was meeting with another young gentleman clandestinely, then?—

He broke off the thought before he could let it settle.

Somehow, he doubted that was the reason she had fled the ballroom.

He found the doorway to the balcony and brushed past the filmy curtains.

There, Isobel stood with her hands curved around the stone of the low wall, her shoulders hunched. He caught the slight, jagged inhale of breath, and every rational thought fled his mind.

She was crying.

It only took him two steps to get to her. There, he turned her shoulders, so she faced him.

Tears glazed her cheeks, illuminated by the distant glow of the ballroom. Her eyes, a dark moss-green in this light and red-rimmed, found his.

“Ah—Yer Grace.”

“Who did this to you?” he growled.

His muscles flexed and relaxed. He may not have the freedom he’d once wanted as duke, but he had plenty of power. Whoever had driven her, of all ladies, to cry, he would find them. Make them pay. Make them regret ever drawing breath.

“Isobel,” he snapped when she said nothing, merely drawing in another fractured breath. “Who did this to you? A name.”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing. Ye don’t need to be here.”

“Nonsense. I?—”

“Please, Adrian.” Her voice cracked, and he felt as though someone had punched him in the sternum.

He hadn’t felt like this in?—

No, he couldn’t think in how long.

“No,” he said, tightening his grip on her shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

“I need to leave. To go. I need…” She scrubbed a hand across her face and attempted to move past him into the ballroom again. “He came too soon,” she muttered, and Adrian stepped in front of her, halting her progress.

“Isobel,” he said, biting back his impatience and frustration. “You cannot go back in there in this state.”

“There’s nae time .” Her accent thickened in her distress. “I must leave now .”

“What’s waiting for you in there?” he demanded, jerking his chin in the direction of the ballroom.

“Not there. I must leave London .”

“London?”

“Aye!”

Another feeling pierced his chest. A deep reluctance and something else. Something akin to panic.

“For what reason? Does my mother know about this?”

“Nae, but—” Her breath caught on a sob, more tears streaking down her cheeks.

He’d never seen her like this before—so often, she had been defiant, proud, challenging him in ways no other lady had challenged him. At the sight of her so upset, so fragile, when he associated her with the wild breeze streaking over the moorlands, he lost his anger.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, curving one hand around the back of her head and guiding her face into his shoulder. “Shh.”

“I have to go , Adrian,” she gasped, her but her hands knotted in his coat, holding on as though he was the only real thing that existed in her world. “I have to run; I have to hide. I can’t?—”

“Shh.” He ran a hand up and down her spine, and bit by bit, the tension in her body eased, replaced by quivering fear. “Shh. I’m here. It’ll be all right.”

She no longer attempted resistance or insisted on anything.

Her hands didn’t ease on his coat, and he felt her tears, chilled by the night air, soak through to his skin.

Still, he didn’t release her until she leaned back, her face pale and resigned—yet stronger than he could have ever given her credit for.

He stared down at her, and she gazed up at him, her eyes clearer than they had been when he first came out, even though they were still hazy with tears.

“Isobel,” he murmured, and she leaned even closer into his embrace as though reliant on his strength.

He caught the back of her waist, the other hand moving to cup her neck. He needed her to know that he was strong enough for the two of them.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had held a woman in this way or if he ever had.

Although he’d had plenty of experience with ladies, it was not for this .

Comfort. Protection. He protected those under him who were in need of his protection, but that was something else entirely—it was not protecting by the act of giving comfort and nothing else.

Yet that was what she needed from him, and he could sense it.

He pulled her still closer into the heat of his embrace. “Tell me,” he said, his gaze fixed on hers.

Her fingers tightened on his coat.

“Oh my,” a voice said from the doorway.

Adrian glanced up to find one of his mother’s best friends, Lady Tippleton—and a notorious gossip—standing in the doorway to the balcony.

Isobel whirled, her back to his chest, but the damage had been done.

And there, her face twisted maliciously, was Miss Wentworth.

Adrian’s stomach sank. After the way he had taken her down a peg or two, he had no doubt she would act to get her revenge.

Already, she beckoned someone over.

The whispers spread, and Isobel trembled. There was no other exit to the balcony, nowhere for her to run to.

He placed his hand on the small of her back. No doubt Miss Wentworth did not think he would marry a lady from Scotland, a lady whom he had not proposed to despite staying here with him.

But she would soon discover how wrong she was.

“Well. This was not how I intended to reveal the news.” He bowed to their audience, practically feeling Isobel’s disbelieving gaze on him. “But I am delighted to announce that Lady Isobel and I are engaged to be married.”