Page 22 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Sixteen

“ I set a bath going for ye, Yer Grace,” Jane said cheerfully, leading Isobel into the nicely appointed suite. “I thought ye might want a chance to clean off before?—”

She bit her tongue, but Isobel suspected she knew what she had been about to say.

Before your wedding night .

Isobel almost asked if she could not have her old rooms back before clamping her lips tightly shut.

It took several hours for the wedding breakfast to fully come to an end and for the rest of the guests to leave the house.

Before Adrian could do or say anything, Isobel had mumbled an excuse and fled upstairs. Her maid had waited, guiding her to the duchess’s chambers adjoining Adrian’s rooms.

Isobel stared at her reflection in the mirror as Jane unlaced her dress and helped her step out of the remainder of her clothes. The water in the clawed bathtub steamed a little in front of the fire, and the hot water felt almost too hot to the touch as she sank in.

“Och, there ye go,” Jane said. “That’s better, aye?”

“Aye,” Isobel murmured, closing her eyes.

The steam smelled slightly of roses, and she felt her muscles relax under the influence of the heat.

She was a duchess. She couldn’t quite believe it, as though denial would bring her some measure of peace. But there would be no peace here. She had married the duke, and although he had volunteered himself for the task, he did not want to marry her.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

“If I may, Yer Grace, is there something wrong?”

Isobel opened her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Och, only that ye look a little sad, ye ken.” Jane bustled about the room, fetching fluffy towels and placing them over the divider that separated her bath from the rest of the room.

“It’s just…” Isobel sighed. “I never wanted to marry the duke.”

“Aye,” Jane murmured. “I ken.”

“And I never expected to marry him. That’s not why I came down here.” She swirled her hand in the water. “And he dinnae want to marry me.”

Jane settled on a chair, her eyes distant as she thought. “It would’ve been better for ye to have a love match,” she agreed. “It is unexpected, aye, but mayhap something good can come of it.”

Isobel raised her brows. “To hear everyone talk of it, something already has. I am a duchess now.”

“Aye, well. That’s something, to be sure.”

Isobel nodded, letting herself sink further under the surface of the water.

For all that Jane was a romantic, Isobel didn’t think her maid would understand. After all, to a servant, the idea of such social elevation was one of the most wonderful things that could happen.

No doubt Jane thought she could put up with a great deal to be a duchess. But Isobel had never intended to be so far pushed in the ton’s vision. She’d hoped to retire to her husband’s country estate and allow him, and her new position, to protect her.

Now she couldn’t be certain that she could avoid Lord Moreton.

Another shiver rolled its way through her, and she ducked her head under the surface of the water.

Adrian did not expect to see his bride for the remainder of the afternoon, particularly as he shut himself away in his study with his papers and brandy, but when he came to dinner and saw an empty place setting, he experienced a flash of anger.

“Mrs. Hodge,” he said, summoning the housekeeper to his side. “What is the meaning of this?”

She looked at the table, then back at him. “Her Grace elected to eat in her rooms, Your Grace. I believe she wished to retire early.”

A headache pulsed in his temple. “Very well. Lay another place setting.”

“Your Grace?—”

“I shall speak to my wife myself.” With the edges of his anger singeing his restraint, he strode upstairs and rapped on her bedchamber.

Nothing.

He rapped again, and eventually she yanked the door open, dressed in a nightgown and robe. At the sight of him, her eyes narrowed.

“Well?” she demanded. “What right do ye have to come knocking at my door like this?”

“What right?” He entered and closed the door behind him. Better the servants not hear whatever row they were about to get into. “I am your husband. I have every right. Why are you dining upstairs?”

“Because I am tired and wish to retire early.”

He exhaled through his nose, folding his arms. “That does not mean you can skip dinner. You are my wife.”

“Aye, I know that. And I know that ye never wanted to marry me in the first place.” Twin spots of color appeared in her cheeks, dissolving her freckles into invisibility. “So why does it matter if I dine with ye or no?”

“Because you are my wife,” he repeated. “And yes, I never intended to marry you—or anyone. But it is done now, and I will not have you disobey me in my own home.”

Her nostrils flared, and a sudden bolt of lust moved through him. Was that what she had been hoping to avoid? Getting him into her bed?

“I don’t see why we must pretend,” she said. “We married out of obligation only.”

“That does not make our marriage any less true.” He stepped closer, and she tipped her chin up to meet him, not yielding any ground.

As always, when he challenged her and she challenged him back, he felt a thrill run through him.

“And I wish for us to dine together every night,” he said.

“Why?” she demanded. “For what purpose?”

“For the sake of propriety.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “This entire situation came out because of a lack of propriety, so there’s little point caring about it now.”

He gripped her chin, his fingers gentle against her skin. She was so delicate despite her defiance; he knew it would take very little for him to break her.

Her eyes widened, but she made no attempt to move away from him. And he, for his part, did not tighten his grip on her. He wanted her to face him, but he would never want her to be afraid of him.

“Tell me what happened to make you flee the ballroom,” he said.

“No. And ye cannae make me.”

“No?” He placed his other hand on her waist. “I have my ways and means, Isobel.”

“Just because I am your wife does not mean I cannae deny ye,” she warned.

“I know.” He jerked her closer, his hand sliding to the small of her back, so she was pressed up against him.

“So, tell me to stop, Isobel. Tell me that you dislike the way I touch you, and I won’t do it again.

” He moved his hand to her loosened hair, enjoying the soft waves against his fingers.

“Now tell me plainly. Were you avoiding me?”

“Yes.”

That was a spark to the gunpowder of his irritation, and he jerked her face to his, kissing her roughly.

He expected her to push him away, perhaps to tell him that she did not want or desire his attentions, and that he was bestowing them unwillingly.

But she did not tell him that.

Her mouth opened in a gasp as she yielding to him, and her hands moved to his lapels, holding them firmly, tugging him still closer as he laid an assault on her mouth. Broached her lips with his tongue. They did battle as they kissed, all lips and teeth and hot breath.

He wanted her. Desperately.

And how he wanted her—it was as though he had been waiting his whole life for this. Abstaining in the hopes of attaining this final moment.

His cock pressed against his breeches as he kissed her more deeply, sliding his fingers into the soft silk of her hair.

She moved against him, her breath ragged in her throat, making tiny mewling sounds at the feel of his hardness against her.

Just as she had before, she seemed to want to press it against her center.

Just as before, he wanted the same. She had been so delightfully wet the last time, and it had been a delight to sink his fingers inside her.

Now, the urge to do it again became a need.

He walked her backward until her knees encountered the side of the bed.

“I want you,” he said, drawing back, furious that he could not restrain himself, furious at himself for wanting a lady he had never intended to marry in the first place. “And I want this.”

“Yes,” she whispered back, and he had just enough time to process the fact she had not used the Scottish aye before she was kissing him now, just as roughly as he’d kissed her.

And any hesitation vanished from his limbs.

His urgency multiplied. His fingers found the rope of her robe and pulled, loosening it.

Underneath, her nightgown was almost sheer, revealing the pointed tips of her nipples.

He could almost trace the pattern of her freckles descending down her chest through the material.

She was a present, perfectly packaged for him. The last time they’d been together, he’d removed none of her clothes, seeing nothing but the flash of creamy thighs as she’d parted them for him. He’d operated more by feel than by sight, the room had been so dim.

Now, he abandoned her by the bed and moved to the candles, lighting more and bringing them closer to the bed. He would see everything.

“Lie on your back,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Let me see you.”

Her eyes flicked to his, hesitant for just a second.

He could practically see her will fighting his, her desire to rebel tucked against her other, more base desires.

And he could see the moment she capitulated in her eyes, the way they darkened and fell before she crawled across the bed, lying on her back and letting her legs fall open.

He perched on the end of the bed. This control—he needed it, to establish his dominance over her. She was his wife. And more than that, there was a burning in him to make her his, to make her submit utterly to him.

He wanted to make her want that.

“Now pull up your chemise. Let me see what lies under there.” His voice was more of a growl, more smoke than words.

Her hands moved to her chemise, drawing it up her thighs to reveal the thatch of hair that lay between them. Then, as she shifted, the slick flesh between. Already wet, shining in the candlelight.

He cupped himself, squeezing at the jagged rush of desire. “Good,” he told her. “Show yourself to me.”