Page 27 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Nineteen

“ W hat are you doing?” she asked one afternoon.

Adrian hadn’t realized how easy it would be to slip into life with Isobel as his wife.

In some ways, very little changed. She still lived with him; she accompanied him to breakfast and ate dinner with him in the evening.

He still had his responsibilities, and spent hours in his study writing to his steward, assessing the reports that came in, assigning money to replacing fences on his property, to rethatching the roofs of the tenants’ homes.

But this time, however, when he worked, he found Isobel sitting with him, curled up in a chair with a novel as he made notes and wrote letters.

He laid down his pen with a half-smile. “I am calculating the cost of cheese-making.”

“Cheese-making?” Isobel echoed.

“I have several estates. One, with fertile land, which pays for itself easily. But I have another one, further north, where the land is not so fertile. We have been growing wheat, but the harvests have been poor, and the people are struggling to make do.” He looked at her.

“What about the people on your father’s estate? ”

“Sheep,” she answered promptly. “I don’t suppose I’ve seen half as many sheep in the whole of England as I did on my father’s estate.”

“We have plenty of sheep,” he said wryly.

“Why not sheep, then? Ye can have both wool and milk. And cheese, if ye so desire.”

“But the cheese is not half as popular, and the price of wool has decreased in recent years. In Sunderland—my estate—there used to be a large cheese farm nearby, but it closed several years ago. Still, several of my tenant farmers used to work there and remember how to make it. The cheese they can access is terrible. There are sheep in the area, but there are fewer cows, and thus I would be answering the call of supply and demand.”

She propped her cheek on her hand as she watched him, her eyes curious. She reminded him of a cat, curled up before the fire, although it was spring and would soon be summer.

“Do ye think through all yer decisions this carefully?”

“Of course. That is my role as a landowner. These people depend on me. The least I can do is ensure that their lives are as easy as possible. In exchange, their money keeps the estate afloat.”

“You depend that much on your people?”

“I do.”

“I respect the way ye think about their welfare,” she said quietly.

“What else do you expect me to do?” He pushed his chair back and held out his arms to her. “Come here, you little wretch. Must you always think the worst of me?”

“I don’t,” she protested, but she came, anyway.

They were still learning one another, how their bodies worked, and how they could work together. She slid onto his lap, placing her knees on either side of him as she straddled him.

His wife liked his control in the bedchamber—but she also liked to tease him elsewhere.

So far, in their three days of marriage, he’d made love to her seven times, and all had been within the confines of his bedchamber. Now, however, he had a different plan.

“May we visit your estates soon?” she asked, her nose almost level with his.

“We may,” he said. “Over the summer.”

“Why not now?”

“Because I have business in London. All my banking is here, and this is where my attorney works. I would be a fool if I left now. And,” he added, leaning in closer, “this is where Moreton currently resides. I meant it, Isobel, when I said I would bring him to justice.”

And he’d been working toward it, making his inquiries. He could do such a thing from his estates, but not as easily, particularly when Moreton was here.

“I don’t like being in the same city as him,” she confided, and he tugged her closer.

“What did I say? You have nothing to fear from him.”

Her eyes met his, mossy green and dark. “And what about ye? Do ye think he will do nothing to ye simply because you are a duke?”

“He will find it harder to harm me,” he said, a grim note entering his voice. “I can assure you of that.”

“Ye are very confident.”

“Years of practice.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “Trust me. He won’t get to me. Not if he pays all the bandits in London.”

She giggled and felt the slow pulse of relief. “I don’t know how many bandits there are in London.”

“Very likely few,” he said, and leaned closer to kiss her. “Because we are not uncivilized.”

She slapped his shoulder. “Ye take that back.”

“Never.”

“Adrian—”

He kissed her again, settling her more firmly on him so she could feel the hard ridge of his arousal. With her, he was insatiable, and from the way she let out a slow moan into his mouth, she felt the same.

“We are not in your bedchamber,” she said as he pushed her skirts out of the way. “Does that mean the rules are different?”

“Not for this.”

He finally got the bulk of her skirts out of the way and reached between them, testing to feel her state of arousal. Wet—very wet.

Perfection. She was perfection .

He felt heady in his desire, freeing himself from his falls. She made a mewling sound of want and he rubbed himself against her.

“Are you ready for me?” he murmured against her.

“Aye. Take me, Adrian.”

“Oh, I will.” He lifted her up then brought her down on his cock.

She let out a ragged sigh, burying her face in his neck as she sank all the way down. So wet, so tight, so hot.

He’d never had another woman who felt like this on him—this right.

He’d had her earlier that morning, before they descended for breakfast. A slow push between her legs as she lay facing away from him, and she had arched deliciously against him, grinding her bottom against his groin. It hadn’t taken him long to spill.

She rolled her hips, the angle limiting her movement to a tantalizing tease for the both of them.

“What if someone comes in?” she whispered.

“A servant will knock. And I will tell them to go away.”

“Adrian—”

“You are fully clothed.” He moved her on him again. “And you are my wife. Not only will no one see anything they shouldn’t, but I am at perfect liberty to have my way with you.”

He thrust into her, and her eyes glazed. He loved seeing her like this, boneless in her pleasure, as though nothing existed in the whole world but him and the things he could do to her.

It could make a man mad, the urge to please a woman. And when the woman in question was so eager to be pleased, and so willing, so obedient whenever he had his cock in her, or his fingers inside her, or his mouth on her—it was a drug. Addictive.

If he had known what marriage could be like, then perhaps he would have entered the institution before—but then again, he doubted marriage with any other young lady would be like this. He doubted anything would be like this .

“Adrian,” she moaned, moving on him faster now.

She came so easily, his fey girl, and he reveled in the feeling of it.

“That’s it.” He palmed her bottom under her skirts, urging her to sit fully on him, aching with need, the feel of her grinding against him pulling him closer to his own release. “There you go. Good girl.”

She shuddered against him, and he met her lips with his in a fierce kiss. She moaned again, movements frantic, and his balls tightened, the pressure beginning at the base of his spine.

Isobel brought him to completion so quickly, but he refused to finish before she did. That was a matter of male pride, and much as he wanted to be in charge of her pleasure, that still meant he desired her pleasure. Sometimes, he thought he desired it more than his own.

She cried out as she broke around him, and he buried himself deep inside her, holding her as she shuddered, whispering praise against her skin.

He loved the mindless way she lost herself to every climax, and the way she looked at him after, with pleasure-soaked eyes and a mouth swollen from his kisses.

This was every man’s dream, and he had her in his arms.

He held himself still inside her as she slowly came back to herself, trailing wet kisses up his neck.

“Was that good?” he asked, hardly recognizing his own voice; it seemed he, too, was pleasure-drunk.

“Mm.” She rolled her hips against him, and he bit back a groan. “You haven’t finished.”

“Not yet.” He caught her chin, tilting her head back so he could kiss her again, her tongue languid against his.

She felt so soft, and as he moved against her again, the sound she made—the sound gasp of pleasure—made him ache.

“I don’t want it to end so soon, my darling.”

He registered the word as he said it. Darling .

He had never called her that before. But she gave no sign that she had noticed, and he let the moment pass. There were other, more urgent things on his mind. The way she felt around him.

The way he wanted all of her. To taste her, to feel her, to have her.

He needed her. All of her.

“Isobel,” he said, thrusting into her faster now. “Are you mine?”

Her gaze met his, surprised, but a fire burning in their depth despite it.

“Yes, Adrian,” she said. “Aye. I am.”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He groaned as he pushed up inside her one final time, letting the warm clasp of her inner walls hold him as he spilled inside her.

“Quite right,” he told her when he finally came back into himself. “And don’t forget it.”

She laughed a little, cupping his face in thoughtless affection he’d once thought he’d hate.

“As though ye’d ever let me forget,” she said with sweet amusement, and kissed him.

“I suppose you’re happy?” Eliza said as they took tea in the parlor, a room Isobel had adopted as her own. “You look happy, at least, which is something.”

“I am happy.” Isobel blinked in surprise, not just that she had admitted it, but because it was true .

She was happy. Adrian made her happy.

“I didn’t think he wanted to marry me, and I don’t believe he did, but I do think he will make me a good husband.”