Page 37 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

“ I s everything in place for my departure tomorrow?” Isobel asked, sipping at her soup.

As had become habit over the past few days, dinner was a cold affair. Isobel had tried taking her meals in her rooms once, but Adrian had refused to allow her, so now she ate at the other end of the long table, doing her best to avoid his gaze and the knowledge of what was happening to them.

Already, her marriage had failed. All it had taken was one moment, one obstacle, a threat that he couldn’t immediately neutralize, and he had turned against her.

But she would not stay where she wasn’t wanted, even if every instinct in her desperately wanted to push at all Adrian’s boundaries. To discover precisely what he felt for her. Was it nothing, as he so clearly wanted to prove to them both, or was it more than he could handle?

Neither excused him sending her away in this fashion.

“Yes.” He glanced at her, then away, as though the sight of her burned him.

Isobel wished she had worn something revealing.

Whatever he felt for her emotionally, there could be no denying his desire.

Another punishment, as petty as she could make it—for her to arouse him then leave him wanting.

Maybe he wouldn’t even attempt to entertain her in that way, but he would want to, if she showed enough of her skin.

Even when he couldn’t stand her, he had wanted her.

That knowledge sat in her chest now, the only power she had left.

“Eliza visited me today,” Isobel said, reaching for her wine.

She felt slightly giddy, the alcohol going to her head. This was her second glass. Better to drink more and feel less. She’d never understood the compulsion before, but now she did.

Forgetting could be a drug—and if it was, she would imbibe. She would over-indulge until the pain in her chest eased.

Adrian’s gaze flicked from her to the elegant goblet in her hands. “I think you should stop drinking, wife.”

“Ye may think what ye like.” She drank again, just to irritate him. “Don’t ye want to know what she said?”

“Not particularly.”

Isobel made a noise of acknowledgement, letting it sink into something throaty. The light in his eyes flared at the sound, one she had made in his bed not long ago.

“Well, she said I should never forgive ye for sending me away.”

His jaw clenched. “We’re not discussing it.”

“Are we not?” She tilted her head. “Mayhap ye are not discussing it. I am.”

“Isobel—”

“I understand. Ye want me to leave and so ye are sending me away.”

She ran her finger along the rim of her goblet, wishing there was more wine inside.

Her stomach felt all twisted around itself. She hadn’t been hungry since that terrible ball and the confrontation with Moreton.

“And ye expect me to behave and do precisely as ye say, with no argument.”

“I am your husband. And this is all for your own good.”

“Aye,” she murmured. “Ye keep telling yerself that.”

“I’ll send for you once I’ve dealt with Moreton.”

“And until then, would ye like me to look pretty at yer estate?” she asked sweetly. “May I make household decisions without yer input, husband dear? Or must I wait for written confirmation?”

“You may do whatever you see fit, within reason.”

There was so much she could do with that, but she didn’t have the energy. Being in his estate without him would be like sharing his bed while he slept elsewhere.

“It’s not so very unusual for a wife to remain on the estate while her husband remains in town to finish some business,” he said impatiently. “It won’t be forever. I hardly see why ye’re pouting over it.”

The callousness of his words struck her deep.

Just another way of pushing me away .

But for all that, she couldn’t stop the rush of pain.

“If ye don’t understand, then I won’t be able to say anything that will make ye see,” she said, and waved her goblet for another refill of her wine. “It’s no matter.”

“Good.”

She smiled at the servant who poured wine in her glass, then held it up to Adrian, giving him a mocking a toast.

His nostrils flared, but he said nothing, and she drank through the remainder of the meal.

When they’d been happy, they would have talked constantly, only pausing to eat—and sometimes not even then. They would have sat beside one another, his foot toying with hers, teasing her under the table.

He would have taken her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing every finger in turn as he ate her alive with his eyes. When the meal was finally over, he would have taken her upstairs and had his way with her in his bedchamber.

Now, unnatural silence settled over them. She cut into her meat with unwarranted ferocity, until her knife scraped against the plate, and when he looked at her in irritation, she just smiled sweetly back.

If he was going to be cold and cruel, she would meet him with indifference.

Still, by the end of the evening, she’d had more wine than was good for her, and when she rose, she stumbled, blinking as the room spun around her, tilting alarmingly.

“Och,” she said in surprise, squinting at the room in an attempt to order them back into their proper place.

“I told you to stop drinking.” Adrian sighed beside her, his hand coming to her elbow and her waist.

Isobel pushed away from him, staggering as she regained her footing. “Don’t touch me. Don’t be ridiculous, Adrian. If ye think I’ll allow ye access to my body again after this, ye’re wrong.”

He pinched his nose, the lines of his head blurring and splitting into two before rejoining. “I know you don’t want to leave London, but you needn’t punish me for it.”

She sneered. “How would ye know?” She took a couple of steps toward the door. “Ye don’t give a damn about my feelings, Adrian.”

“That’s not true.” His hand clasped around her upper arm again, and this time, she didn’t attempt to escape him.

He picked her up and scooped her into his arms, carrying her through the door and up the stairs.

“Let me go!”

“I will when you’re safely in your room and your maid has come to assist you.”

“I don’t need ye.”

“So you’ve made perfectly plain,” he said dryly. “But I would argue you need some assistance getting up the stairs.”

“Ye are a small-minded, big-headed, low-hanging pile of sheep’s bollocks,” she cursed.

“Inventive.”

“I hate ye.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” He reached the top of the stairs and marched her to her bedchamber.

Now the worst of the indignity—and shock—had worn off, she felt increasingly sick.

When he entered her bedchamber and placed her down on the bed, she clung to him for an embarrassing moment.

When she was in command of her faculties, she was hurt and angry. But now, in her darkened bedchamber, nausea running through her stomach and her mind swirling, all she could think about was the fact that he was sending her away.

A long shudder ran through him, and he pulled her fingers from him.

“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Isobel,” he said, something almost desperate in his voice. “This needs to happen. For both our sakes.”

He was telling himself that this was for her, but she knew better. This was because of him, and the scars he had carried with him since the death of his father. Perhaps even before.

She didn’t want to have to be the one to suffer for it.

She looked at the hands in her lap, then back into his face. Her words tangled together, and she couldn’t form a single one.

After another second, he stepped back.

“I’ll call for a maid. Don’t get into the habit of drinking too much, Isobel.” He rang the bell pull and sighed as he stood by the door. “Now your journey home will just be more unpleasant.”

“Not home.”

“What?”

Her tongue felt too thick in her mouth, and she struggled to get the words out. Still, she had to. “It’s not home, Adrian.”

His jaw snapped together, and he stood for a long time in the darkness before he finally left her to the swirling confusion her wine had wrought on her.

The next day dawned for Isobel with an aching head. She remembered her inebriation of the previous day and flopped back on the pillow, groaning.

And this was the day she was due to return to the country, a journey that would take almost a full day. A full day in a carriage when she felt as though she might empty her stomach any second.

But she didn’t have any illusions about whether Adrian would still force her to go—he would.

Once he made a decision, he never retreated from it, no matter if it was a bad one or not.

He had decided that having her at his estate would be better for them both, and there was nothing she could do or say to persuade her otherwise.

As she lay back on her bed, she could hear the household scuttling about. Eventually, the door opened, and her maid entered, helping her to get dressed. Isobel refused the offer of breakfast, almost retching at the very thought of it.

As expected, Adrian didn’t arrive to see her off until the very last second. After all, why should he spend more time with his wife than absolutely necessary?

When his gaze traveled over her, however, he started slightly, and his hand fastened around hers, squeezing it.

“You look dreadful,” he said, and there was genuine sympathy in his eyes.

“Aye, well.” She gestured vaguely, and although she hadn’t directly referenced their situation, he seemed to recall it, anyway, and dropped her hand.

“Well,” he said. He clasped both hands behind his back, ever the proper duke. “I’ll call for you when it’s safe to return to London.”

“Of course. And until then, I’ll just sit tight, right?”

“Perhaps you can go riding.”

The reference to that conversation they’d had so long ago made her stomach twist and churn all over again.

When she’d lived in Scotland, she’d ridden every day, and Adrian seemed to think she could go back to the person she’d been.

Since then, she’d fallen in love, and she’d had her heart broken.

England was not the Scottish Highlands.

She felt tears prick her eyes and turned away before he could see them. After doing all this to her, he didn’t deserve her pain. Her anger, yes, but not her hurt.

“Isobel—” he called after her, but she ignored him, walking out to the carriage in the drizzling rain.

How fitting that it should be raining as she left her husband behind.

He made no attempt to follow her, and she climbed into the carriage.

The door shut and they began to rumble away from London, the threat that plagued her life for months, and the husband she had come to adore.