Page 8 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Six

“ Y ou shouldn’t pay them too much mind,” Eliza said to Isobel. “They have always been like that. Stuck up. I am sure there were some young ladies like that in Scotland.”

Isobel pretended not to notice the whispers of the other ladies. Eliza stuck firmly to her side, defiant and with a smile that lit up her entire face.

“A few,” Isobel said carefully.

Her mind flashed back to the girl she had found under Lord Moreton, trapped against the wall, fighting to be freed.

She hadn’t been stuck up or conceited, and she had done nothing to encourage the young man to take advantage—although that would not have mattered even if she had behaved in such a way.

“Tell me a little more about Scotland,” Eliza said, turning to face her. “Do you miss it?”

“A little,” Isobel admitted. “It’s—beautiful.

Where I live has so many mountains and lochs and, yes, crofters with their sheep, but it is more than that.

” She moved her hands as she explained, trying to find the words.

“It’s like here in England, the land is sleeping.

In Scotland, it is awake. Everything is raw, immediate.

England is so…” She pulled a face. “Refined.”

Eliza laughed. “Here, we pride ourselves on our refinement.”

“And if it’s what ye love, then it is perfect. But I like something a bit wilder.”

“Like you.”

She grinned. “Aye, I suppose, a little. Although I do not think it is a compliment for yer English lords.”

“They don’t know what they’re missing. And several of them aren’t looking to marry yet, you know, which makes it harder to know who to target.”

“Courting is like that here too, huh?”

“It’s all a game,” Eliza said, fanning herself, blonde curls fluttering.

“And it’s all about who you know. For example, I am perceived as a catch because I have connections to the Duke of Somerset—even if my mother is not from particularly good birth.

She married up.” She pointed at the ceiling with a wry smile.

“It is why she’s so nervous about my reputation. ”

“Because her hold on respectability is so tenuous?” Isobel guessed.

“Exactly! And she thinks I am a hoyden. She loves me,” Eliza added with a giggle, “and Adrian thinks she indulges me too much. But she also scolds me for my behavior. She thinks I will never secure myself a husband.”

“Do ye not want to?”

“Oh yes, I suppose it is inevitable, is it not? But there are other things that intrigue me about life. Mama gives me everything I could want, and I have Adrian, who is good enough to drive me in his curricle sometimes. I want for nothing, and a husband might ruin that. If I fall in love…” She shrugged elegantly.

“Of course, then it would be a different story. But so far, I have not been disposed to love any young gentleman who has flirted with me—and in my opinion, they are not after marriage, anyway.”

“Anyone would think ye had been on the marriage mart for years,” Isobel said admiringly.

She had tasted a little society in Scotland, but she had little enough experience, particularly because her first Season had resulted in her being shipped down to London to find an English husband at the first available moment.

And currently, she was not feeling especially successful.

“Ye are twenty,” she said to Eliza. “Do ye not feel as though it is time.”

“Miss Arabella Wentworth is one-and-twenty and quite doted on by all the gentlemen. I have heard she has had four offers of marriage this year alone. I think I have nothing to worry about.”

Isobel looked over at the lady in question. She was a tall, plump lady with rosy cheeks and flashing dark eyes. She looked a little like a Spanish bride, a trifle exotic, and with that deep beauty that Isobel knew attracted gentlemen. Very different from her freckles and red hair.

As though summoned, Miss Wentworth glanced over at them. One perfectly arched brow rose, and she detached herself from her group and glided over to them.

“Lady Eliza,” she said, inclining her head regally. “And who is your friend?”

“Lady Isobel MacAlister.”

“Ah, a Scot.” The other brow arched to join the first, and this lady, this paragon of English Society, looked at Isobel as though she was mud on her shoe. “I’d heard rumors.”

“It seems everyone has,” Isobel said tartly.

“A sharp tongue, too,” Miss Wentworth mused. “That is not becoming.”

“And it is your place to dictate such things?”

“I like to keep an eye on the young ladies, yes.” Miss Wentworth gave a sweet, poisonous smile. “You have caused quite a stir.”

“I hardly see how,” Isobel said. “I have barely spoken to anyone here.”

“It’s not that alone. I have heard that you are staying with the Duke of Somerset without a chaperone.” She clicked her tongue. “Positively shocking .”

“What are you saying about my cousin?” Eliza demanded, her expressive eyes flashing. “I can assure you there is nothing untoward going on there. She is merely awaiting the duchess’s return. Where else is she supposed to stay, pray? It is not her fault she arrived at precisely the worst time.”

“No unmarried young lady ought to be staying in an unmarried gentleman’s house without a chaperone,” Miss Wentworth said. “Regardless of the gentleman in question.”

“My maid is here.”

“Well, the ton hardly knows that, do they? And do you think they’ll believe that you do have one?”

“I suppose you had rather he tossed me out on the streets, then?” Isobel said.

“That sounds rather drastic . I am sure there was another solution.”

“I came to his house to look for his maither,” Isobel said, remembering the words the duke himself had said.

Although he had made it abundantly obvious that he mistrusted her, he also felt a level of responsibility.

She refused to think about why that sent a bolt of warmth through her. She did not trust him, either. A man with such an iron grip on control except when he was confronting her about her purpose was not one she could wholly trust.

But she would never admit that to either Eliza or Miss Wentworth. For her sake, as well as theirs, she had to pretend as though the duke was everything she could have hoped for in a host.

“I am perfectly contented with my living situation,” she said, daring the other lady to contradict her. “And I do not feel as though my reputation has been compromised.”

“My cousin has done everything that is proper, as has Lady Isobel,” Eliza cut in. “And she is my friend.”

Miss Wentworth lifted her nose. “Well then,” she said, a sneer in her voice. “I suppose with that, I must be contented.”

Isobel stared after her with the gnawing feeling of anxiety in her stomach. That had not gone well.

But before she could speak about it with Eliza, who was still bristling beside her, they were approached by more gentlemen. These ones did not seem so tempted to deride Isobel’s heritage, and they spent the remainder of the evening pleasantly enough.

“Well?” Eliza asked as they climbed back in the carriage that would take them back to the duke’s house. Isobel had not seen him for several hours and could only assume he had returned early. “What did you think?”

Isobel toyed with an auburn curl. “I am not so sure it went well.”

“Nonsense! You talked with several gentlemen and you made a stir, I assure you. Besides, that was only the first evening. By the time you have been seen out with me and the duchess, when she returns, you will be firmly considered one of the Season’s most desirable.”

Isobel snorted. “I would settle for a gentleman prepared to propose.”

“Do you not want to fall in love?”

She thought of Lord Moreton with a stab of anxiety. She didn’t have the luxury of time and certainly not the luxury of falling in love.

“That has never been a goal of mine,” she said with enough confidence that she almost could have convinced herself she was telling the truth. “A husband, reputable and reasonably kind, is enough for me.”

Eliza looked at her curiously, but their friendship was new enough that she merely said, “Well, I am certain you will have no problem with securing one, if that is your wish.”

Isobel felt far less certain.

Her head ached as she walked inside the duke’s house, impressed once again with its size and spaciousness.

This was a home designed, at least in part, to be ostentatious, and she felt small as she shed her cloak and lit a candle to find her way to the stairs, and up to her bedchamber.

Before she reached it, however, a figure emerged from the darkness. She started backward, pressing a hand against her heart.

“Yer Grace,” she said, her heart thumping against her chest. “I wasn’t expecting to find ye here.”

In the faint light of her candle, he appeared more crafted of shadow than of flesh and blood.

His gaze traveled across her before climbing its way back to her face. “I wanted to ensure Eliza dropped you back in one piece,” he said.

“I am whole, as you can see.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Her back stiffened. No was the honest answer, except for the moments when she had conversed with Eliza, but she wasn’t prepared to admit such a thing to the duke.

“I did,” she said.

“Really?” He stepped closer, his head tilted, looking down at her with those deep, dark eyes.

She felt as though she could fall into them and never escape. Her hand shook around the candle, resisting the urge to lift it higher to see if his mouth looked as soft against the hard lines as she thought.

“Really,” she said.

“Tell me something. Why are you so eager to marry an English lord? Why not a Scotsman?”

If she told him the entire truth—would he believe her? Or would he think she was covering for herself or complicit in Lord Moreton’s actions? Would he even contact the lord himself to request a version of events?

Her blood chilled at the thought. She would not tell the truth. And the duke was certainly a man to listen to everyone but her—he had already proven as much.

“Well?” he prompted, his voice still soft.

“I hardly see how that is yer concern, Yer Grace.”

“I disagree.”