Page 27 of Claimed by Her Forbidden Duke (Forbidden Lords #6)

Chapter Two

“Y ou may leave us, Johnson,” the duke said, his voice reminding her of the chill wind from the moors, brushing her with fingers of frost.

Isobel MacAlister stared at the Duke of Somerset with some interest, chewing her lip as she took him in. All the many, many inches of him.

When she had been dispatched on this task, she had not known how very tall he would be. Or as wide. His arms were folded, which drew attention to his bulging biceps—his arms far more muscular than she thought befitting of an indolent lord.

Then again, nothing about his face reminded her of indolence. His eyes were hard, blue as the sky—or perhaps the sea—and the lines of his face were equally so. Perfect in composition, but without the softness that might come from friendliness or humor. The only point of softness came from his mouth.

Stop looking at his mouth, Isobel .

There was no point thinking that he was an admirable specimen of a man; she was not here for that.

The butler sent her a scandalized glance, and she returned it with a sweet smile. “Are you certain, Your Grace?”

“I am.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” With one final glower at her, the servant left and the door clicked behind them.

It occurred to Isobel for the first time that she was a girl in the company—exclusive company—of a gentleman who looked as though he ate young ladies for breakfast. Cold, cruel, indifferent.

“Yer Grace,” she said, sinking into a curtsy that she could feel was a little too mocking. Whoops. “I am here on me maither’s instructions. Where is the Duchess of Somerset?”

He advanced a few steps. “I won’t ask again. Who are you?”

Isobel kept her chin high, doing her best not to look intimidated by his proximity. “I’m a MacAlister. Me maither is a friend of yers. Where is the duchess?”

“A MacAlister?” He arched an arrogant brow. “Am I supposed to know the name?”

“Well, yer maither certainly does,” she said tartly. “I’ve been sent to stay with her.”

“Stay with my mother,” he repeated.

“Yes. Me maither sent me to stay with the duchess, and I fully intend to see that through. Where is she? I guarantee she will know me maither.”

“And who might your mother be?”

Isobel thought she did an excellent job of not rolling her eyes. He might be a duke, but that didn’t stop him from being a man, and a stubborn one at that.

“Catherine MacAlister. Countess of Glenrannoch.”

“Countess?” That dark brow arched high. “Forgive me—ah, my lady—but I know of no Countess of Glenrannoch. I’m not even sure Glenrannoch is a place.”

“Then perhaps ye ought to spend more time with maps,” she said tartly.

“You are impertinent.”

“And ye are blocking my attempts to fulfill me duty.”

“ Your duty?” He retreated back behind his desk, strolling with infuriating calm. “And have you given any thought as to why I might be obstructing said duty?”

She had plenty of ideas, but she fancied he might think them even more impertinent. This was not the first time a gentleman had said as much, although she disliked the term. That implied that she had nothing better to do than offer a gentleman politeness when he did not offer her the same respect.

With a chill down her spine, she thought of the Marquess of Moreton, and forced him from her mind. Under the Duchess of Somerset’s protection, she would be safe.

“I think ye’re being unnecessarily cautious,” she said, deciding that was the nicest term she could find for him.

“Unnecessarily? Consider my position, if you will.” He paused, nostrils flaring in irritation.

The thought that she, too, was getting under his skin brought her a reasonable degree of satisfaction.

“You are a strange lady; you have forcibly entered my study. Not to mention that you are a Scot, and with a family name I do not know. You claim to know my mother, but you have no real connection to her—if you did, I would have met you before now. And yet I do not know. Why, under these circumstances, would I offer her whereabouts to you?”

Insufferably cold , she thought.

Aloud, she said, “So Her Grace isn’t here?”

Surprise crossed his face, along with a darkening of anger. No doubt he had thought to use logic to whittle her into submission, but she was not so easily cowed, and especially not when faced with such an appalling lack of politeness.

“I have a letter,” she said, withdrawing it from her reticule and handing it to him. His mother’s name was on the front. “That should explain everything.”

He barely glanced at the missive. “I am not in the habit of reading my mother’s correspondence.”

Her face heated with anger as she glared at him. “So ye will not accept my word at face value, ye will not provide me with your maither’s location so she can read the letter, and ye will not read the evidence that what I say is the truth? What, then, am I to do in this situation?”

Rain splattered against the window as the silence between them grew.

His brows had descended low over his eyes, and she felt pinned in place by the force of his glare. Although she was not easily cowed, there was something hard about his eyes she had never seen before. Not the menace she had seen in certain other gentlemen’s eyes, but unyielding all the same, like if she pitted herself against it, she might find herself shattering before he crumbled.

Not a feeling she was used to, not by a long way.

“Where did you used to live?”

“Scotland,” she said, folding her arms.

Was that not obvious from her accent—he had even commented about her being a Scot.

Well identified, Your Grace .

“Where is your maither located? I assumed she would be in Somerset House. But is there a dower house?” she asked.

“How does your mother know mine?”

“They were close when they were younger.” Isobel raised a shoulder. “I believe it was before me time.”

“And she told you nothing?” he asked skeptically, moving closer.

“I believe that matter is between them.” She raised her chin. “If ye have never heard of me maither’s name, why would ye know of what occurred between them? Why are ye expecting information from me, when ye are so unwilling to provide any in return?”

His jaw snapped close and he leaned in closer, eyes diamond-hard on hers. He smelled of soap and leather and another scent she had not been expecting—something that reminded her of wild moorland nights, with the wind blowing scudding clouds across the moon.

Wild. Untamed. Raw.

She refused to step back, meeting him glare for glare.

“You are the one who infiltrated my personal space,” he said, his breath ghosting across her face.

“Ye say that now, when ye are doing the same to me?”

He blinked. Awareness crossed his face, moonlight across a plane of glass, and he stepped back.

Outside, the storm raged. Her heart pounded.

“All I wish is to see yer maither,” she pleaded. “Once she reads the letter from me maither, she will understand, and I know she will allow me to stay with her. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience ye in the slightest.”

“Alas, I think it is too late for that.” His eyes had shifted back from the heat of rage to a coldness that disarmed her. “You should leave.”

Thunder boomed, echoing around the study. She had no carriage and nowhere else to go. But the way he looked at her told her that he cared nothing for her predicament. No doubt he thought it was on her for coming all this way.

A week straight of traveling, all for this arrogant duke to toss her from his home as though she was a harlot.

When she didn’t immediately move, he strode past her and jerked the door open.

Two maids almost toppled into the room, practically falling over themselves to escape the duke’s wrath. The same butler who had tried to usher her from the house when she’d first arrived stood behind them.

“I—Is there s—something you need, Y—Your Grace?” he stammered, his face red with embarrassment upon being caught eavesdropping.

“Yes,” the duke said, his eyes momentarily flashing with annoyance before his gaze returned to Isobel. “Please show this lady from the premises.” He inclined his head. “Goodnight.”

“That’s all ye have to say?” she demanded. “A cold goodnight as ye turn me from your house into the storm?” She tightened her hands around the letter. “Very well, ye will not see me again, no doubt.”

“Your Grace,” one of the maids began. “The storm?—”

“Lady Isobel is from Scotland.” He gave an icy smile. “No doubt this is a mere drizzle for her.”

“Ach, what would ye know about Scottish weather?” She bobbed a curtsy. “ Fear coisrigte . Goodnight, Your Grace.”

A rattling sound came from outside, a crashing that sounded as though something had connected with the door. The wind howled with a sound that resembled the howl of wild dogs. Or perhaps a wolf—Isobel had never seen one, but she had heard tales of their mournful cries.

The duke’s jaw tightened.

“Your Grace,” the maid whispered. “It’s far too dangerous, especially for a lady.”

The way the duke looked at her suggested he thought little enough of her, certainly not that she was a lady. But after a moment, he pinched his nose.

“You played your hand well, Lady Isobel,” he said, his voice clipped. “It seems it would be impossible to turn you from my home now.”

“Not in the slightest,” she said in return. “In fact, I will be going now.”

“Make up a room,” he instructed one of the maids. “And inform Mrs. Hodge we have a guest. Presumably, my lady, you came alone, with no maid of your own?”

Her lips pinched. “As it happens, I do have a maid,” she retorted. “I believe she is in the kitchens.”

“So, you are not wholly lost to propriety,” he muttered. “Mrs. Hodge will find her a place to sleep for the night.”

Isobel opened her mouth to protest further, but after some thought, closed it again, and nodded.

“Ye are very kind, sir,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I hope I never have reason to be considered so again,” he said, and although she suspected it had not been a joke, she wondered if his comment hinted at a previously undisclosed sense of humor.

She passed the letter to him; he accepted it more out of surprise than anything else.

“There,” she said. “Better ye have it than me. Ye, at least, can pass it to its intended recipient. Given that I do not know her location, I cannot.”

Those dangerous eyes glittered at her. His nostrils flared, and she had the sense that he was holding himself in restraint. His fingers tightened around the paper.

“Now that our business is completed, my lady, be so good as to get out of my study.”