Page 28 of Claimed by Her Forbidden Duke (Forbidden Lords #6)

“Never you mind His Grace,” Mrs. Hodge turned out to be a friendly, middle-aged woman, a belt around her thick waist with keys that jangled with every step as she showed Isobel up the stairs.

The house was certainly very grand, far more so than her mother’s home in the Highlands, for all, her mother was a countess, and she had grown up privileged.

“He can be a little short-tempered at times,” the housekeeper continued.

Isobel bit her lip before she could say something like a little?

“But he has a good heart underneath it all.”

“I’ve never seen evidence of it,” a younger maid whispered. “He has always had a temper, though.”

Isobel remembered the way he had loomed over her, the darkness in his eyes. She hadn’t been afraid he would hurt her, but he had certainly not been in control of his temper. Rather, it seemed as though his temper had briefly taken hold of him.

“We’ll get you settled,” Mrs. Hodge said, leading her to a small, well-appointed room on the second floor of the tall townhouse. Two maids were turning down the bed, which had been freshly made. “Don’t you worry.” She clucked her tongue. “Imagine, a mite like you in a storm like that.”

“I have seen worse,” Isobel admitted. “In Scotland.”

“Not from outside, I doubt.”

“Aye, well, no.” She had always been by the window, staring out into the dark night, captivated by the flashes of lightning and thunder that had split the world in two.

London was a very different place even from Edinburgh, the sheer size of it overwhelming.

Not that she was here to mope, she reminded herself. And at least she had not been turned out into the storm. She wouldn’t have worried so much for herself, but it would be cruel to poor Jane, who had endured the journey with her.

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Mrs. Hodge asked. “Have you eaten? I could send up a tray.”

“Thank you, I would truly appreciate that.”

“And some warm milk,” the motherly housekeeper said. “We’ll soon get the color back in your cheeks.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hodge. My maid,” she said. “Jane. Can ye find her a room or a bed somewhere?”

“Of course we can,” Mrs. Hodge said. “Never you worry. We’ll get her sorted, and when you ring to change for bed, she’ll come to look after you.”

After clucking around for a few more moments, Mrs. Hodge left the room, closing the door behind her.

Isobel crossed to the large bed and slumped across it.

Well, that has been… eventful.

She’d not thought that coming to London would be so fraught with…

Him. The man preventing her from speaking with the one woman who could protect her.

Not to mention how cold and arrogant he was. Infuriating.

And handsome.

She dismissed that thought almost immediately.

This man had denied her the one thing she had wanted—the thing she had traveled across the entirety of England for. She would not find him attractive, and she would not allow him to stand in the way of her and her freedom.

* * *

Adrian stared at the note she had handed him. Sure enough, it did have his mother’s name on it, though no place of residence.

Of course, this was her place of residence, but she would not be back for quite some time. He tapped the letter against the desk, briefly considering opening it. To do so would be to go against his principles, but it would certainly clear up this particular issue.

Then again, what right did she have to provoke him into ignoring his principles? This—she—was merely a distraction. A lusciously curvy attraction with the sorts of lips men dreamed about. But that, too, would not do; he would not allow her such a passage into his mind.

At the knock on the door, he looked up. “Enter.”

“Your Grace.” Mrs. Hodge stepped inside and curtsied. “Lady Isobel is secure in her room. I was wondering about your plans for dinner.”

He glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Usually, he asked for a tray in his study so he could eat as he worked. But today, he had a guest. And if he wanted to know a little more about her, a dinner would be an ideal setting. Perhaps, if he reined in his temper, she might open up to him a little more. Perhaps he could coax the truth from her.

He was also drearily reminded of his duty. When he had a guest, it was his responsibility to see to her comfort.

“I will take dinner in the dining hall,” he said. “Inform Lady Isobel that she is invited to dinner.”

“She requested a tray in her room.”

He gritted his teeth. “Well, impress upon her how eager I am for the honor of her company.”

Mrs. Hodge curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.”

Adrian turned his attention back to his work, setting Lady Isobel’s letter aside. He even managed to put her from his mind for a period of an hour, until a summons brought him to the dining room.

To his relief, he found Lady Isobel waiting for him in a fresh dress, her hair combed and her curls riotous around her face.

Another bolt of lust passed through him at the lower dip of her neckline and the tantalizing swell of her breasts beneath. If they had met in a more conventional way, perhaps he might even have been interested in her.

“Lady Isobel,” he said, and she raised wary eyes to his face. “I’m glad you decided to join me.”

She licked her lips, and his gaze dropped to them before he forced his eyes away. “I understood ye required me presence.”

“I thought it might be a good opportunity to smooth over the unfortunate way we met.” Adrian gestured for her to take a seat, sitting opposite. “I regret that I lost my temper. How do you find your room?”

“Perfectly pleasant, thank ye.” Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the footmen along the wall and the butler calmly serving them both. “Your staff are very kind.”

He experienced a brief rise of irritation that he tamped. “Yes, I am pleased with their service.” He held his glass out for Johnson to pour his wine; he would be needing plenty of it. “The storm is one of the worst I have seen in quite some time.”

Her eyes flashed as though she was remembering the way he had almost forced her out into it, but she merely said, “Indeed.”

“You must have traveled for some time to reach London.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Over a week.”

“Then you must be tired.”

Her brows pinched in suspicion. “A little.”

“What brought you on such a journey? And alone?”

“I was not alone. I brought my maid, and a footman left with me maither’s carriage to return home. When I came here, I was certain that your maither would receive me.”

“My point still remains.”

She raised her chin in a gesture he was beginning to find familiar. “The letter to the duchess will explain everything.”

“If the matter was urgent enough, I wonder why your mother did not apply to me instead of my mother.” He leaned in. “What are you really after, Lady Isobel? I find it hard to believe that you came here merely to see my mother.”

Her nostrils flared. Anger bloomed in her eyes like fireworks, and he briefly reflected that she had never looked so beautiful as when she was angry.

“I apologize for me directness, but ye are being rude, Your Grace,” she said, taking a bite of her meal and rendering him temporarily speechless. “I appreciate that ye are displeased that I came here, but I provided ye proof of my intentions, and I came here with the thought that I would find the duchess here. If she were here, this conversation would not be happening. Ye are being unwelcoming, sir.”

Adrian placed his knife on the table with a precise thunk . “In a position like mine, caution is necessary and trust is a luxury. One I do not afford to strangers.”

“Well, I suppose that explains why ye are here alone,” she snapped.

He sat back, once again shocked out of speech. Her fingers curled around her fork as though she was imagining plunging it into his skin. The wild burst of her anger had shocked him, and the violence simmering under his skin acted both as red before a bull, and an aphrodisiac.

She watched him with hooded eyes as he rose from his seat, planting his hands on the table and leaning across it to where she sat.

“You must think a lot of yourself,” he murmured, and she raised her gaze to meet his. There was no fear in her eyes but wariness and intrigue, and he paused long enough to lick his lips before continuing. “Speaking to me as you did.”

“Am I to think it a mistake?”

Thunder rolled through the room, and that full mouth of hers pinned into a hard, flat line. He did not ease up. Charm had failed—perhaps he could intimidate her into giving him the answers he sought.

This was not the average simpering miss he had encountered in drawing rooms—she was a feral child of the moors, with flashing eyes and a stubborn chin, determined not to be afraid of him.

The challenge struck him as delicious.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice low, almost lost to the storm. “You are very much to think it a mistake. You are wholly in my power, and I am a duke. Who are you? What is your power here?”

“I am a guest of yers, and the daughter of yer maither’s friend.” She didn’t flinch from him.

“Then I recommend you hold your tongue.”

“Or what?” she breathed, curiosity mingling with the outrage in her eyes. “What will yer punishment be?”

For an instant, he saw the way she might look splayed before him, taking his punishment the way he wanted her to. Whimpering in pain and pleasure, just like the way she looked at him now with curiosity and dislike.

If he took her as a lover—which he had no intention of doing—then she would prove a challenge. Dominating her would be no easy feat, and yet her submission would taste all the sweeter for her defiance.

“What will I do?” He toyed with the words, tasting them on his tongue, and a faint blush touched her cheeks, although he would have bet money that she didn’t know why she had blushed. “Why, Lady Isobel, I would make you beg.”

She pushed her chair back abruptly, shoving away from him and the table.

“I’m returning to my room,” she said, her voice chilly again. “I won’t stand being treated like this.”

He rose, too, blocking the doorway to the room. “This is hardly the behavior of a lady.”

“Ye are hardly behaving like a host,” she retorted, stepping closer into his space. “And given yer status, is that not more of a crime?”

“I don’t know. You are the one who barged into my home under who knows what pretense.”

Her chest brushed his as he towered over her, but still, she did not break or move away.

Distantly, he knew he was behaving like a brute, but she didn’t present like a lady, and he had the thrill of knowing that she also enjoyed this. She wanted his proximity, or she wouldn’t have stepped so close to him.

A lady, shrinking and nervous, would never have allowed herself to be so close. She would have tittered and stuttered and found excuses to leave.

Instead, she jabbed a finger against his chest. “Is it not the policy of the law to believe someone innocent before proven guilty?”

“You have a desire for me to find you guilty?”

She tilted her head, a smile ghosting across her lips. “I challenge ye too—ye will not succeed.”

“What unbecoming confidence, Lady Isobel. Or is that truly your name?”

“Och!” The exclamation, heavy with her accent, surprised him.

She never gave him leave to forget she was a Scot—every word that came out of her mouth confirmed it—but the sheer guttural nature of that sound briefly quieted him.

“Och?” he inquired.

“Have ye no sense of decorum? As though I would lie to ye about the only thing that confirms my story. Ye will understand when ye speak to me maither instead of confronting me with lies that aren’t mine.”

More color leaped into her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with anger. Her finger still pressed against his chest, so he wrapped his hand around it, holding her gently despite his irritation.

Gods, but she had gotten under his skin so quickly. He did not know how he could have allowed such a thing to happen, and yet he didn’t want to stop this argument. It was a bright spot across a dark canvas, a moment of color and vitality amongst dead weeds.

He looked down to where her pale hand was almost encompassed by his large one, the callouses on his fingers from fencing rough against her soft skin. Whatever else she claimed, she was a lady; her hands would have given her away if she wasn’t.

Her breath hitched as she also looked down. The tension between them snapped.

His sense of reason catapulted back into place, and he dropped her hand.

A bright spot indeed—he had gone too far. She was nothing to him, and he ought to remember that.

“Tell me how your mother knows mine,” he demanded. “And what occurred to have her send you all the way down to London from the back of beyond, without her accompanying you.”

“Perhaps if ye were to direct me to yer maither, we would not need to have this conversation.”

“Enough! I will not be dismissed. You will answer me, and you will tell the truth.”

“I will not cow to yer demands,” she snapped back. “I have dealt with English lords before.”

He raised a brow. “Oh?”

Her mouth snapped shut, and not for the first time, he wondered what was in the insufferable note to his mother. If she was who she said she was, something serious must have happened, but he could not think of anything.

Surely, if she was disgraced and with child, her mother would not send her to a duchess to sponsor.

He stepped back. Space—if he had some space between them, he would be able to think clearly. She had a talent for getting under his skin, that much was evident, but he was not a man ruled by his desires, and he would not start now.

“I see,” he said, cold and distant once more. As he should have been from the beginning. “In which case, I will bid you goodnight. I hope you find the accommodation to your taste. And tomorrow, I expect you to have some answers for me.”

She raised her chin, eyes flashing. “Well, I expect ye to have found some manners before I leave.”