Page 16 of Her Beast of a Duke

“So, you do not think I am a beast like the rest of theton?”

It wasn’t an insecure question, but more of a mocking thing that Isabella didn’t know how to answer.

“Thetonsays many things,” she answered instead. “And you are not afraid to speak back to the people here so bluntly. How contrary for a man who seems to enjoy lingering in the shadows.”

He gave an almost smile; it was not genuine, nor soft, but again, another mockery. “A reputation for being a beast is hardly a scandal. I own estates. I run businesses. I protect what is mine. I cannot silence what they whisper about me, but I ensure they cannot touch my holdings or those under my charge.”

“And is that what I am now?” she asked cautiously. “A holding?”

“You are… a variable I had not anticipated. Regardless, you are under my protection now. How you feel about that is yours to reckon with.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she let herself focus on the dance.

Her mother had hired a tutor for her and Hermia from the moment they could walk, ensuring she knew her steps, but there was nothing like the way she moved with someone who matched her skill, someone who seemed to anticipate her every motion.

The Duke’s hands closed around hers, firm but unexpectedly tender, guiding her across the floor with a precision that left no room for error. Each step pressed them closer than propriety allowed; the heat of him against her and the strength in his grip made her pulse race.

For a heartbeat, the ballroom vanished. There was no music or onlookers—only the press of his body, the taut muscles beneath his sleeve, and the dark intensity of his gaze.

Her eyes sought his, searching for a hint of softness, a sign he might look away.

He did not.

Instead, his dark gaze held her, unwavering, almost demanding. Every turn, every near-collision of hands and waist, sent a ripple of awareness through her.

Her chest tightened. Her breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, and yet she could not look away. Each movement was a conversation unspoken, each step a test of control neither wanted to break.

When the music finally ended, it felt cruel—a cruel interruption. He released her, stepping back, but the air between them still thrummed with the heat of proximity. Isabella’s pulse pounded, her skin tingling, and she knew, with a quiet certainty, that this was no ordinary encounter.

Quietly, he spoke, low and deliberate. “Lady Isabella, I will secure a special license. We will hasten this arrangement and put an end to any further trouble. Leave the preparations to me.”

He cast a sharp glance over her dress, his gaze assessing, possessive. She couldn’t help but wonder if her wedding gown would resemble the ruined one from her first failed attempt.

Somehow, she knew it would not matter; he would see to it that everything, including her, was claimed properly.

She thought she saw him mouthivoryto himself, the color of her ball gown.

“Very well,” she answered.

The Duke of Rochdale inclined his head sharply and deliberately. “I will see you at the altar. I will not keep you waiting.”

Before she could even process that he knew of her previous ordeal with Lord Stanton, the Duke turned and strode away. Every step he took was measured. And while her betrothed stalked away, Isabella was left frozen, staring after him with her heart hammering.

Chapter Four

“Hermia, darling!” Isabella’s mother’s voice rang out right as Hermia entered the music room, where Isabella was trying to play the pianoforte.

The music had been serving as a distraction from everything that had happened the night before, but upon her sister’s arrival, she knew it would all be pulled back up.

“Mama.” Hermia nodded at their mother.

Things between them were still repairing, although the fact that Hermia was carrying the first grandchild had moved her further into their parents’ favor.

“Father.”

Hermia finally looked toward Isabella, her brows pulling in both empathy and concern. “Isabella.”

“Sister,” she greeted warmly. “I did not know you were visiting today.”