Page 41 of Her Beast of a Duke

“I think he berated him, too,” another lady murmured, and Oscar stiffened.

“No, hehelped him,” one lord sneered. “And that is far worse. A duke should never stoop so low; however, what can we expect from the Beast of Rochdale?”

Oscar’s head snapped to glare at the lord, a young man who was clearly trying to curry favor, as he had actually only inherited his title some weeks ago. His comment got the desired reaction of a ripple of appreciative laughter.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the footman said, bowing. “Thank you endlessly. I know that I do not deserve your assistance, but I am grateful for it.”

“You need not thank me,” Oscar muttered, turning away. “Now, do as I suggested, and get yourself away from the prying eyes.”

At least you can, he thought privately.

The footman hurried away, the wine was cleared up, and the guests soon returned to their own conversations.

For a moment, Oscar met Isabella’s eyes. She was still in her position, halfway across the garden toward him.

Behind her, the friend with the keen gaze trailed after her.

Isabella watched as her husband helped the footman up, bending his head close to say something quietly to the man.

After a minute, the footman began to bow his gratitude, and, although the crowd began to whisper about the commotion—and also her husband—Isabella noticed how quickly they returned to their own entertainment.

“Did you see how he lorded over that poor footman?” Lady Miriam commented. “Goodness, one would run so fast away from His Grace. It is a wonder he is any help at all if that is how he approaches people. Do you truly not fear him, Your Grace?”

“I truly do not, Lady Miriam,” Isabella answered, her patience finally snapping. “Nor do I appreciate your form of apology. You may take it back, and quite honestly, you can keep it for good. I have no need of your friendship.”

With that, she walked away, for she had seen how her husband had helped the man, and she had seen how his face had softenedwhile he spoke. He had done something good, and yet people still found terrible angles from which to view his deeds.

Approaching her husband, Isabella nodded to Lord Harcross, who gave her a slow, knowing smile that emerged into a full-on grin. It spoke of conversations Isabella had not heard, but said enough that they may have been at Oscar’s expense.

“Oscar.” Isabella kept her voice low. “May we depart now?”

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. Despite his answer directed at her, his eyes remained on their surroundings, his scowl deepening at the lack of empathy anybody at the garden party possessed. “Let us go.”

To Isabella’s surprise, he moved to brush his hand against the small of her back, as if to guide her, but he stopped himself at the last moment, dropping his hand.

As they left, Isabella swore she heard Lord Harcross laugh.

Chapter Nine

The following day, Oscar was once again thinking of inviting Isabella to dine with him that night.

He poked his head into the drawing room.

And he found Isabella, whose face was pale.

“Is there something the matter?” he asked her.

She nodded, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she entered the room further. “My… my parents are here.”

Oscar’s body went rigid right as the butler appeared behind Isabella. “Lord and Lady Wickleby have arrived, Your Grace. Am I to see them in here?”

Oscar looked at Isabella. He did not like the thought of having guests in his home, especially not the Wicklebys, but at hiswife’s discreet nod, he gave in. The last time he had seen her parents was at their wedding, and none of them had been big on congratulations.

He still recalled their horrid words from the balcony the night of Edmund’s ball. They were the very last people Oscar wanted to invite into his home, but he sighed, beckoning Isabella closer.

“See them in,” he ordered. “And send for tea. We are going to need it.”

“Lots of it,” Isabella muttered.