Page 78 of Her Beast of a Duke

There was enough exposure in his own voice to match hers that she suddenly didn’t feel so unraveled and peeled apart.

Isabella wished to cross the table and kiss him, but she rather enjoyed simply speaking with him. It was so rare that he let her linger in conversation with him, and she didn’t want to risk losing this moment.

“How about you?” she inquired. “When it rains, and you cannot go out to exercise, or walk Morris as far, what do you do?”

“I work. I read ledgers, sign contracts, and send letters.”

“How terriblyboring,” she joked. “You should get a hobby.”

At that, Oscar gave a delightful bark of laughter that rang with surprise. “Heavens, you are bold. I have hobbies; I just do not let myself indulge in them. Like you, I wore masks and enacted performances for the pleasure of my parents.”

He frowned and pursed his lips, as though annoyed with himself for letting something like that slip from his mouth.

“Tell me,” she requested softly.

He eyed her carefully for a moment, then his features softened.

“Everything I did was based on their approval,” he confessed, “so I learned to simply be that shell they needed to fill with instruction rather than my own favorite things.”

“Like sugar,” she guessed.

“Like sugar,” he affirmed with a tiny, amused smirk. “And like painting, although I am terrible at it. And I—” he stopped before laughing once at himself, a self-deprecating sound. “I enjoy playing the pianoforte, which I am not very good at either. But I do have a secret talent.”

Isabella leaned in, interested. “Do tell me.”

“I enjoy translating books,” he told her.

“What?” she smiled.

“Have you ever come across the leather-bound books in the library near the far-right corner? They are full of Greek, French, and Latin translations that I’ve done. Poetry, essays, research notes. I started doing it at Cambridge, where I met Edmund. I always did his translation work if he needed it.”

Isabella’s mouth parted in wonder. “I did not expect that.”

“Sometimes there is beauty in the world that eyes do not see, and the English language cannot convey enough. An original text can be more poetic than others realize, and I grew hungry to learn it all.”

“So, you are a linguist, too?”

“On pourrait dire que,” he told her, and the sound of French on his rough tongue made Isabellaburn.

Her eyes grew heavy as she gazed at him.

One could say that, he’d just said. Her French was passable, but she understood it brokenly enough.

“Are there any other secrets about the notorious Duke of Rochdale?”

“None.” He was too quick to say, but there was a knowing smirk on his lips. “But… a secret is that as much as I hate the nickname thetonhas given me, I also resent that I understand it. I do punch first, and think second, but I’ve always been a fighter, as I told you. My instincts are protective, and for me, that is often best delivered by eradicating the threat by putting them down. Iambeastly, am I not?”

“A hero is a hero, no matter his methods.”

“Hero.” He twisted the word into something that sounded terrible, but Isabella wanted him to know how she felt.

“You saved me, Oscar,” she murmured. “You took me from my scandals, from my family, from the pressures that were crushing me. You have given me freedom.”

“I gave you locked doors.” His voice turned flatter, and she feared she was losing his openness.

“Once,” she allowed. “Yes. But you are unlocking them withme, not for me, butwithme. That means a lot more than you realize.You are allowed your locked doors, and I pushed too hard at the start when heaven knows I have my own, too. But as long as you are willing to let me take your hand as we unlock them together, then I am content.”

Silence fell between them. After a long minute, Oscar sighed, looking at her, agonized. “You truly think I am your hero?”