Page 46 of His Stolen Duchess (Stolen by the Duke #7)

“ Bonnie, is she nae?” The soft voice drifted from the shadows, breaking Elizabeth’s reverie.

She froze.

The hidden gallery had been still and quiet like a cathedral without the crowd, and it had become her sanctuary from Lady Grisham and the suffocating ballroom.

She hadn’t meant to enter the gallery; she only wanted to escape the noise and pressure. But once inside, the paintings drew her in, shifting from shock to curiosity, and then to something deeper: longing .

She had tried to dismiss the feeling, yet it lingered. The ballroom had been heavy, tight, but here, amid the molten colors and vivid passion, she felt something she had never dared to admit out loud.

These paintings were alive, filled with yearning and desire, far from the stiff portraits of powdered nobles she’d been raised to respect. Here, the women reached, seduced, and claimed their pleasures without apology.

Yet her peace had been broken by that masculine voice. A deep, velvety, riveting masculine voice, like a bow passing over cello strings.

Elizabeth turned to see a figure in the dimly lit corridor.

The man leaned against the arched entrance of the inner gallery, half cloaked in shadow. He was impossibly tall—easily over six feet—tall as her brother-in-law, the Duke of Oakmere.

For a fleeting moment, Elizabeth’s mind stuttered, conjuring images of Highland granite. Solid, unyielding, and pure muscle.

Then, he offered a sardonic smile, as if kindness was a stranger to him. His russet hair was tousled and wild, falling freely over his forehead and ears.

“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth breathed, mortified not only at being caught admiring a scandalous painting, but also by her breathlessness and rising blush.

She imagined her cheeks glowing crimson, even in the semi-darkness.

“Didnae mean to startle ye, my lady,” he said, his voice blunt and without false politeness. “I willnae tell a soul if ye’re hidin’ out here.”

Hiding. Escaping.

He understood exactly what she was doing.

Elizabeth straightened, slipping into the posture Lady Grisham insisted upon. Yet this time, she did it for herself.

She smoothed her skirt carefully, clutching whatever dignity she could summon.

“I am not hiding, my lord. I was merely, uh, appreciating the art in this gallery,” she responded.

“Were ye, really?” he asked, looking amused with one brow lifted, as if daring her to say otherwise.

What else did he think she was there for?

Oh. Oh .

“Cannae say I ken of many English lasses bold enough to appreciate this sort of art, as ye call it. Most of the matrons outside would swoon dead away.”

Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. “They likely do not understand art,” she huffed. “They underestimate aesthetics.”

He chuckled, low and amused. “Aesthetics, is it? That what we’re callin’ bare bosoms and blazin’ thighs these days? I must’ve missed the lecture.” He tipped his head toward one particularly indecent canvas. “Looks more like a masterclass in wantin’ what ye shouldnae touch.”

Elizabeth’s heart pounded. She knew exactly what she was in now. Her presence here—alone with a strange man in a hidden gallery filled with indecent paintings—was more scandalous than the artwork itself.

Lady Grisham would die of mortification, but not before killing Elizabeth first. And if not death, then disgrace. Her reputation would be ruined beyond repair.

Common sense urged her to leave. Flee, before anyone noticed. But something about the Scotsman made her hesitate. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was defiance.

Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to be the girl who always retreated.

The Elizabeth everyone thought they knew would have already fled, red-faced and apologetic. But this Elizabeth stood her ground, and she didn’t flee.

“Since you disapprove so much, you may leave,” she said, with surprising steadiness.

“Me, disapprove?” He laughed softly at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve shocked more than half the ton merely by drawin’ breath. A painted bosom doesnae rattle me.”

She squinted at him, trying to tell if he was joking. But he wasn’t. His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was no hint of apology in his expression. He meant every word.

Was she truly alone in a hidden gallery with a dangerous man?

Not the sort of danger that came with knives or threats—but the kind that made her heart race and her thoughts fray.

And that, in its own way, felt worse.

When he took a slow step closer, she instinctively took one back.

“I-I thought I might stay here longer,” she stammered, forcing a prim smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Aye?” he said, voice low. “Pity. I was just beginnin’ to enjoy the company.”

He took another step, closing the distance between them. Not too near, but near enough that she could catch the scent of him: clean linen, something earthy like cedar or leather, and the faintest trace of smoke.

He tilted his head, studying her with infuriating calm.

“Would be a shame to lose such a bold conversationalist,” he added, his brogue thickening, “when most lasses can barely string three thoughts together without glancin’ at the door for their mamas.”

Strangely, she agreed. This conversation was beyond the stilted pleasantries of the ton. He was different. Untamed. Unfiltered. Terribly inconvenient.

“You’re a brute,” she declared, lifting her chin with defiance.

The word surprised even her.

His eyes locked with hers. Deep green. Startling. Alive . For a moment, she could hear water rushing over rocks, birds calling from distant trees.

Ridiculous. The gallery was playing tricks on her.

“Is it a habit of yours,” she snapped, “to lurk in dim corridors in search of unchaperoned ladies?”

He looked at her thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his jaw. “Ye had the nerve to slip into a forbidden gallery filled with sin and scandal, but I’m the rogue for standin’ in it?”

“You truly think I came to this gallery on purpose?” she asked, though even as the words left her lips, she knew they were untrue.

She had followed curiosity, followed whispers of scandal, and found exactly what she was looking for.

And far more than she’d bargained for.

“Ah, did ye not, lass?” he asked, his smirk widening with quiet triumph.

Elizabeth felt a flicker of heat beneath her skin. Unexpected, unwelcome.

That smirk of his, the way it curved with just enough arrogance to irritate her and yet… there was something about it. Something that made her forget, just for a moment, the crowded ballroom, the sharp-tongued whispers, and the suffocating presence of her stepmother.

She pushed the feeling away quickly, locking it up before it could take root. It was foolish to be drawn to a man she didn’t know, a man who stood too close and smiled too easily.

And admitting the truth would mean revealing too much: that she’d fled the ballroom because she couldn’t bear another empty compliment, another calculating stare, another pointed nudge from Lady Grisham.

But here, in this hidden gallery, she could be someone else. A different Elizabeth. One no one had already dismissed or defined. And he wouldn’t know the difference.

“I wanted to see the art they were talking about,” she said, lifting her chin in a show of false composure. “It was, er… illuminating.”

It was a partial truth. One she clung to.

The Scot took another step towards her. Now, if he moved again, it would be an embrace, an undeniable scandal. Her heart betrayed her entirely, hammering in her chest so loudly she feared he might hear it.

“Ye ken,” he murmured, lowering his voice like a shared secret, “folk say I’m beyond redemption. Call me a brute. Yet somehow, they still parade their daughters before me.”

“How terribly inconvenient,” she replied, a bit more dryly than she intended.

At least he had choices.

His gaze flicked over her face. Steady, assessing.

“Do ye find me fearsome, then?” he asked.

Elizabeth hesitated. His scent enveloped her senses: the earthiness of it was clean, something untamed and far from the perfumed gentry that had pressed too close to her all evening.

“Perhaps not,” she admitted. “But I find you improper , my lord.”

“I can live with that.” His eyes glinted. “Mayhap ye’ll teach me to be a gentleman.”

She scoffed, but he didn’t back down.

“Ye might, lass. If ye’re bold enough to seek ‘illumination,’ surely ye’ve got lessons to share.”

“And you think you’re capable of learning from me? Aren’t you too old for instruction?” she quipped, though her voice trembled with more than just nerves.

His laugh burst from him, rich and unabashed. It echoed softly against the painted walls.

“I learn fast,” he said, eyes glinting. “Especially when the tutor’s worth watchin’… and listenin’ to.”

A flicker of heat raced through her. His gaze had dipped—not lewdly, not like the others—but it swept her with open appreciation. It was terrifying. And worse, she didn’t feel disgusted. She felt… seen.

She swallowed. “Will you heed instruction, my lord?” she asked, meaning to sound mocking, but the words came out far too sincere.

He stepped even closer. “If it’s your voice teachin’? Aye, lass.”

Elizabeth stared at him, stunned into stillness.

How had she become this version of herself?

The one who lingered in scandalous galleries and parried with strange men who made her feel something deeper than dread. Who made her feel alive .

She had recoiled from every man introduced to her formally. And yet here she was, rooted to the spot while this one—this Highland brute with a title—spoke to her as if she mattered.

But what if he was just another Linpool, cloaked in charm and ruin?

She didn’t have time to decide.

He reached up slowly, fingers brushing the air near one of the loose curls at her temple. He hadn’t touched her, not truly, but she felt him anyway, as if his hand had already mapped her skin.

And then?—

Footsteps.

Distant, echoing down the marble hallway like a shot of reality.

She startled, breath catching.

“I must—m-my s-sister--” she stammered, flustered, skirts clenched in her fists as she pivoted in confusion, moving one way, then the other.

“Run along, then, lamb,” he murmured, low and amused, “while I watch the rushin’ wolves.”

She didn’t thank him. She didn’t look back. She fled.

And behind her, she heard it: the soft, rumbling laugh of the man she should never have spoken to at all.

Thunder rolled beyond the windows. It echoed through the gallery like a warning.

And still, her pulse raced.