Page 10 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“I see,” he said, cold and distant once more. As he should have been from the beginning. “In which case, I will bid yougoodnight. 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.”
Chapter Four
“Good morning,” the duke told her, his voice chilled.
Isobel had woken to clear skies. The storm had blown itself out overnight, and although she had spent several hours listening to the howling winds and rumbling thunder, she found herself surprisingly well-rested as she rang for her maid.
Her accommodation had been to her taste, it seemed. At least, the bed was particularly comfortable. Isobel despised that fact. She’d rather have been made to sleep on a pallet with straw. Then, at least, she could level that accusation in the duke’s smug, infuriatingly handsome face.
She had dressed in her best morning gown, presuming that she would finally meet the duchess, and had made her way downstairs to the breakfast room.
A footman had led her in, and she’d stopped on the threshold when she found the duke already there, a newspaper spreadbefore him and his plate piled high with plumb cake and toast and other delicacies. A teapot steamed in the middle of the table.
It was a disconcertingly domestic image.
He cut that dark gaze to her, and she felt her heart pound in response. That was how prey usually felt in the presence of a predator, she reminded herself. Except fear was not the emotion red-hot in her blood.
No. She didn’t want to think about whatthatemotion was.
She slid into the chair as far from him as she could manage. “Good morning, Yer Grace.”
“Did you sleep well?”
She scowled at the thought that she had. “Yes, thank ye.”
His fingers tightened infinitesimally on his teacup, which looked absurdly small in his large hands. Perhaps he had also been hoping that she had slept badly. That thought made her scowl deepen.
“Excellent,” he said, sounding as though it was anything but.
“Indeed.” She reached for some cake of her own, slathering her slice with butter.
She placed some ham on her plate and poured herself some tea.
The duke watched her, his brow lowered in what she had come to identify as disapproval.
“What?” she asked, the knife still in her hand.
“That is a large plateful for a young lady.”
Oh, so he wanted to fight again, did he? Well, he would find her very much up to the task.
“I eat a lot,” she said blandly. “And last I checked, I dinnae think it was your business.”
“You are eatingmyfood.”
“I am positive ye can afford it.”
His eyes narrowed, and she felt a thrill go through her. “I believe I asked for answers this morning. Do you have them for me?”
“All the answers ye need are in the letter to your maither.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, the door burst open, and a peach-silked tornado burst in.
Isobel blinked, finding that the tornado in question was, in fact, a lady. She had blonde hair in neat ringlets around her face, a round, merry face, and twinkling blue eyes.
She held next to no resemblance to the duke, but the familiarity with which she entered the room told Isobel they were familiar with one another.
