Page 102 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
He didn’t understand it. He ought to be thrilled with the way things were going. Or at least relieved that everything would soon have the resolution it deserved.
Soon, he would have Isobel back.
He stared at the door as though she’d come bounding through with some observation, or just sheer delight at the way things were going. She always wore her emotions on her sleeve; it was so easy to tell how she felt at any given moment. And at this, he knew, she would be ecstatic.
Yet she wasn’t here. And she wouldn’t know about it all until she returned, by which point the moment would have passed.
And she would still beangrywith him.
He groaned, leaning back in his chair. This affliction had not eased with the physical distance between them. If anything, it had worsened. He found himself expecting to see her in every room, and missing her when she wasn’t there.
He missed the brightness of her laugh, and the gleam in her eyes. He missed the sharpness in her voice and that damn accent that set her apart from the rest of the refined nobles in London.
And he hated that he missed her. This was weakness, and it was infiltrating every part of his life. She ought to be nothing to him—a woman he had married out of necessity only. A mistake, almost. With all the danger she had brought to them both, he could very easily call it a mistake, and almost believe it himself.
Except he’d had her in his arms, and he’d never wanted her to leave. Even though he knew it was the most sensible thing for the both of them.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.”
Adrian glanced at his butler. “Yes?”
“Are you quite certain this associate is to be trusted?”
He gave a bitter laugh and tossed some brandy back. Not wine—wine made him think of the way Isobel had drank during that final dinner together, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with anger. Anger, and something else when he had taken her to her bedchamber, and it had taken all his might to not push her back on the bed and sink between her thighs.
“No,” he said, wishing he could purge all thoughts of her from his brain. “He is most definitely not to be trusted.”
“But you’re trusting him regardless?”
“I am doing what I must to protect what’s mine.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” The man bowed and left the room, and Adrian scowled at the door.
At the chair Isobel had once sat in, curled up and reading.
He glowered at every part of the room. He was doing what he had to protect what was his, but he couldn’t be certain that shewouldbe his at the end of it all this.
And that hurt him more than he wanted it to.
It transpired living in the country was decidedly boring.
Isobel skimmed her fingers over the flowers in the garden as she hummed to herself. While she did, technically, have the full run of the place, Adrian had neglected to mention there were guards stationed all around the property. Discreet, of course, but present, nonetheless. And if she were ever to ride out, it was clear one would accompany her.
She tipped her head back to the fresh air and the sky. She understood, at least on some level, why Adrian was doing this. What he wanted to achieve, and why he thought these measures were necessary.
Men always had been foolish.
Her mother had told her to be patient with the man as though that was the only thing standing between her and a happy marriage.
But she refused to sit back and bepatientwhen he required more than that.
The thing that Adrian refused to confront was this: she was his wife. His partner. She had brought this trouble and strife to his life—the danger had followed her—and she would not allow herself to sit back and allow him to face it all himself.
She’d thought, when he’d sent her away, that she could. That being away from him was better than watching as their marriage fell apart around their ears. But now she knew better. Now she knew, beyond any doubt, that she could not endure it if anything happened to him.
So, she would fight.
And the best way to do that was with her husband by her side—reluctantly or not.
