Page 13 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
He had yet to meet a lady not affiliated with his family—blood relative or not—who stood her ground quite so easily. He had a reputation for being cold and emotionless, and most ladies quailed before it.
Not she.
He just wished he knew whether he found it endearing or infuriating.
Jane laid Isobel’s dresses on the bed. Isobel chewed at her lip. Another maid ran her hand down the material. England was far warmer than Scotland; April in London was an order of magnitude warmer than Edinburgh.
She ought to have thought more clearly about everything. But when she had been prepping to leave, she had not been thinking clearly at all. Everything had been thrown in a trunk, and she had not considered what her life would look like once she reached her destination.
The ton. Events. Smiling and preening before the intrigued gaze of gentlemen.
Isobel hated the thought.
Yet she must find a husband before Moreton could find her. She did not have the luxury of not playing the game.
Jessica, one of the younger maids, held up one of Isobel’s heavier dresses, the material thick and heavy.
“This won’t do for this time of year, my lady,” she said.
Isobel pinched her nose. “Yes, I know. I will be far too hot.”
“Especially in the ballrooms.”
It was one of her prettiest dresses, bought for balls in Scotland, where the population was sparser and the weather colder.
Isobel ran her fingers along the pretty patterned velvet and silk blend. “Such a shame,” she murmured.
“Well,” the maid said, “I could always lighten it for you, my lady. Then you could wear it to events in London, too.”
Jane held up a cream chiffon. “This will do for tonight, I think, my lady.”
“Thank you, Jessica. If ye can lighten it, and it wouldn’t add too much to your workload…” She hesitated. “Thank you.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Of course, my lady.”
Isobel slumped into a chair.
Another week—at least—of the duke’s company before his mother returned from Cornwall. Of all places in England for her to be, she had to have visited the furthest flung from Scotland.
“Is the duke always so bad-tempered?” she asked Jessica.
“Oh, well.” Jessica considered the bundle of fabric for a few minutes, her rosy cheeks flooding with still more color. “Well no, he doesn’t have a temper. Really, he’s very good to his staff. Cold, but not unpleasant. And never cruel.” Her blush deepened. “And he’s good to us maids. Doesn’t corner us on landings like other gentlemen might.”
“Have, ye mean,” Isobel said, muttering under her breath. “Ye ought to report anyone who does that.”
“And who would I report them to, my lady? The Watch? No constable concerns himself with that sort of behavior.”
“The lady of the house, perhaps.”
“Mothers protect their sons, and wives prefer to live in ignorance. Besides, many wives cannot control such behavior.” Jessica shook her head. “The duke is a good employer, my lady. He has never abused his power like that—not once, not to any of us. And if we ever have a problem, we can come to him and he will be fair. Not—he is never kind, precisely, but he is just.”
Isobel pursed her lips. In her experience of the duke, he had not been cold or remote.
Well, no, that wasn’t strictly accurate. Hehadbeen cold sometimes, retreating behind a mask. But his temper had come out all too often. A hot-blooded man, perhaps capable of holding it back behind an icy demeanor but very capable of feeling.
At least, very capable of anger. Very capable of pushing her to see whether she would bend in the face of his challenge. She had not had the impression that he would make any inappropriate advances toward her, and perhaps under other circumstances, he might have been fair, but he was certainly not fair when it came to her.
The question was: what did it all mean?
