Page 20 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“My cousin has done everything that is proper, as has Lady Isobel,” Eliza cut in. “And she is my friend.”
Miss Wentworth lifted her nose. “Well then,” she said, a sneer in her voice. “I suppose with that, I must be contented.”
Isobel stared after her with the gnawing feeling of anxiety in her stomach. That had not gone well.
But before she could speak about it with Eliza, who was still bristling beside her, they were approached by more gentlemen. These ones did not seem so tempted to deride Isobel’s heritage, and they spent the remainder of the evening pleasantly enough.
“Well?” Eliza asked as they climbed back in the carriage that would take them back to the duke’s house. Isobel had not seen him for several hours and could only assume he had returned early. “What did you think?”
Isobel toyed with an auburn curl. “I am not so sure it went well.”
“Nonsense! You talked with several gentlemen and you made a stir, I assure you. Besides, that was only the first evening. By the time you have been seen out with me and the duchess, when she returns, you will be firmly considered one of the Season’s most desirable.”
Isobel snorted. “I would settle for a gentleman prepared to propose.”
“Do you not want to fall in love?”
She thought of Lord Moreton with a stab of anxiety. She didn’t have the luxury of time and certainly not the luxury of falling in love.
“That has never been a goal of mine,” she said with enough confidence that she almost could have convinced herself she was telling the truth. “A husband, reputable and reasonably kind, is enough for me.”
Eliza looked at her curiously, but their friendship was new enough that she merely said, “Well, I am certain you will have no problem with securing one, if that is your wish.”
Isobel felt far less certain.
Her head ached as she walked inside the duke’s house, impressed once again with its size and spaciousness.
This was a home designed, at least in part, to be ostentatious, and she felt small as she shed her cloak and lit a candle to find her way to the stairs, and up to her bedchamber.
Before she reached it, however, a figure emerged from the darkness. She started backward, pressing a hand against her heart.
“Yer Grace,” she said, her heart thumping against her chest. “I wasn’t expecting to find ye here.”
In the faint light of her candle, he appeared more crafted of shadow than of flesh and blood.
His gaze traveled across her before climbing its way back to her face. “I wanted to ensure Eliza dropped you back in one piece,” he said.
“I am whole, as you can see.”
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Her back stiffened. No was the honest answer, except for the moments when she had conversed with Eliza, but she wasn’t prepared to admit such a thing to the duke.
“I did,” she said.
“Really?” He stepped closer, his head tilted, looking down at her with those deep, dark eyes.
She felt as though she could fall into them and never escape. Her hand shook around the candle, resisting the urge to lift it higher to see if his mouth looked as soft against the hard lines as she thought.
“Really,” she said.
“Tell me something. Why are you so eager to marry an English lord? Why not a Scotsman?”
If she told him the entire truth—would he believe her? Or would he think she was covering for herself or complicit in LordMoreton’s actions? Would he even contact the lord himself to request a version of events?
Her blood chilled at the thought. She would not tell the truth. And the duke was certainly a man to listen to everyone but her—he had already proven as much.
“Well?” he prompted, his voice still soft.
