Page 3 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
His father, and all memories connected to him, summarily dealt with, Adrian strode to his desk and put his glass down as he scanned the letters and pages before him.
A letter from his steward, informing him that some tenants’ houses were falling into disrepair. A question about livestock and his intentions to purchase more. Crop rotation. A brief insight into the current state of his finances—which were, as always, exemplary.
Adrian did not believe in letting anything slip, and he had ruled his estates with an iron hand ever since he first inherited them at the age of twenty. That was his duty, and he would fulfill it to the best of his ability until the day he died.
He was on the point of replying to some more urgent missives when a commotion beyond his door caught his attention.
Frowning, he looked up. Aside from his servants, he was alone in the house, as he knew very well. So, who was this person come to disrupt his peace?
A high-pitched voice said something that sounded remarkably like an accusation. More commotion, and footsteps.
Adrian rose to his feet as the door opened and his butler stepped inside. His butler, usually the epitome of calm with a measured demeanor, twitched nervously.
“Yes, Johnson?” Adrian inquired.
“There is a lady to see you,” Johnson said, his bushy brows descending over the bridge of his nose. “A Lady Isobel.”
Adrian’s frown deepened. “I know of no lady by that name.”
“Aye, I thought ye might say that,” the very same female voice said in a distinctly Scottish accent, and she squeezed into the room past Johnson, who wore an expression of horror and distaste.
The lady was young, perhaps in the first flush of youth, but there was nothing of the child about her figure, which held lush curves. Rounded breasts, and full hips.
Her face, too, was girlish only in the way a wild sprite might be considered so. Her hazel eyes appeared moss-green in the light and held a light that could be described as mischievous.
As she looked at him, her lips pressed tightly together, compressing their fullness. Auburn hair tumbled about her face, the curls tangled and yet oddly endearing.
Lust, unexpected as it was unwelcome, thrummed through him at the sight of her unexpected entrance—and he was taken with her remarkable appearance. She had freckles, some part of him noticed dimly, and she looked at any given moment as though she was a heartbeat—a thought—away from laughing.
He forced those feelings away, deep down, as far inside him as he could manage.
Yes, she was a pretty woman, but she was also in his study when he had not asked her to be, and she had almost certainly forced her way inside, judging by Johnson’s expression.
He folded his arms and fixed her with a glare.
“Who,” he said icily, “are you, and what do you think you’re doing in my home?”
Chapter Two
“You may leave us, Johnson,” the duke said, his voice reminding her of the chill wind from the moors, brushing her with fingers of frost.
Isobel MacAlister stared at the Duke of Somerset with some interest, chewing her lip as she took him in. All the many, many inches of him.
When she had been dispatched on this task, she had not known how very tall he would be. Or as wide. His arms were folded, which drew attention to his bulging biceps—his arms far more muscular than she thought befitting of an indolent lord.
Then again, nothing about his face reminded her of indolence. His eyes were hard, blue as the sky—or perhaps the sea—and the lines of his face were equally so. Perfect in composition, but without the softness that might come from friendliness or humor. The only point of softness came from his mouth.
Stop looking at his mouth, Isobel.
There was no point thinking that he was an admirable specimen of a man; she was not here for that.
The butler sent her a scandalized glance, and she returned it with a sweet smile. “Are you certain, Your Grace?”
“I am.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” With one final glower at her, the servant left and the door clicked behind them.
It occurred to Isobel for the first time that she was a girl in the company—exclusive company—of a gentleman who looked as though he ate young ladies for breakfast. Cold, cruel, indifferent.
