Page 30 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“Are you afraid of me?” A black brow rose.
She almost smiled. “Och, no, Yer Grace. Not of you.”
“Then who?” A bald, hard question.
“Please,” she breathed. “Do not ask me to state that which I can’t tell you.”
Heat blared in his eyes—a struck match. His gaze fell to her lips, and she wondered if she had been asking him to stop begging her for answers or whether she wanted him to stop tempting her in other ways.
She could not afford to give into temptation when she had a husband to find.
But her mind stuttered to a stop as he drew her still closer so her chest pressed against his. Her nipples pinched, suddenly sensitive, and she gasped a little. His eyes looked so, so very dark when he looked at her next. The storm had swallowed the sea, and all that was left was lightning.
They should not, they would not—they were in public—but being so close to him like this made herwant.
The music stopped, and the duke stopped dancing. He still held her close, even as the other couples moved away in search of refreshments and other conversation.
Isobel knew she should pull away, but she was trapped in his gaze. Her knees felt weak.
Goodness, if this was how he looked at all ladies, no wonder he had the reputation of being a heartbreaker. Not as though he cared about her, precisely, but as though he could swim oceans if only he could claim her mouth again.
He blinked, and the intensity left his face. He dropped her arm and stepped back.
“You should return to my cousin,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I believe I have done my duty.”
“Yer Grace…” She didn’t know what she wanted to say.
“I will see you later to escort you back home.” He bowed and strode away, leaving her in the middle of the ballroom, feeling flushed and foolish.
Ridiculous. The ballroom was hot, that was all. Reaching into her reticule, she found her fan and snapped it open as she went in search of Eliza, who grinned at her approach.
“That certainly showed Miss Wentworth,” Eliza said, handing her a glass of lemonade. “You know, I can’t remember the last time my cousin asked someone to dance.”
Yes, he had done it to snub a lady who obviously had feelings for him. Of course.
The thought should not have made her feel as though her stomach dropped through the floor.
“He is a good dancer,” she managed.
“Oh yes. But I do warn you, Isobel, not to get too attached too soon.” Eliza’s ready smile slipped from her face. “He has never opened himself to attachments. Of the romantic kind.”
“Nothing could be further from my mind,” Isobel snapped. “As though I would want anything to do with such an—an unfeeling brute. If ye’ll excuse my language.”
Eliza linked arms with hers. “No offense taken! Heisan unfeeling brute, isn’t he? And yet somehow, I can’t help but be fond of him.”
Isobel sipped her lemonade and did her best not to notice that she didn’t see the Duke of Somerset again that evening.
Chapter Nine
The carriage ride back to the house was in insufferable silence. Isobel alternated between staring at the duke and gazing out of the window.
For his part, the duke did not seem to be looking at anything in particular. Sometimes, Isobel thought he might be looking at her, but every time she glanced in his direction, he stared fixedly elsewhere.
So be it.
If only she couldn’t still feel his hands on her waist. The heat of his breath against her face. And the odd—almost tender tone as he asked what she was fleeing from. He had seen through her, and only fear kept her from confessing the whole thing to him.
She could not. Would not.
