Page 32 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Isobel bit her lip, “Or whether ye want me.”
An unholy light lit in his eyes. “So, you would like to discuss that, would you?” His eyes raked over her. “Your accent is stronger than usual,” he murmured, coming closer. “Is that because you are angry, I wonder?”
Angry, aroused, she was not sure which. All she knew, as she looked up into the duke’s face, was that if he tried to kiss her, she would not do anything to stop her. In fact, she would welcome it.
When he was around, he made her so infuriated—and he made her want him more than she wanted anyone else.
Phantom hands alighted on her waist in her memory, her hand clasped in his.
“Lady Isobel,” he said, but her name sounded more like a curse, and she knew this was the moment when he would take her mouth with his own?—
Suddenly, a door slammed outside.
“Yes, Johnston, thank you,” a cultured female voice said. The duke froze then moved back, his expression suddenly unreadable. “Iamfatigued. Send Rosemary to my room as soon as she’s had a moment to defrost. It has been a terrible journey.”
Isobel turned wide eyes on the duke. “Is that your maither?”
He barely spared time to nod before striding out to where an older woman stood in the hallway, surrounded by baggage footmen were still bringing out.
Isobel trailed in his wake, feeling a little like a deflated flower. All thoughts of kissing vanished from her head.
This wasnothow she had hoped to meet the duchess.
Her mother would be disappointed in her. She’d gotten so distracted by the duke, and all his hateful, compelling ways, that she had not given enough thought to other considerations. Her reputation. Hervirtue.
“Mother,” the duke said with a nod.
She looked remarkably like him, if twenty years his senior. But although she had to be in her fifties, there was still color in her hair—the same rich brown of which the duke boasted. But her eyes were dark rather than his blue, and she had a more open, kindly face.
“Adrian! Is everything all right? I came as soon as I got your letter.” She placed a hand on his cheek, her eyes searching his—he flinched, as though scalded by fire.
So, he did not get his coldness from his mother, then. That was a relief, although if she was so close to Isobel’s mother, that was hardly a surprise. Her mother was one of the warmest,most welcoming people Isobel knew, and someone she admired greatly.
So why did he flinch away from his own mother’s touch?
“Nothing quite so alarming as that,” the duke said, taking a step away from her.
Then Isobel recalled that, with Eliza, his cousin and a lady he seemed close to, he was at best carelessly tolerant. At worst, irritated and short. So his demeanor made sense.
And yet, his eyes and his voice seemed somehow softer around the dowager. At least with his mother, he allowed warmth to escape into his gaze.
So, he’s not totally made of ice.
The duchess glanced over his shoulder, spotting Isobel, and she went still.
“Heavens. You look exactly like an old friend of mine, dear.”
Isobel curtsied. “I know that, ma’am. Pardon me; I am Lady Isobel MacAlister. Me maither is Lady Glenrannoch, and I assume that is who I remind you of.”
The dowager nodded, “You are Catherine’s daughter?”
Isobel nodded back, “Yes. Me maither sent me here with the hopes that ye could sponsor me in London. I have a letter—the duke has a letter,” she corrected quickly.
“Do you know her mother?” the duke asked.
“Of course.” The duchess brushed past him to where Isobel stood. “I didn’t know you were to come here, my dear, or I would never have left for Cornwall. What horrible timing. But never mind that now. You’re here.” She embraced Isobel, her arms gentle. “Your mother and I were close when we were young—and we have remained so over the years. We were inseparable at events, and…”
Her voice trailed away; her eyes distant but still warm.
