Page 36 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
He gritted his teeth as his mother and Isobel disappeared inside another shop, this one a haberdashery. Of all things they could buy, he had the least interest in bonnets. Still, when Isobel moved to pick up an ugly green affair, he stopped her.
“Do not consider it.”
She sent him an assessing glance. “Are ye a proponent of fashion, sir?”
“I know enough to know that would be hideous on you. Green brings out the color in your eyes, but not that shade. And it is not made up very prettily.” He nodded to several others. “Those, I think, would be more flattering.”
“Well,” his mother said, a smile growing. “I have never known you to be so particular, Adrian.”
“If we are to harbor Lady Isobel in our house, I would prefer it if she did us credit,” he said stiffly, already regretting expressing his opinion. “And I do not think that bonnet in particular would achieve such a goal.”
Isobel’s eyes gleamed at him, and he had the impression she was, once again, laughing at him. Still, to his relief, he moved away from the vomit-green hat and selected one of the others he had recommended. And, when she tried it on, it framed her face perfectly, the dark shade a perfect contrast to her bright hair.
He looked away before she could see him staring.
Truly, this was the greatest of torments. Even when he eventually married, he had not expected to have to take his wife shopping. She could do all that on her own without his help.
Still, after he had ventured an opinion on her bonnet, his mother frequently appealed to him, and by the time they left Bond Street, Adrian had had a hand in selecting half the things they had bought, whether by offering an opinion or his mother’s instruction that the bill be sent to him.
“Now we just have Hatchards,” Lady Isobel said, her face lighting up.
At the sight of her smile, he bit back his groan. He had to endure one more stop before returning home and pretending this had never happened.
And, perhaps, taking a very cold bath.
Something about the way Isobel moved, the way she would reach out to touch something before second-guessing herself, something about the tilt of her head and the flash of her eyes, made him want her more than ever.
Hatchards, as usual in the middle of the afternoon, was exceedingly busy, and Adrian squeezed himself between the shelves, listening to a young lady discussing the merits of Wordsworth to his right and a gentleman discussing the merits of that same lady to his left.
Ahead, Isobel smiled to herself as she stroked a finger down the spine of a book.
Adrian looked away.
Heavens, what was happening to him? A lady could not usually attract his interest for more than a night, and yet even after kissing her, he found himself compelled by her all over again.
She glanced up at him, and—damnation—he moved closer.
“I didn’t know you were fond of books, Lady Isobel.”
“Ye never asked, Yer Grace.”
“Very well,” he said, smiling a little. “I accept the criticism as leveled. I never did ask, but I am asking now. What do you prefer reading?”
“That depends on my mood.” She glanced at him. “I like poetry.”
“Robert Burns?” he guessed.
Her eyes lit for a second. “Aye, he’s got a little something to him. And Wordsworth. Blake.”
“All the modern greats,” he said.
“Is there something wrong with modern writers?” she inquired. “Should I only love the ancient greats?The Odyssey, perhaps?”
He laughed and was unreasonably delighted to see an answering smile spread across her face. He disliked just how important it was to him that she smiled—or that the cause of her smiling was him.
“There you are,” his mother said, bustling back to them with several packages wrapped in brown paper. “Here, Adrian, hold these for me. Lady Isobel, my dear, come with me. There is a new romance novel out that you simplymustsee.”
Adrian followed, trying to ignore the way Lady Isobel’s eyes had flittered to him at the mention of ‘romance novel.’ That meant nothing, and he wouldn’t have wanted it to, even if it did.
