Page 40 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Isobel was bored.
In all ways, things had begun to look up since the duchess had returned. Her newfound popularity showed no signs of abating, and every ball she attended resulted in a full dance card and sore feet.
Yet here she was, bored to tears.
“You should see my hounds, my lady,” her latest admirer said, pushing red-gold hair off his face.
At first sight, she had thought him almost angelic, with a fine-boned face, blue eyes, and that red-gold hair. But as soon as he opened his mouth, she realized he had nothing in his head but thoughts of hunting and his own magnificence.
As though to back up this assumption, he glanced in a mirror, preening as he admired himself and his build.
Not that his build could compare to the duke’s—but she banished that thought from her mind.
“Your hounds?” she asked, doing her best to sound as though she was invested in the conversation and wouldn’t rather smash a vase over his head for some peace and quiet.
“They’re all well-bred.” He smirked at her and flicked his hair back from his face. “As I’m certain you can tell from one look.”
She blinked at him. “Aye,” she said slowly.
“Have you ever been hunting?”
“Actually—”
“Of course you haven’t.” He patted her arm in a patronizing way. “Well, I would be delighted to regale you with some tales from my recent expeditions. I am sure such a foreign subject to you would still be interesting, no?”
Isobel gritted her teeth. In the Highlands, she had been free to roam across her father’s land as often as she liked, often on the back of a horse. There, she had joined the hunts, and she had stayed with them right through, jumping with the best of them. Not everyone believed she ought to be behaving in this way, but she had enjoyed her childhood.
She missed it.
The nostalgia came in a rush.
“Perhaps,” she said to placate the gentleman, knowing it was her duty not to repulse anyone who might provide her with security.
Even if it came with a healthy dose of patronization.
He smiled at her, complacent in his knowledge that she had been wooed by his display of manly prowess.
“Excuse me,” she said, putting her glass of ratafia on the nearest table. “I find I have a headache. Let me find the Duchess of Somerset. I think I must return home.”
His expression twisted into one of faux concern. “I hope you feel better soon, my lady.”
“Thank ye.” She inclined her head and escaped, finding the duchess deep in conversation with Eliza’s mother.
Just as she had known, however, the duchess came to her rescue.
“Oh, you poor dear,” she said as soon as Isobel looked pleadingly at the door. “You look so pale. Are you feeling ill? Here, come with me. We’ll get you sorted. Pray excuse me, Lady Northley.”
The lady looked at her, brows pulling together. “I say,” she said with a healthy dose of disgust. “It’s not contagious, is it? I wouldn’t like my dearest Eliza to catch anything.”
“It’s just a headache, ma’am,” Isobel said, almost wishing it was something else so she could see the fear on Lady Northley’s face.
But that wouldn’t be charitable.
She was just sotired.
The duchess took her arm and made their escape. In the carriage home, she looked at Isobel in sympathy. “That bad?”
“I just miss home.”
