Page 48 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Her mother would be shocked.Shewas shocked at herself. For all she had been raised with freedom and the wild Scottish Highlands in her bones, that did not mean she could abandon propriety entirely.
Still, what happened in the drawing room after hours stayed there.
They would simply not speak to each other until she had found a husband, married, and moved out.
The duchess glanced between them. “Will anyone respond?”
The duke leveled a perfectly steady expression at her. “No, Lady Isobel and I have not gotten into an argument.”
Hearing his voice again after everything that had passed between them felt all the more upsetting, but Isobel held onto the last of her composure.
“Isobel,” the duchess said. “Is something the matter?”
“No at all, Yer Grace,” Isobel said, dropping her eyes to the plate.
The duchess tossed her napkin at the plate.
Aside from that small altercation, the rest of the day went smoothly enough.
A ball was planned for the evening, and as Isobel dressed and her maid did her hair, she did her best to remember what she had sworn to herself and her mother.
Shewouldfind a husband in London. Shewouldprotect herself. Shewouldremain true to her mission until its completion.
That was all there was to it.
The duke and his mother waited for her in the hallway, and they all went out to the carriage again. Once more, Isobel sat theredoing her best to ignore the man sitting opposite her, his knees almost close enough to touch.
Once they arrived, at least she had Eliza to act as a buffer and a distraction. And the duke strode away to the other end of the room where his charming friend waited.
“Come and have some ratafia,” Eliza said, tugging at her arm. “And then I simplymustintroduce you to one of my latest beaus. I think he would suit you very well.”
“Yourbeaus?”
“Oh, don’t take it seriously, dearest. I have no real interest in him.”
Isobel squared her shoulders. Just because she had engaged in illicit activities with the duke did not mean her goals had changed. If anything, the timeline had shortened; the sooner she married and removed herself from the duke’s home, the better.
She could not go another month or more, avoiding his gaze and doing her best to force away the memory of his hands on her.
“Well, let’s meet him, then,” she said to her friend, who beamed.
With very little inclination to marry this Season, Eliza had been doing her best to ensure Isobel did—and as quickly as possible.
Fortunately, the fact that Isobel was the daughter of an earl—even a Scottish one—and her sudden arrival in London had made her intriguing, and plenty of gentlemen had shown her interest.
“Ah, here he is.” Eliza brought Isobel up to a gentleman she hadn’t seen before.
He was tall, his shoulders broad from the back, and his hair a light, sandy brown. The sight of it stirred a memory within Isobel, but she thought nothing of it until the man turned.
And then she came face to face with the man of her nightmares.
He looked just the same as he had when she had seen him forcing that young lady against the wall. Dark eyes, a strong chin, and a patrician nose. There was a certain calculating cruelty that oozed from him like slime. No one else had seen the rot that lay underneath—but Isobel had. She had watched the young lady flee, sobbing. She had slapped the young lord, his cheek red from the force of her blow.
Not two weeks later, the young lady had perished unexpectedly. A rogue horse—one tragic kick to the head.
No one else had suspected him, but Isobel had known the danger. Her mother had sent her over the border to escape him, knowing that her life might be in danger. She’d thought that she would be safe in London, especially once she married.
Yet here he was.
