Page 5 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“Where did you used to live?”
“Scotland,” she said, folding her arms.
Was that not obvious from her accent—he had even commented about her being a Scot.
Well identified, Your Grace.
“Where is your maither located? I assumed she would be in Somerset House. But is there a dower house?” she asked.
“How does your mother know mine?”
“They were close when they were younger.” Isobel raised a shoulder. “I believe it was before me time.”
“And she told you nothing?” he asked skeptically, moving closer.
“I believe that matter is between them.” She raised her chin. “If ye have never heard of me maither’s name, why would ye know of what occurred between them? Why are ye expecting information from me, when ye are so unwilling to provide any in return?”
His jaw snapped close and he leaned in closer, eyes diamond-hard on hers. He smelled of soap and leather and another scent she had not been expecting—something that reminded her of wild moorland nights, with the wind blowing scudding clouds across the moon.
Wild. Untamed. Raw.
She refused to step back, meeting him glare for glare.
“You are the one who infiltrated my personal space,” he said, his breath ghosting across her face.
“Ye say that now, when ye are doing the same to me?”
He blinked. Awareness crossed his face, moonlight across a plane of glass, and he stepped back.
Outside, the storm raged. Her heart pounded.
“All I wish is to see yer maither,” she pleaded. “Once she reads the letter from me maither, she will understand, and I know she will allow me to stay with her. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience ye in the slightest.”
“Alas, I think it is too late for that.” His eyes had shifted back from the heat of rage to a coldness that disarmed her. “You should leave.”
Thunder boomed, echoing around the study. She had no carriage and nowhere else to go. But the way he looked at her told her that he cared nothing for her predicament. No doubt he thought it was on her for coming all this way.
A week straight of traveling, all for this arrogant duke to toss her from his home as though she was a harlot.
When she didn’t immediately move, he strode past her and jerked the door open.
Two maids almost toppled into the room, practically falling over themselves to escape the duke’s wrath. The same butler who had tried to usher her from the house when she’d first arrived stood behind them.
“I—Is there s—something you need, Y—Your Grace?” he stammered, his face red with embarrassment upon being caught eavesdropping.
“Yes,” the duke said, his eyes momentarily flashing with annoyance before his gaze returned to Isobel. “Please show this lady from the premises.” He inclined his head. “Goodnight.”
“That’s all ye have to say?” she demanded. “A cold goodnight as ye turn me from your house into the storm?” She tightened her hands around the letter. “Very well, ye will not see me again, no doubt.”
“Your Grace,” one of the maids began. “The storm?—”
“Lady Isobel is from Scotland.” He gave an icy smile. “No doubt this is a mere drizzle for her.”
“Ach, what would ye know about Scottish weather?” She bobbed a curtsy. “Fear coisrigte.Goodnight, Your Grace.”
A rattling sound came from outside, a crashing that sounded as though something had connected with the door. The wind howled with a sound that resembled the howl of wild dogs. Or perhaps a wolf—Isobel had never seen one, but she had heard tales of their mournful cries.
The duke’s jaw tightened.
