Page 51 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“I have togo, Adrian,” she gasped, her but her hands knotted in his coat, holding on as though he was the only real thing that existed in her world. “I have to run; I have to hide. I can’t?—”
“Shh.” He ran a hand up and down her spine, and bit by bit, the tension in her body eased, replaced by quivering fear. “Shh. I’m here. It’ll be all right.”
She no longer attempted resistance or insisted on anything. Her hands didn’t ease on his coat, and he felt her tears, chilled by the night air, soak through to his skin. Still, he didn’t release her until she leaned back, her face pale and resigned—yet stronger than he could have ever given her credit for.
He stared down at her, and she gazed up at him, her eyes clearer than they had been when he first came out, even though they were still hazy with tears.
“Isobel,” he murmured, and she leaned even closer into his embrace as though reliant on his strength.
He caught the back of her waist, the other hand moving to cup her neck. He needed her to know that he was strong enough for the two of them.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had held a woman in this way or if he ever had. Although he’d had plenty of experience with ladies, it was not forthis. Comfort. Protection. He protected those under him who were in need of his protection, but that was something else entirely—it was not protecting by the act of giving comfort and nothing else. Yet that was what she needed from him, and he could sense it.
He pulled her still closer into the heat of his embrace. “Tell me,” he said, his gaze fixed on hers.
Her fingers tightened on his coat.
“Oh my,” a voice said from the doorway.
Adrian glanced up to find one of his mother’s best friends, Lady Tippleton—and a notorious gossip—standing in the doorway to the balcony.
Isobel whirled, her back to his chest, but the damage had been done.
And there, her face twisted maliciously, was Miss Wentworth.
Adrian’s stomach sank. After the way he had taken her down a peg or two, he had no doubt she would act to get her revenge.
Already, she beckoned someone over.
The whispers spread, and Isobel trembled. There was no other exit to the balcony, nowhere for her to run to.
He placed his hand on the small of her back. No doubt Miss Wentworth did not think he would marry a lady from Scotland, a lady whom he had not proposed to despite staying here with him.
But she would soon discover how wrong she was.
“Well. This was not how I intended to reveal the news.” He bowed to their audience, practically feeling Isobel’s disbelieving gaze on him. “But I am delighted to announce that Lady Isobel and I are engaged to be married.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Engaged?” murmurs rippled over the crowd.
Isobel stared at Adrian, unsure if she had misheard.
Surely, he could not have just said what she thought he had. Surely, he could not have offered to marry her. No, not offered—he had informed her and everyone else around them that they would be getting married. That they were already engaged, as though it was an agreement they had come to privately and independently.
Her breath came too fast. Somewhere in the ballroom was Moreton, and she had to leave London. But to go where? Back to Scotland? How could she know that he wouldn’t follow her all the way back there if he had come to England?
Speaking of which,whywas she here?
Adrian’s hand pressed more firmly against the small of her back, and she realized she had been leaning into him. Her knees felt as though they were on the verge of giving out.
“Oh,” a lady said.
Through the doorway, Miss Wentworth stared at Adrian with wide, shocked eyes. Isobel almost felt the urge to laugh. She knew the duke well enough to know that he would have found at least a little satisfaction from shocking her like that. No doubt she had thought he would ruin her instead.
Adrian’s hand closed around her elbow. “Come,” he said, his voice unusually grim. “We should see my mother before she hears some garbled version of events.”
In the ballroom, where Lord Moreton waited for her. Had he heard what had happened already?
