Page 94 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Perhaps in time, she could forgive him. In time, she could forgive a lot of things.
But she could not easily forgive this.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” she told Eliza. “But don’t worry—I won’t be letting him get away with this. Not in the slightest.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Is everything in place for my departure tomorrow?” Isobel asked, sipping at her soup.
As had become habit over the past few days, dinner was a cold affair. Isobel had tried taking her meals in her rooms once, but Adrian had refused to allow her, so now she ate at the other end of the long table, doing her best to avoid his gaze and the knowledge of what was happening to them.
Already, her marriage had failed. All it had taken was one moment, one obstacle, a threat that he couldn’t immediately neutralize, and he had turned against her.
But she would not stay where she wasn’t wanted, even if every instinct in her desperately wanted to push at all Adrian’s boundaries. To discover precisely what he felt for her. Was it nothing, as he so clearly wanted to prove to them both, or was it more than he could handle?
Neither excused him sending her away in this fashion.
“Yes.” He glanced at her, then away, as though the sight of her burned him.
Isobel wished she had worn something revealing. Whatever he felt for her emotionally, there could be no denying his desire. Another punishment, as petty as she could make it—for her to arouse him then leave him wanting. Maybe he wouldn’t even attempt to entertain her in that way, but he would want to, if she showed enough of her skin.
Even when he couldn’t stand her, he had wanted her.
That knowledge sat in her chest now, the only power she had left.
“Eliza visited me today,” Isobel said, reaching for her wine.
She felt slightly giddy, the alcohol going to her head. This was her second glass. Better to drink more and feel less. She’d never understood the compulsion before, but now she did.
Forgetting could be a drug—and if it was, she would imbibe. She would over-indulge until the pain in her chest eased.
Adrian’s gaze flicked from her to the elegant goblet in her hands. “I think you should stop drinking, wife.”
“Ye may think what ye like.” She drank again, just to irritate him. “Don’t ye want to know what she said?”
“Not particularly.”
Isobel made a noise of acknowledgement, letting it sink into something throaty. The light in his eyes flared at the sound, one she had made in his bed not long ago.
“Well, she said I should never forgive ye for sending me away.”
His jaw clenched. “We’re not discussing it.”
“Are we not?” She tilted her head. “Mayhapyeare not discussing it. I am.”
“Isobel—”
“I understand. Ye want me to leave and so ye are sending me away.”
She ran her finger along the rim of her goblet, wishing there was more wine inside.
Her stomach felt all twisted around itself. She hadn’t been hungry since that terrible ball and the confrontation with Moreton.
“And ye expect me to behave and do precisely as ye say, with no argument.”
“I am your husband. And this is all for your own good.”
“Aye,” she murmured. “Ye keep telling yerself that.”
