Page 96 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“I hate ye.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do.” He reached the top of the stairs and marched her to her bedchamber.
Now the worst of the indignity—and shock—had worn off, she felt increasingly sick.
When he entered her bedchamber and placed her down on the bed, she clung to him for an embarrassing moment.
When she was in command of her faculties, she was hurt and angry. But now, in her darkened bedchamber, nausea running through her stomach and her mind swirling, all she could think about was the fact that he was sending her away.
A long shudder ran through him, and he pulled her fingers from him.
“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Isobel,” he said, something almost desperate in his voice. “This needs to happen. For both our sakes.”
He was telling himself that this was for her, but she knew better. This was because of him, and the scars he had carried with him since the death of his father. Perhaps even before.
She didn’t want to have to be the one to suffer for it.
She looked at the hands in her lap, then back into his face. Her words tangled together, and she couldn’t form a single one.
After another second, he stepped back.
“I’ll call for a maid. Don’t get into the habit of drinking too much, Isobel.” He rang the bell pull and sighed as he stood by the door. “Now your journey home will just be more unpleasant.”
“Not home.”
“What?”
Her tongue felt too thick in her mouth, and she struggled to get the words out. Still, she had to. “It’s not home, Adrian.”
His jaw snapped together, and he stood for a long time in the darkness before he finally left her to the swirling confusion her wine had wrought on her.
The next day dawned for Isobel with an aching head. She remembered her inebriation of the previous day and flopped back on the pillow, groaning.
And this was the day she was due to return to the country, a journey that would take almost a full day. A full day in a carriage when she felt as though she might empty her stomach any second.
But she didn’t have any illusions about whether Adrian would still force her to go—he would. Once he made a decision, he never retreated from it, no matter if it was a bad one or not. He had decided that having her at his estate would be better for them both, and there was nothing she could do or say to persuade her otherwise.
As she lay back on her bed, she could hear the household scuttling about. Eventually, the door opened, and her maid entered, helping her to get dressed. Isobel refused the offer of breakfast, almost retching at the very thought of it.
As expected, Adrian didn’t arrive to see her off until the very last second. After all, why should he spend more time with his wife than absolutely necessary?
When his gaze traveled over her, however, he started slightly, and his hand fastened around hers, squeezing it.
“You look dreadful,” he said, and there was genuine sympathy in his eyes.
“Aye, well.” She gestured vaguely, and although she hadn’t directly referenced their situation, he seemed to recall it, anyway, and dropped her hand.
“Well,” he said. He clasped both hands behind his back, ever the proper duke. “I’ll call for you when it’s safe to return to London.”
“Of course. And until then, I’ll just sit tight, right?”
“Perhaps you can go riding.”
The reference to that conversation they’d had so long ago made her stomach twist and churn all over again.
When she’d lived in Scotland, she’d ridden every day, and Adrian seemed to think she could go back to the person she’d been.
Since then, she’d fallen in love, and she’d had her heart broken.
