Page 11 of The Scottish Duke Tames the Bluestocking
“Not if you ask me like that, I won’t,” Harriet clarified, lifting her chin proudly. “I may have considered it. But not if you make your proposal in such an impetuous, nay, downright demanding manner as you have, Your Grace.”
Hugh gaped at her, speechless for one of the few times in all their encounters. Harriet couldn't resist the small, vindicated smile that tugged at the corners of her lips as she drove the point home ruthlessly.
“If you persist in treating me as though I am something to be bent and shaped to your will through blustering intimidation, then no—I reject your offer resolutely. But if, perchance, you find it within yourself to extend the same gallantry and goodwill to me as I've witnessed you extend to others, and make your request as an earnest appeal rather than a mere formality...then perhaps I shall reconsider.”
Her smile deepened fractionally at the sheer, unadulterated bewilderment written across Hugh's features—a rare chink in his infuriatingly inscrutable armor. A bloom of smug satisfaction unfurled within her breast at having so thoroughly confounded the unflappable Scot. To her utter astonishment, he shook his head slowly as a rueful chuckle built in his throat.
“Well played, me lady,” he rumbled in rich tones laced with reluctant admiration. Straightening to his full, towering height, he shot her a look that made her breath catch in her throat. “It seems I've underestimated ye yet again. But rest assured...I shallnae be makin' that mistake twice.”
With that, he inclined his head in a final, lingering acknowledgment before turning on his heel and striding from the room, leaving Harriet gaping in his wake, all her bravado drained as a sudden, unsettling sense of trepidation washed through her.
The door had scarcely closed behind Hugh before it was flung open once more, this time admitting a furious-looking William. His face was mottled with rage, eyes flashing dangerously as they bored into Harriet.
“What in heaven’s name did you do?” he bit out through gritted teeth, advancing on her with quick, agitated strides.
Harriet stiffened instinctively, lifting her chin in silent defiance even as a sliver of trepidation skittered down her spine. “I did nothing more than speak my mind plainly,” she countered, tamping down the frisson of unease that bloomed as her brother closed the distance between them.
William's laugh was a harsh, derisive bark utterly devoid of mirth. “Your mind?" he echoed scathingly. "More like your cursed tongue ran away with you yet again, as per usual.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but closed it again just as quickly, watching her brother’s seething temper come to a boil. “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to secure an audience with His Grace? The sheer delicacy and discretion required to broach such a matter without rousing suspicion before the proper overtures could even be made?”
His eyes bore into her, glittering shards of recrimination that pierced straight through her attempted bravado.
“Don't you see what you've done?” he demanded, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. “With the Duke's backing, we might have salvaged enough propriety to remain untainted by scandal. But now?” His laugh was bitter, brittle. “With him walking away, our fates are sealed. We're utterly ruined, Harriet. Ruined! All because you are selfish and foolish!”
She stared at him aghast, dismay rooting her to the spot as the full gravity of her actions crystallized before her. Her righteous indignation evaporated in an instant, leaving a hollow, sinking terror in its wake. She'd rebuffed him all right—rebuffed and scorned him for his lack of propriety. And in the process, she may very well have sealed her ultimate ruin.
“I do not have to listen to this,” she exploded, turning away and rushing to her bedchamber - her heart racing wildly in her chest as worry threatened to consume her. Tears formed in her eyes and slowly trailed paths down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around herself.
William may be right, she feared now. Perhaps she was indeed a selfish fool.
As her cries slowly ebbed into shuddering exhalations, Harriet could admit one unfortunate truth: Hugh, the Duke of Frighton well and truly had gotten under her skin in a way no other had ever managed before.
CHAPTER6
Hugh was quiet where he sat in the carriage, thoughts of Harriet’s firm denial stubbornly clinging to his mind on the way back to his own residence in the city. A deep frown settled between his brows as he glared out of the window, barely noticing the lush countryside rolling past him.
Granted, he could not truly deny that his proposal may not have been ‘romantic’, but he could not believe how quick Harriet was to deny him. Of course, he had to begrudgingly admit that he admired her staunch adherence to her own convictions, but that did not make it any less frustrating.
It did not make her any less vexing.
By the time his carriage finally crested the hill that commanded a sweeping view of Frighton Manor, his jaw ached from being clenched so rigidly. He remained seated until the carriage came to a halt in front of the manor, and then he jumped out hastily.
No sooner had his feet hit the ground than a familiar blur of muslin erupted onto the front steps in a flurry of skirts and chestnut curls.
“Hugh! You’re home!”
Abigail Wilkinson came hurtling towards her brother at full tilt, her face alight with unabashed delight. At seventeen, she carried herself with a youthful enthusiasm and zeal for life that Hugh found quite endearing - she was still unsoiled by the pomp of the city.
“I am so glad you are here,” Abigail exclaimed, allowing her brother to lead her back inside the manor. “It is dreadfully dull without you.”
Once they were sat in the drawing-room, each armed with a cup of tea, she looked at him curiously.
“You were gone longer than you said you’d be,” she said - a statement far more than an accusation. Hugh hesitated, then nodded.
“I left to propose to a lady,” he admitted suddenly, and Abigail’s eyes widened.
“You did what?”
