Page 12 of Wedded to the Scottish Duke

In their haste to transgress, they forgot to close the door.

Celia had to lift a hand to stifle her laugh. When she reached the other door, she didn’t bother knocking but opened it wide. Fortunately, she made no mistake this time.

The Duke of Hardbridge was in that room, wearing nothing but a shirt and his trousers. He sat in the window seat, his frame so tall that he could barely get one foot up on the wall opposite him. With his arms folded across his chest, his biceps strained against the fabric.

“What took ye so long?”

He had filled the room with candles, the light so bright that Celia closed the door behind her and started promptly to blow out wicks.

“Ye looking for a tryst in the dark, lass?”

“I’m not looking for a tryst. I’m wearing little enough as it is. I don’t need you to see every curve—you had seen enough last night.”

“Ye were the one who took off yer clothes. That was not my doing.”

“Argh, enough.” She stopped blowing out candles. Now, there were just a few left. In that dimmer light, she marched toward him and tossed his shirt to him. “Here, have your shirt back.”

He took the shirt from her but tossed it aside quickly. Now she was standing so near to him that she could see his shirt was partially open. It revealed a glimpse of his chest, showing that it was just as toned as she had thought it was last night, when it was pressed against her as he carried her out of the water.

“So?” she prompted, angry at the silence and how she was already attracted to him when he was just sitting lazily in front of her.

“So…” he drawled, his voice deeper than ever.

She had to take a small step back, alarmed at the power that deep voice could have over her.

“What is it you want, exactly?” She folded her arms, all too aware that his eyes had traveled down from her face to her dressing gown.

She covered up as best as she could. This close to him, she could now see what she had been unable to see in the darkness the night before. His eyes were a misty gray.

“A bride.”

“I know that much,” she huffed. “If you want a matchmaker, clearly you have something precise in mind and you have been unable to find it. You’re looking for someone else to find love for you.”

Something in his body hardened. He rose from the window seat, towering over her. This time though, she refused to be weak and didn’t back away from him.

“Nothing so…romantic,”he emphasized with evident disgust. He walked away from her, nearly brushing her shoulder. She tried not to shudder at his proximity as she remembered what it was like to be touched by him the night before. “So, you’ll do it then? You’ll help me find a bride?”

He lifted a decanter from a shelf and placed it down on the table. He poured a single glass of golden liquid. She recognized it all too well.

It was hardly a drink her parents would have ever served up at one of the parties of the ton, but she had tasted it often in the painter’s studio. A Scotsman from Edinburgh had brought it with him for a party once.

She walked toward the Duke of Hardbridge and picked up the glass the moment he was done pouring it.

“Ye’ll find that strong…” He faltered as she took her first sip.

“It’s not my first whisky.” She took another sip and walked away from him. His eyes followed her across the room. “Why should I help you? Everyone knows I’m bold and reckless. They whisper about me enough. How would a naked swim damage my reputation?”

She may have been bluffing, but she tried to look at ease as she took his place in the window seat.

Part of her thought she might be right, that people would either not believe the tale of her naked swim or would dismiss it as her being wild. Yet, deep down, she was fearful of what her mother would think.

She had learned long ago that Marianne preferred Violet out of the two of them. Violet had always been more proper, therefore Marianne was proud of her. Celia couldn’t help fearing what her mother would say if she ever heard of her naked swim.

“Aye, a naked swim ye might survive, but if there’s one thing I have learned since joining English Society, it’s that they put far too much focus on what a lady and a gentleman do together when they’re alone.” He pulled out another glass and poured a measure for himself. “The news that a man was watching ye, touching ye, carrying ye…” He paused and gestured to her with his glass.

She nearly choked on her whisky. “You said you didn’t see anything.”

He smirked. She wasn’t sure whether to ask him what he thought of what he saw or to throw her glass at him.

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