Page 9 of Wedded to the Scottish Duke

“He’s a trained warrior,” Grace added, with no small degree of fear in her voice.

And that explains the strong shoulders and arms.

Celia had to bite her lip not to let those words slip out.

“Lady Arundel said he has just inherited the dukedom from his uncle,” Violet continued.

“He’s returned to England with his mother, and his younger brother has taken the lairdship in Scotland,” Grace added.

“He has a reputation for being rather?—”

“Brutish.”

“Violent.”

“A man not to be trusted. A leader who will say one thing and do the next.”

“Not so much man as beast,” Violet said with a shiver.

Celia looked between the pair of them in surprise. It seemed they had been fascinated by the tales that Lady Arundel had told them the night before.

“No man is pure beast,” Celia huffed. “Though who said it would be a bad thing if they were?”

Her jest made the two of them laugh, though she could not laugh with them.

She was well aware that it was a lie. She could well believe that a man could be a pure beast. Was that the man who had driven her poor cousin Charlotte to her death a beast?

She shrugged off the thought. Charlotte’s sorry end plagued her life enough as it was. Frequently, she had to shut down the thoughts just to be able to carry on.

She busied herself by looking away across the garden, for the Duke of Hardbridge had now arrived. He was walking straight toward her, his expression unmistakable. He was here for a reason, and that reason was to talk to her.

“He’s coming this way,” Violet hissed. “Grace, shall we?—”

“Find a reason to catch up with our husbands? What a great idea!” Grace took her arm, and the pair of them hurried off after the rest of the group now following Lady Arundel.

Celia didn’t follow. Unabashedly, she met the gaze of the Duke of Hardbridge as he walked toward her, taking in everything she had been unable to see in the darkness the night before.

He was as tall as she had thought him to be, his broad shoulders straining against his loose frock coat, which hung down to his knees. He hadn’t bothered with a tailcoat; the cravat around his neck was loose, revealing a flash of tanned skin beneath, and his waistcoat was a rather tight fit, accentuating his narrow waist.

“Good God, what is wrong with me?” Celia muttered to herself, finding she was thinking rather a lot about a painting she had once seen in her friend’s studio.

The painting was of Mars, the Roman God of War. That God was hardly dissimilar to the man before her.

His dark hair curled madly around his ears, and his strong jawline was emphasized by black stubble. Unlike many men here, he wasn’t clean-shaven, but altogether wilder in appearance.

I have never been tempted before. Not once.

Despite all her flirtations, she had actually never acted on any thought of transgressing. What had happened all those years ago had stifled any true desire.

The Duke of Hardbridge, though, seemed to be awakening a flame she had long since put out.

“Well, at least ye didn’t run away,” he said as he reached her side.

He barely halted in acknowledgment of her, but walked on, just expecting her to fall into step beside him.

Determined not to be the obedient lady he had expected her to be, she turned and trailed far behind the touring group, pretending to be a part of their tour, yet far enough back so she couldn’t hear what was being said. Evidently, this displeased the Duke of Hardbridge. When she raised her eyebrows at him, showing she had no intention of following him like a pup, he moved to walk alongside her instead.

“I have already thanked you for last night,” she whispered.

---