Page 39 of The Duke's Improper Bride
Perhaps there would be a lot of begging involved then.
“I’m here to speak with Nora.”
Mrs. MacAllen set down her cup then ran her hands over the piece of embroidery draped across her lap. “Are you, Your Grace?”
Isaac hadn’t doubted that news of their marriage had reached her parents; they had been the ones to write them first. Still, it was odd that Mrs. MacAllen wasn’t fawning over his presence. It wasn’t like her to not take advantage of such a social call. That had been her aim with her daughters, hadn’t it? To make excellent matches and to help her husband win a seat in Parliament.
“Yes,” he said stiffly. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. None of it compared to the ache in his chest.
Mrs. MacAllen motioned for him to sit in the chair opposite the fire. He did so, never relaxing. Perhaps Nora was hiking. He should have checked the cottage first.
“I find it funny that a few months into your marriage with my daughter, you’re here, of all places. She belongs with you in London. As your duchess.”
For such a society-minded mama, Mrs. MacAllen spouted that last part full of vitriol.
“You arrived here,” she continued, “in Scotland under suspect circumstances, the painter locked away in his cabin. You left with my daughter, eloping, and bringing her to England without a word to either myself or my husband. And now you return—a duke, no less—asking to speak to my daughter, whom I haven’t seen since you ran off with her. I feel as though you’re leaving out an important part of the story.”
The best part.
Really—those blissful weeks of learning each other, of being in love and growing together. Before Isaac had royally fucked it all up. He wouldn’t give Mrs. MacAllen those details either.
“Maeve is with child,” Mrs. MacAllen said, when he didn’t answer. She rose from her seat, and he jumped to his feet. “The babe is arriving in the winter. We’re so delighted.”
“Where is Nora, Mrs. MacAllen?”
“She’s your responsibility now, Your Grace. It appears your wife no longer wishes you to know her whereabouts.”
“I assumed she returned here. She loves the Highlands.”
“But does she love you, Your Grace?”
He had heard about mothers-in-law, but this woman was another nasty beast all together.
Mrs. MacAllen removed a flask from her pocket and siphoned a drink before pushing back her hair. “You married her. She’s your problem. I’ve dealt with her long enough.”
“You’re a miserable cow,” he snapped. “She was never a problem. And she’s entirely too good for the lot of us. For what we’ve all had her endure.”
Before Mrs. MacAllen could reply, Isaac dashed out of the room.
“Nora,” he yelled. “Nora, please, I’ve come to talk.” He repeated his request, climbing two stairs at a time before the maid and footman approached him, their eyes wide with confusion.
“She isn’t here, Your Grace,” the maid said. She walked him to Nora’s old bedroom. The room hadn’t been touched.
“Mrs. White may know,” the footman added.
“Get this man out of my house,” Mrs. MacAllen shouted from below.
Isaac turned, slamming Nora’s bedroom door behind him and bounding down the stairs.
“Gladly.”
Isaac returned to his carriage and headed to Mrs. White’s - out of caution - but the dread building within him was too hard to ignore. He was too late.
Nora hadn’t left to escape him. She had left to help Daniel escape the asylum.
Isaac only hoped he would find her in time to save them both.
* * *
