Page 4 of The Duke's Improper Bride
Isaac startled, glaring at his boss over his shoulder. The bastard.
Buckets of paint and plaster piled high in the kitchen’s corner by a door leading to the garden. A ladder leaned by a doorway to a bedroom furnished with a modest bed and chair. An oil painting of a shepherd hung on the wall half covered with soot from the fireplace.
The cottage might be considered cozy if it didn’t feel as if Isaac were being punished.
“Rest, Barnes. I’ll write and visit in a month or so.” Without pretense, Grembly whacked the newspaper against the wall and waved goodbye. “Get your head straight. And don’t do anything stupid this time, understood?”
Isaac swallowed his response. What trouble could he find here anyhow?
He limped to the kitchen table where he swiped the bottle of claret, removed the cork with his teeth, then shuffled to the bedroom. He was in bed before Grembly pulled away in the carriage.
Within an hour, he was drunk enough to feel less pain and a little less lonely, enough that he slipped into sleep.
Chapter 2
Nora MacAllen lifted her skirts as she rounded another switchback up the mountain. The air was bracingly cold against her cheeks.
Everything was perfect.
Nora could always count on hiking as an escape from her family. No one would dare climb, nor could they keep up. Even the dogs, usually at her heels, were a few paces back. It was an advantage of hers, to have a healthy bodily constitution. Her younger sister Maeve was far prettier and certainly more charming than Nora ever attempted to be. But Nora preferred to be in a constant state of motion—rather than stuck in the corner of the ballroom reserved for unfortunate girls.
For nearly twenty-two years, her mother—in fact, society at large—preferred to approach Nora and her problem by ignoring it. Out of sight, out of mind.
Unfortunately, now her mother was desperate to see her married. Nora’s father fought for a seat in Parliament now that he had been elected to the Crofters Party. There were a great deal of titled men willing to fill their coffers by agreeing to marry a woman of worth, even if she was Scottish. Afterall, a hefty dowry could go a long way in sustaining reckless gambling habits and demanding mistresses. Men never could face the truth behind their own ruin.
Besides, there would be mistresses. She knew no man would want her, not truly. Nora would likely be established in his family’s country seat, where her future husband would dutifully see her impregnated with heirs, and she’d be left to rot. Away from the rest of society.
Nora was always hidden away.
After Nora’s accident, her mother quickly withdrew her from London’s drawing rooms and socials. Her friends withdrew their acquaintance, fearing the repercussions she might have on their future marriage prospects.
Everyone thought her simple now that she stammered. Nora was a plague to everyone, it seemed.
Which was why, as she wove herself up and down the mountain, she was content. Even as she spotted a plume of gray smoke pouring out of Mrs. White’s guest cottage. The older woman hadn’t mentioned anything to Nora about a visitor at their tea last week.
That was curious. Mrs. White told Nora everything, perhaps in part to fill the silence that often fell between them. Or perhaps because Mrs. White slipped whiskey into her tea when she thought Nora wasn’t looking. Nora would have to overcome her fear of speaking at some point, especially since Mrs. White had instead been occupying her time with Mr. Jacobs, the widower in town.
Nora did not care to know what type of lover Mr. Jacobs was, even though Mrs. White certainly felt inclined to share the details. It was absurd. Nora was certain there weren’ttypesof lovers.
Mistresses were lovers. Wives were vehicles for important men to pass on titles.
Coupling would never be an intimate experience. Nora did not harbor any fantasies for how a husband would handle her. She would submit to him on their wedding night, her night-rail pushed up to her waist until, after a minute or two, he finished. Sheep were quick at mating. She expected the same of men.
Nora drew in a deep breath when she came to a stop at the foot of the mountain, her body pulsing with energy. A figure in the distance drew her attention.
Below the pink-washed landscape of early dawn, a man bent over a canvas perched on an easel. His shoulders hunched forward as he leaned on a cane with one hand, holding a paintbrush in the other.
Was the new tenant a painter?
He was too far away for her to make out any details—thank goodness for that. Nora bowed her head and changed direction. It might be longer to return home by going right, but it was a sacrifice she was willing—
“You, stop there.”
She froze, her head snapping up to the man waving at her, his paintbrush still clutched in his hand. His voice, though cutting, was akin to a quick caress against the cheek. Warm, inviting.
Nora drew in a breath, her heart racing as she ignored him and resumed walking.
“Stay there.”
