Page 5 of The Duke's Improper Bride
Her cloak fluttered against her legs as the scarlet ribbons of her bonnet stirred in the cool, sweet breeze sweeping over the field. She’d never grow tired of the smell of fresh heather and earth. She would miss it when she was brought south to Stuart’s family seat after their impending wedding in two months.
She hedged forward.
Then the man shouted, “Damn it, stay, will you? I only need a moment longer.”
Nora balled her fists. Why did everyone assume they could order her about? Did they not realize she had value in this world, and a path of her own?
Nora squinted. The unruly dark hair of the man tussled about in the breeze. He wore a long olive coat—a tailored cut that defined his height even as he bent to clutch onto the cane. What she couldn’t make out was why he, a self-possessed arsehole, was bellowing at her from across a field before seven in the morning.
Anger bubbled up within her as she waited, yielding to his demand. The anger simmered and brewed, and words flew about inside her mind. Begging for her to release them into the world. She had a mind of her own, and a voice. At least, at one point in her life. Since her accident, Nora had made a habit of swallowing those words to the point where now, she stood still as a stranger rudely ordered her about.
“Very well,” he said, his voice almost carried away on the breeze. His attention already returned to the painting before him.
Dismissed just as quickly as he had barked at her to stay. Like a dog.
What a fitting example of manhood, Nora thought bitterly, spinning on her heel. No surprise that he was English.
Nora marched, not slowing even as the man came into focus—a beautiful man, his dark brows pinched as he worked over the canvas. She had gathered he was tall. She also made note of his dark hair, but that was just the start. This man, though bruised and moving as if he were in pain, had a face Italian artists lusted after for their frescos and statues. He had a Roman nose accentuated by razor-sharp cheekbones.
Instead of looking away or walking past without paying much attention, she made a mistake—Nora paused just long enough for him to glance up from his painting. Yards away, she remained spellbound under his intense green eyes.
Och, but this man might be the most beautiful she had ever seen. He was a dream, the perfect representation of a moody Romantic painter, windswept and a bit wild. Wild enough that when he raised his brows, her pulse quickened. She studied his lips—the laugh lines that crowded each corner.
Interesting, that. He didn’t strike her as someone predisposed to humor.
“Sapphire,” he mumbled to himself, concentrating on his painting once more.
Nora looked away, confused. Once again, he was defining her without her permission.
Hmph.
People thought women were the weaker sex, which was ridiculous enough. But not enough was said about the male population’s lack of appropriate boundaries.
The pit of her stomach ached as Nora’s feet carried her closer, drawn to the man. She couldn’t stop them even as her heart beat wildly. She preferred not to be hidden away or stored in corners of ballrooms, but she also preferred to keep her distance from people, especially strangers. Most especially a handsome stranger who couldn’t manage to button his shirt to the top.
“Yes?” he said, peering up. Instead of backing away, she moved forward.
Nora closed the distance between them, stopped short by the canvas. She studied the stranger, the way the rich paint colors caked into the scars and bruises on his hands—tan hands that spoke of time in the sun. Warmer sun, and not the one the highlands hugged close behind rainclouds and fog. Sun that spoke of beautiful blue water and trees completely foreign to Nora. Palm trees, she believed they were called. There were palm trees on the coast of Italy, and one day, Nora would go there.
A hundred things flew through her mind and words fought in her throat to escape. Instead, she swallowed them down, her chest swelling from the effort. Without saying a word, without asking one question or making a simple introduction, Nora gestured toward the canvas then walked around to view it.
The man was a talent.
Her praise died upon her lips as she smiled, admiring her likeness painted onto a moody landscape.
“It’s the ribbons,” he said in a low, husky whisper. “The red, you see.” He brought his index finger up to the canvas, careful not to touch the wet paint.
“Hmm,” she said, peering at him from the side. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, dark stubble covering his face. There were dark bags under his eyes, and the faint smell of whiskey on his breath.
Nora reeled back, ready for a proper introduction, some context as to why she was out walking at this time of the day. This stretch of land was usually hers and hers alone, and she didn’t care for sharing. Especially not with a stranger—even a handsome English one.
Nora met his stare, her hair dancing in the wind. It picked up, as if to carry her home. It was just as well. Surely breakfast was laid out—Maeve always drank the coffee, leaving none for Nora.
What could she say? What words could she put out in the world, and why would he care?
No words came.
As Nora continued on to Esslemont Abbey, the stranger’s focus immediately returned to the painting.
