Page 8 of The Duke's Improper Bride
Stuart rubbed his forehead and heaved a sigh. “I need coffee. Can you ring for some?”
“You promised, Stu.”
He ate up the space between them with long, angry strides. “I have looked. I’m keeping my word, Nora. Daniel is nowhere to be found, and my uncle won’t speak a word further. Says he never had a son.”
Stuart grabbed her wrist and hauled Nora close. His hand skimmed over the tan frise of her bodice before resting on her breast. “And you,” he growled, “are still going to be my wife. You’ll do as I say.”
“I w-will find him.”
“Maybe he’s best left missing. You’d do best to mind yourself.”
Nora swallowed. If she were a braver woman, if she weren’t afraid to speak, she might have asked what he meant. Instead, she nodded, her thoughts escaping to the sunrise and the man in the field. That beautiful man, the one who carried secrets in those paint-smeared hands covered with scars.
It was hard to fight off the dread filling her chest that the stranger was exactly the type of man who would keep his word. Kindness had hidden among the shadows and bruises on his face. Harder still to fight the realization that Stuart would never be that man.
Chapter 3
When it suited, and it often did, Isaac chose to leave his title a secret. In London and throughout Europe, his title afforded him certain privileges, and floating between classes of society made him a valuable asset to the British crown. In the Scottish Highlands however, the only ones he needed to contend with were the sheep.
Damn sheep.
They wouldn’t clear from the road. Not for Isaac Barnes—never mind the Duke of Ashbornham—who was attempting to walk off the discomfort that still clung to his body with each step.
Just as well. Time had all but stopped since Isaac was deposited at the cottage to recover. Three weeks might as well have been six months. The empty days were accompanied by the longest nights of his life. Each one feeling longer than the last.
Luckily, Grembly had the forethought to ensure there were painting materials at the cottage, including canvases and an easel. The only two who knew of Isaac’s love for art were Grembly and his own mother. Neither encouraged it.
And today, the Scottish rain had other ideas. He returned to the cottage, drenched, before changing and pulling out his easel to work.
Isaac smeared red paint onto his canvas as another river of raindrops trickled around him. The damn roof had a leak and the last thing he wanted to do was climb a ladder. But he wasn’t above it. That was a lesson his father taught him well, unusual for the son of a duke.
He was expected to be his own man, self-reliant too. It took years for Isaac to understand. Even with his father’s passing, it took time to untangle his self-worth from the title he hated.
Isaac’s peers were drunk with the power of their titles, eager to toss them about when they landed themselves in trouble. Or when they wanted dinner with the newest opera singer to grace London’s stages. But for Isaac, it meant he had to say goodbye to a man he loved fiercely.
His family’s dukedom was awarded after saving the life of a royal prince—some two hundred years back. While it was certainly an honor, the family seat came with strings as well. After begging for the king’s forgiveness, the prince had convinced the king to honor the man who had rescued him, but the king hadn’t been entirely charitable.
That burden never seemed to upset Isaac’s father, but he longed for more. Not that he longed for days at the London club or shooting parties, though with the right company, he did enjoy those. He wanted the freedom that his title afforded others. More than anything, he wanted the life of an artist. But if Bly’s struggle with restoring Burton Hall had taught him anything, it was that his peers were all excellent liars—living well beyond their means as they wrestled with England expanded and modernized.
How was Isaac to have a full life if he only did as was expected?
Three hours later, he hung in the rafters of Mrs. White’s cottage, patching a hole in the ceiling. Pain radiated throughout his body as he slathered white paint over the patch and the water damage. Home repair was not a common hobby of his, but if he had to look at another sheep, Isaac would lose his mind.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” he shouted, the ladder rocking under his feet.
Another knock. He cursed, then again, as another knock rang out.
He threw the short-bristled paintbrush into a small bucket of paint and took a step down when the cottage door swung open. A gust of wind burst into the room. The ladder swayed, and Isaac tumbled to the floor.
His breath left him in a rush and his ears rang. White paint splattered around him before the empty pot clattered by his feet.
Damn Scotland. Damn Corsica.
“Oh my word,” an older woman shouted.
Isaac struggled to open his eyes and groaned.
