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.
“Nora, I think we’ve killed my tenant.”
Footsteps seemed miles away before a hand brushed against his forehead. He swore his eyelids must be weighted because they wouldn’t open. He smelled heather and felt the soft touch of a younger hand.
“Is he dead?” the same woman asked.
Silence.
He knew the answer—knew it as soon as he saw her bending over him, her dark hair curtaining them both, her eyes the darkest blue he’d ever seen.
He had died. He was certain of it.
“Nora, is the man breathing?”
Again, no answer, but this time lace gloves gripped his cheeks, turning his head from left to right, before the older woman came into focus.
“Mrs. White, I presume,” he said. Or at least he thought he said. No one responded, and they carried the conversation without him.
“No blood. Might be a nasty fall. I’ll fetch the doctor. Help me bring him to bed.”
Arms hooked under his armpits and he was dragged to what he assumed was the bed. Nothing stayed in focus long. His eyes barely stayed open.
“It’s a good thing you’re so fond of hiking, Nora. Good for the lungs,” the older woman huffed. “On the count of three.”
Isaac fought off the beckoning call of sleep, in spite of the throbs radiating through his skull. For being so young, he was beginning to feel rather old with each new injury. At this rate, he’d likely never see twenty-nine.
“I’m fine,” he said. His voice cracked as the air returned to his lungs. “Don’t worry yourself.”
Mrs. White peered over him, coming in and out of focus. Her ebony hair was highlighted with one large streak of pure white by her temples. Ironic.
“Nonsense, the lot of you English. You’re not to leave this bed, Mr. Barnes. Miss MacAllen will stay if you need anything. I’ll be back with the doctor.”
“I must insist—”
“Englishmen are all the same. You’re doing yourself a favor, Nora, with Mr. Knight,” Mrs. White grumbled. She shoved Isaac back into the bed, rattling the little air in his lungs. Before he could sit up again, the younger woman, Miss MacAllen, gestured for him to remain still.
He cursed under his breath, frustrated that he was unable to keep her in focus. She looked familiar, but where had he seen her before? She waited by the foot of the bed for a beat, then turned for to the window, drawing the curtain to filter out the bright sun.
She peeked over her shoulder at him, the light washing over her in a mauve walking dress.
Surely, a woman like her couldn’t expect to enter a room and fade into the background. Not with eyes like hers—dark like sapphires. She was a petite, full-figured woman with dark chestnut hair that blazed crimson when sunlight struck. Her fingers made quick work of the fixing the pins as she smiled at him.
Her catlike eyes were edged with long lashes and thick brows. But her lips, heaven above, those lips were made for sin. They were stained as if she had recently eaten fresh berries and were small yet full as she worried them with her teeth. Her porcelain skin gave way to naturally rosy cheeks and a smattering of dark freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Sapphires, of course.Miss MacAllen was the woman with scarlet ribbons. What an idiot he had been for dismissing her so quickly the other day. If only he hadn’t been hungover from a bit too much whiskey. If only he hadn’t been so self-centered.
An hour passed, or maybe several, it was hard to tell. Not a word was exchanged as Isaac drifted from this world and into darkness, only to be brought out by the soft hum of Scottish ballads. Sweet, like the honey she stirred into his tea.
His head pulsed when he rolled over. She sat in the chair by his bed, the afternoon sun filtering through the thick lace curtain, painting a beautiful patchwork of shadows across her face.
“May I paint you again?” he asked, surprising himself.
Miss MacAllen startled, dropping the book she was reading into her lap.
“Not now,” he insisted, pushing up to rest on his elbow. “It’s just the light—�
�� He reached out, the tips of his fingers ghosting over the curve of her cheeks. “—loves your face.”
Miss MacAllen blinked, pink coloring her cheeks before she spun away.
“It’s forward of me to ask, I know.”
With her face washed in sun, she was nearly an angel. Those freckles dotting her cheekbones. He’d been an idiot to have missed them during their first meeting. Those would need to be added to the painting. It wouldn’t be complete without.
Miss MacAllen rose. She walked to the paintings resting against the wall, the few he had completed. She bent over them, selecting hers out of the lineup. He might have not started that painting for her, but somehow, including her in it, it had taken on a soul of its own.
Her fingers, elegant and long, brushed over the dried oil paint and stopped at the end of the fluttering ribbons, then looked up, locking eyes with Isaac.
Words sat on her lips—he could all but hear them, but she remained silent. His eyes were trained on her beautiful mouth, before sweeping up to note her furrowed brow.
He sat there, waiting, as if he were on a precipice. “I—”
She held up her hand on a sigh, reaching at her hip where she removed a small notepad and pencil from a concealed pocket. Her hand quickly moved over the paper, the corners of the notebook curling upward. Then she approached, holding it out for him to read.
Isaac blinked once, then twice, straining to put the words into focus.
I am mute, it said.
He cursed under his breath, bringing his hand up to his brow. The words were swimming on the page. More was written beneath, but it was too painful to read.
“I’m sorry, it’s difficult for me to read right now…” he trailed off. Her shoulders sank. He laid back, throwing his forearm over his eyes. “Please, may I paint you again?”
The bed rocked as she sat, the mattress dipping, causing him to roll toward her. He inhaled the heather, thinking back to her striding across the field at the base of the mountain in the early morning light. So fierce, so unyielding like Athena herself marching into battle.
Mrs. White mentioned her name was Nora.
“Nora,” he whispered, his eyelids growing heavy.
Her hand reached for his and squeezed. He forced his eyes open one last time as a sad smile slowly spread across her lips. She swept her fingers across his forehead and hummed.
It would be so nice to paint her again.
One day. There in the Scottish sun.
* * *
Nora kept her distance from Mrs. White after Mr. Barnes fell from the rafters. She couldn’t trust her friend not to bring her for a visit with the new tenant, so they exchanged letters asking after his health, but no visits or tea. Even Nora’s morning walks had changed. She no longer climbed the mountain to walk across the field.
She was a coward.
While waiting by his bedside as Mrs. White had fetched the doctor, Nora discovered Mr. Barnes was not only handsome but kind, and most likely a little lonely. That pain she could understand all too well.
She should have spoken to him. She should have been a good companion when he clearly needed someone in that moment.
It reopened a wound she thought her impending marriage to Stuart would solve. But marrying Stuart would only change her scenery. She had grown comfortable in her own company, until she sat there with Mr. Barnes, and suddenly she wished to speak.
Nora wished to tell him his painting was beautiful, as were the others. That perhaps they had started off their acquaintance on a disadvantage, and that she would like to start anew.
But the panic gripped her throat. Her heart raced as she scribbled her reply on the notepad. Then, when he sank defeated, something heavy collapsed around her too. Disappointment, maybe.
“Nora, stand up straight,” her mother snapped, nudging the small of Nora’s back.
Nora straightened, forcing a smile as Mrs. White stood in the hallway of Hawthorne Hall, welcoming her guests. It was a grand house, far larger than Esslemont by half, and entirely modern. There was no shortage of tapestries and antiques filling the eight reception rooms, and there were plenty of bedrooms to accommodate Mrs. White’s affinity for country house parties. Nora was always fond of the way the sun seemed drawn to this house unlike her own. And the walled gardens abutting the river.
But the sun and the gardens did little to help Nora avoid Mrs. White this evening or the dinner she was holding in honor of Mr. Barnes.
Only a few hours of her evening. Surely, Nora would survive.
Mrs. White and Nora’s mother exchanged greetings as maids divested them of their hats and cloaks. It was a small gathering, perhaps fifteen guests from the surrounding village, including Stuart and his parents.
Intimate dinners were intolerable. At least at balls, even if Nora was encouraged to enjoy them from the shadowed corners as a wallflower, she celebrated them as she wished. But here, with nowhere to hide, she would to be forced to stay present and amicable this evening. Conversation was frowned upon, as was her notepad. Her mother insisted women were meant to be seen, charming when needed, and not heard by the men—unless such attention was desired.
It didn’t escape Nora that very few women followed her mother’s guidelines—her mother included.
Nora’s father was already cozy with the rest of the gentlemen in the sitting room, discussing hunting as brandies were poured by the footmen. The ladies held their own by the piano, catching up on gossip before the subject turned to Nora’s upcoming wedding.
They carried on as if Nora were a ghost, discussing her and her future without drawing her into the conversation. Instead Nora lingered in the doorway, hidden in the shadows of the dark-paneled hall surrounded by people yet beyond reach.
What would happen if she left? Who would miss her?
No one.
But that wasn’t what upset her. No, it was more that she wouldn’t miss anyone either. Nora spent most of her twenty-two years being complacent enough to make others comfortable. In doing so, it was not others forcing her into the corners of ballrooms, but herself.
It was a lie to say she enjoyed her own company best. Nora had grown lonely, so incredibly lonely. Soon she would be Stuart’s wife, but she would still be invisible.
She hedged backward, ready to retreat when she collided against something. Nora jumped, startled, then turned to discover the fine buttons of Mr. Barnes’s evening suit. With a slow sweeping gaze, her eyes met his.
What welcoming green eyes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
What a warm, welcoming voice. And oh so dangerous.
She shook her head, unable to step away. He was solid against her, the smell of oil paint still clinging to him even though he had cleaned himself up for the dinner. The stubble along his chin had been shaven.
He inhaled, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
Nora gawked. That was so completely naughty. She skirted around him, her body suddenly too warm. Best to leave before she lost her head altogether.
“Thank you,” he said behind her.
Nora paused, looking over her shoulder as he faced her, the rest of the party carrying on behind them both.
“For last week. For sitting with me. I wasn’t the best company, and it was kind of you to stay behind, especially given our first meeting.”
She went to reach for her notepad, then stopped. What would he say if she spoke? But nerves clawed at her once again. She flashed a small smile before retreating down the hallway in search of the library.
Mrs. White’s house had served as a sanctuary to Nora over the years, especially the library. But when she pushed through the door, a chill ran up her spine.
Stuart sat on the leather sofa by the fire, his shirt unbuttoned, and Maeve was straddling his lap. His hand was beneath her skirts.
A noise escaped Nora’s mouth—a squeak, completely undignified in every way as the blood drained from her face. Her hands and feet tingled before Stuart caught si
ght of her standing there.
His features cooled, and it was as though winter suddenly settled into the library. Nora herself was shivering.
“Maeve,” he said, tugging her sister up from kissing his neck. “Sit up, will you? And then return to dinner before anyone questions where you were.”
Nora balled her fists. Slowly, her sister untangled herself from Stuart and smoothed her hair before she met Nora’s stare. Her face blanched.
“I… Please, don’t be angry, Nora. It was a mistake.”
Behind her, Stuart snorted. “Hard to believe you accidentally fell on my—”
“E-e-enough,” Nora said, her own voice frightening her. “Maeve, l-le-leave us.”
Maeve hastily wiped at her face and smoothed her hair. She strode out of the room, shutting the library door behind her.
“We’re to be ma-married, Stu-u-art.”
She was dying, surely. Nora wanted the floor to break open and eat her, she wanted to sink into the darkness. Anything to not feel her body waver under Stuart’s knowing snicker.
“I thought we agreed to Stu. Much easier to say.”
Nora strode to the bookshelf, grabbed a book, and hurled it at Stuart. He neatly dodged it and laughed. Too bad.
“We’ll still be married. This was nothing. A girlish fantasy that ran away from us. It was nothing.”
Nora threw two more books for good measure, her anger boiling. At least the last one neatly pegged him on the forehead.
Stuart frowned, rising from the couch, then lumbered toward her. “We will be married as planned. This changes nothing, and if you speak about this, I promise you will live to regret it.”
“You don’t sc-scare me.”
“Then you’re just as simple as your mother likes to remind everyone.” He came up to her, toe to toe, staring down at her. “We could have you thrown into an asylum. No one wants you anyway.”
“I be-believed you when you a-asked to marry me.” Nora glared up at him, keeping her voice low.
“You don’t believe that.” He laughed, gripping her waist to haul her up against him. “Our marriage is purely business. And unlike you, your sister is at least willing—”
The Duke’s Improper Bride Page 3
