Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“This simply cannot continue, Lady Inverhall,” the Duke chided, his voice clipped and firm, as they stepped into the grand foyer.
After the party had ended, Hugo was grateful to return home.
The carriage ride back to Arrowfell had been filled with a tense, heavy silence, broken only by the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones.
He hadn’t known what to say to her, but had hoped that by the time they arrived at the townhouse, he would have figured it out.
He found his eyes betraying him, lingering longer than he intended on the swell of her breasts as she arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
Her voice, low and teasing, cut through his reverie. “What cannae continue, Yer Grace? Me very existence in this world?”
“Your presentation is what concerns me,” Hugo said, his voice calm but edged with impatience as he rubbed the vein throbbing in his temple.
“Me presentation?” she echoed.
“Yes. Your wardrobe, for a start. It is quite unsuitable for London Society. I shall be placing an order at the modiste’s tomorrow. You will have a new wardrobe by the end of the week. To find a proper husband, one must look the part. That is where I have erred, expecting otherwise.”
Her eyes flashed with indignation. “A new wardrobe? Are ye truly so shallow, Yer Grace? Do ye think a few yards of fine fabric will change how these fools see me? They are simple, shallow, and I cannae—”
“It will at least keep them from openly mocking you,” he interrupted sharply. “Do you enjoy being the subject of whispers and ridicule? Being dismissed as some wild backwoods witch?”
“I enjoy bein’ meself!” she shot back, her accent thickening with anger. “I will never deny me blood, and I willnae be reshaped to fit yer frivolous London standards. This is who I am. Take it or leave it. Frankly, I couldnae care less.”
“If only it were that simple.” Hugo’s control snapped, his fists clenched at his sides. “I cannot simply ‘leave it.’ You are my responsibility, tied to my name and reputation. If you continue behaving like an untamed hellion, you will drag us both through the mud. I will not—cannot—stand for it.”
His breathing was labored now, his chest heaving with barely contained fury. He saw the shock flicker across her face as she fell silent, and found himself more irritated by her silence than her defiance.
“Do you understand me, My Lady?” he demanded, his voice low and threatening. “I will not allow you to ruin everything I have worked for. You will wear the dresses. You will learn the manners expected of a lady. And you will find a husband.”
His gaze bored into her before he spun on his heel and strode away. He left her standing there, not sparing her a backward glance.
Behind the closed door of his study, his frustration boiled over. He reached for his whisky decanter and poured himself a stiff glass of the Scottish whisky he had procured during their recent travels.
He shook his head and took a slow sip.
I cannot escape her. Every part of my life, every reminder… she haunts me.
He couldn’t stand her insolence. He couldn’t stand her silence. And he couldn’t stand how little control he truly had.
He drained his glass and set it down with a sharp thud.
That helps.
Pouring another glass, he settled into his leather chair. He reached for his father’s chess set and began to arrange the pieces, seeking clarity in strategy.
I must be creative, he mused, gripping the queen tightly. The sooner I secure a proper match for Lady Inverhall, the sooner I can sell the estate and move on with my life.
He had learned to survive by playing within the lines. But this game would require every ounce of cunning he possessed.
The Duke’s words hung in the air like a wraith, possessing a raw, almost physical presence that spooked her.
Elspeth knew a part of it was her fault, how she pushed him to the edge. Yet, she knew no other way. Something about him compelled her to push him.
Still, she stood frozen, her chest heaving. The shock of his commanding words stole her breath as she looked at herself in the foyer mirror.
How did we get here? And where do we go from here?
She closed her eyes and instead saw his eyes.
The blue pools, usually so carefully controlled, had been transmuted by a fierce, untamed fire.
A fire that matched her own. She did not understand why he reacted so vehemently to her when she was just being herself, yet she had a similar reaction to him.
Something about him got under her skin, and she cursed the part of her that wanted him to stay there. She pictured how he had spun on his heel, leaving her with the frantic beat of her heart.
No. She wouldn’t let him get to her that easily. Nor would she let him have the satisfaction of the final word.
Perhaps she could stay with a friend. Verity, or even Marion. Surely, either of them could house her.
She could announce to the Duke of Arrowfell that she was no longer his responsibility, pack her things, and march out at dawn.
She paced the halls, uncertainty knotting her stomach.
What would she say when she stood before him?
The words felt slippery, yet she trusted in her cunning and stubbornness to carry her through. This man, duke or not, would not unravel her. She had endured too much for that.
Ahead, a faint glow spilled from beneath a door. His study.
She approached quietly, lifting her hand to knock, then hesitated. She lifted it again but still paused.
Turning away, ready to retreat to her chambers and drown her frustration in sleep, she caught herself.
No. Nae yet.
With quiet resolve, she rapped firmly on the door.
“What is it?” the Duke’s voice called from within. “I know it’s you, I can tell by your footsteps. Only you walk so swiftly for someone with a slight frame.”
Of course, he kens it’s me before I even cross the threshold. Bloody arse is a mind reader too, it seems.
Elspeth hesitated before pushing the door open with a soft huff.
There he stood, just beyond the threshold.
She drew in a slow breath, catching the clean, piney scent that clung to him. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze.
She crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her. “Yer Grace, I have made up me mind. I am leavin’ this place. I’ll write to me friends in London and find some way to live free of yer hold.”
He turned then, his face grave and his eyes darkening like a gathering storm. “Leave? After the introductions I have made on your behalf, after I’ve made clear my intention to find you a husband? You would shame me by fleeing now?”
“Aye, I willnae be some prize to be paraded around and sold,” she snapped. “I willnae be a pawn in yer schemes, Yer Grace. Me future’s mine, nae yers to command.”
His gaze sharpened, his tone clipped and commanding.
“Lady Inverhall, you misunderstand your position gravely. The ton has seen you; they whisper already. Should you walk away, the whispers will grow louder, and they’ll speak of your recklessness and folly.
But those whispers will not rest on you alone.
They will stain my name, my honor, and all I have striven for. ”
Her chest rose and fell with stubborn pride. “And what of me, then? Am I to be bound to yer name and bear the scorn meant for me? Am I to be used as ye see fit?”
“You are bound to me by law and society, whether you like it or not,” he said firmly. “I will not endure the disgrace of failure.”
Elspeth’s eyes flashed. “I am no bairn to be sheltered or controlled. I willnae be tamed by threats or duty, Yer Grace.”
The Duke stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, unyielding command. “You may not see it now, but you are as much a part of my fate as I am of yours. Do not tempt me to lose my patience, Lady Inverhall.”
“Then lose it,” she shot back, fire blazing in her gaze, “and see what comes of yer folly.”
His eyes flickered, and before she could step away, his hands gripped her wrists, pulling her flush against his warm chest. His control was absolute, yet beneath it lurked an urgency that matched her own.
“You maddening woman,” he growled.
And then his lips claimed hers with fierce hunger.
Elspeth’s stubborn defiance melted away beneath the storm of desire. Caught between fury and longing, she gave in.
He felt more like a mountain than a man, his hard, ripped muscles hidden beneath his clothing.
She savored the feeling as she felt his full lips move in time with her own, each kiss more intense than the previous one. She began to pant; she could hardly breathe.
This man has stolen me away from me home, and now he has stolen the breath straight from me lungs. Heavens, I am as pulled to him as I am repulsed by him. What is this feelin’?
There was no gentleness here, no coaxing. Only raw need, fierce and unrestrained. She wanted it all, no matter how wild or dangerous.
His tongue traced her mouth, exploring with a hunger that set her skin on fire. His arms tightened around her, pressing her so close that she could feel the hard planes of his chest, the taut strength of his thighs beneath her.
His hands slid down to cup her hips, pulling her impossibly closer despite their height difference. Fingers tangled in her curls, drawing her face back to his, deepening the kiss until the world beyond ceased to exist.
“I knew these lips of yours weren’t made just to defy me,” he whispered in her ear, his voice husky. “Soon enough, they’ll be begging me instead.”
A gasp escaped her, but he swallowed it. Her hands rose instinctively, clutching the lapels of his coat. Her fingers dug into the fine fabric as if seeking the strength beneath.
She dared a quick kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat, only for him to pull her back, tilting her chin up so she would meet his crooked smile.
“Look at you. So eager, desperate to give in, aren’t you, little minx?” he breathed.
Their lips met again, fiercer still, then he broke away just enough to brush his nose against hers.
This feeling… it defies all reason. It is like magic.
A deep pull tugged at her insides, undeniable and urgent. Her body ached to close the gap between them, to claim what he offered. She pressed her body against his, desperate to feel the heat of him.
But he stepped back, releasing her with deliberate restraint.
The sudden absence left her unsteady, breathless, as if some vital part of her had been wrenched away.
He stood before her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and unreadable, yet burning with fierce, quiet need. A vein throbbed at his temple.
Yer body betrays ye, as mine does me.
“Go to your chambers,” he said quietly, his voice low but firm, every inch the Duke commanding his domain.
Her lips parted in protest, a question, a demand, yet no sound came. She was rooted to the spot, trembling, heat and frustration warring beneath her skin.
He watched her, unwavering, and his voice softened just enough to hold her fast. “Now, Elspeth.”
The authority in his tone left no room for argument.
She swallowed hard and stepped back, her heart pounding with want and resistance, knowing this was far from the last word between them.
Rejected. I have been rejected. Again.
The word echoed sharply in her mind, cold and unforgiving as she snapped herself back to reality.
Rejected by the people of Scotland, rejected by London Society, and now this cruel rejection.
Her heart grew heavy, her limbs stiff with a weariness that went beyond the physical.
Without a word, she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing as she hurried up the grand staircase and down the long corridor to her chambers.
She longed for the comfort of her bed, her heart pounding an unrelenting rhythm against her ribs, a storm she feared might break her.
She slammed the door shut behind her and collapsed onto her bed, pulling the covers over her without bothering to undress. She burrowed deeper, folding herself into the duvet, willing the harshness of the world to fade away.
Closing her eyes, she imagined the rolling hills of her homeland, the scent of heather carried on a gentle breeze. She pictured Inverhall, with its rugged beauty. The feel of cold mud beneath her boots, the braid of wildflowers in her hands.
Her thoughts drifted further to a distant memory from her childhood: a simpler time, at her family’s humble home nestled in the northern wilds of Scotland, far from the cold eyes of London.
Back home.
Memories flooded her: her mother heating water in the iron kettle over the fire as they sat alone in the kitchens at night, the staff fast asleep. The steam rising, carrying the earthy scent of peat with it. She placed fresh chamomile in a small earthenware pot and poured the hot water over it.
The delicate flowers seemed to sigh, releasing their soothing essence into the liquid.
After Elspeth had finished her cup, she told her mother that the tea was magic. But her mother had shaken her head and said, “Ye are wrong, Elspeth. Ye are the magic.”
Slowly but surely, Elspeth’s heart rate slowed. While longing for a warm cup of chamomile tea, she settled for her memories.
She let herself be grounded by the image of her mother’s face, falling into a deep, if restless, sleep.