Chapter 8 #2
Deep, rough-hewn, carrying the music of the Highlands in every word.
She didn’t want him to see her right now. Not when she looked so defeated.
“Go away,” she muttered, trying not to raise her voice.
Slow and measured steps continued to approach. “What’s the matter, Lady Elizabeth?”
She turned, and there he stood. Taller than most men she knew, with broad shoulders that seemed carved from the rugged Scottish hills themselves.
His autumn-hued hair tumbled freely, wild and untamed, framing a face that was both sharply handsome and raw with quiet strength. His verdant eyes held a mischievous glint, but beneath that, she glimpsed something deeper: an unyielding fire tempered by a surprising gentleness.
She straightened her spine and met his gaze. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I would prefer to be left alone just now.”
He took another step closer, his voice low and steady, “Ye’re nae so easily dismissed, lass. I’m nae leaving till ye tell me what’s ailing ye.”
He had to leave. He was the very last person she wished to see right now. What if Lady Grisham came to find her? Worse still, what if anyone else in the ton found them both here, alone?
No, Elizabeth had to get him to leave. Now.
“What’s ailing me is none of your concern, Your Grace,” she told him. “If you truly respect a lady, you’ll take your leave.”
The Duke’s eyes twinkled. “Ye think ye can send me away with words alone, my lady?”
“I’m not to be coddled or chased, especially not by a duke who thinks himself above the rules of society,” she retorted, the muscles in her jaw tensing.
A slow grin spread across his face. “Aye, there’s still some fight left in ye yet.”
“Did you come to mock me, too, Your Grace?” she asked, cheeks burning with frustration and shame.
He lifted a brow, mock-offended. “I wouldnae dream of doin’ that, lass.”
“Why should I believe that? You are but another bored nobleman who has nothing better to do but torment hapless debutantes, especially clumsy ones,” she said, surprised at the sudden strength of her voice.
Why didn’t she sound like this when she was in the middle of lords and ladies who didn’t mean her well earlier?
The duke’s eyes twinkled. “Clumsy? I’d rather be clumsy than bow to the ton’s frippery. It takes more grit to show that hidden fire of yers than to play silent like the rest. The ton will nae like it, but that’s their problem,” he said, the small smile staying on his lips.
Infuriating smile.
Yet, it was making her feel warm all over. Not quite the shivering lady who had to walk through the valley of polite society.
Only to stammer.
Only to be laughed at.
Only to fall.
Elizabeth bristled. “Grace and decorum aren’t mere fripperies; they are the very fabric that holds society together. Without them, there’d be nothing but chaos. A lady must mind her manners if she wishes to be heard.”
He tilted his head to the side. “And yet, life’s nae all measured steps and quiet smiles. Sometimes ye’ve got to rattle the cage, make ‘em see ye for more than a proper face. That’s where fire serves ye best.”
She squared her shoulders, “But fire without restraint is recklessness. I’d sooner be underestimated than bring ruin on myself and my sisters.”
On the final part of her sentence, the Duke straightened, as though he’d only now realized that Elizabeth was not merely thinking of herself, but her dear sisters too.
“Ye’d prefer to be a wallflower than claim the space around ye, like the woman ye are, my lady?” he said, his gaze dropping down to her lips.
Her pulse raced in her veins, her entire body magnetized by the intensity in his eyes; the very air that surrounded him intoxicated her, every part of her body aching to inch closer—
Oh, no. No, no, no, Elizabeth. This man is ruin itself.
Lady Grisham’s words echoed in her head: the duke’s reputation, the company he kept. His rugged, brutish disposition.
She had to get away from him.
“It’s better to be a wallflower, Your Grace,” she told him. “At least then, no one expects me to speak to men like you.”
“Men like me?” he asked.
“Yes. Impertinent men, Your Grace,” she replied.
Then, he chuckled. “There ye go. That’s what they all call me: wild, impertinent, a savage hidin’ beneath fine clothes, just waitin’ to show me true nature. And you… a lady who keeps to the corners of a room, yet looks at the world as if she’s meant to do more than watch it pass her by.”
His gaze swept over her—not lecherous, but discerning. Knowing. It sent a shiver across her spine.
Then came the words that stole her breath.
“I have a proposition for ye, Lady Elizabeth.”
Her stomach flipped. “A—a w-what?” she stammered, heart thudding erratically.
“Ye want to catch a suitor, aye? Is that not yer goal, me lady?”
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Y-yes,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Her cheeks burned. Was this really happening?
“I can help ye with that,” the Duke of Redmoor went on, as if he were offering her a dance and not rearranging her entire world. “Teach ye how to flirt.”
Her pulse skipped. Surely, she had misheard.
“I’ll show ye how to speak to men so they’ll actually listen,” he continued, calm and maddeningly sure of himself. “After all, I am a man. A duke, no less. I ken fine what we like to hear from a bonnie young lass like ye.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. The audacity of him! The arrogance.
And yet… underneath it all, a dangerous flicker of intrigue curled through her, betraying her better sense.
He was offering to teach her how to win. How to stop fumbling her words. How to fight for the life she wanted—for her sisters’ futures too.
The duke was dangerous.
And yet, for the first time in weeks, Elizabeth felt powerful. Seen. Invited into something wicked and bold.
“In return, what do you get?” she asked, the reasonable part in her needing answers.
“Ye’ll have to teach me how to navigate this den of vipers ye have here in London.
Ye call it polite society, but it’s an endless battle for a…
savage like me,” he smirked sardonically.
“I could use some lessons in the subtlety of yer words and gestures. The expectations, the etiquette. Everything about yer world.”
As he spoke of the ton, something shifted in his face. The charm he had so effortlessly wielded slipped away, replaced by something far more raw, fierce, almost feral. Anger, yes. But also, purpose. Determination that burned hotter than his earlier amusement.
Elizabeth took a step back.
It wasn’t just apprehension; though that pulsed through her, sharp and immediate. It was instinct. A need to protect herself. To resist the pull of a man who felt like danger wrapped in nobility. She had to remind herself not to do anything foolish.
Not to believe he was safe.
Not to believe she was.
“No, Your Grace,” she breathed, “I cannot agree to such a proposition.”
“Are ye afraid of me, lass?” he asked, his head tilting to one side.
“I’m afraid of the situation you’re presenting to me, Your Grace,” she admitted. “You may not be a stranger to scandal, but I am. I want to keep it that way and preserve my… reputation.”
The duke’s brows lifted slightly, but his voice became threaded with heat.
“Oh, I’ve nae intention of ruinin’ ye, Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured. “Not unless ye whisper the invitation with those sweet lips of yers.”
“I would never ask you for it,” she snapped, her eyes widening. “Never.”
“Ye’re so proper, aren’t ye?” Alasdair asked, his eyes curious.
“There is nothing wrong with holding on to one’s propriety, Your Grace,” she said, shivering. “You must know that this very conversation is already deeply scandalous.”
“Fair enough, me lady. However, propriety alone wouldnae catch and hold a man’s eye. Ye need a sense of mystery. Confidence,” he said, his voice lower now, each word drawn out, deliberate.
His chin tilted up, as though daring her to rise to the challenge. Elizabeth suspected he wanted her to mimic the gesture. And though her heart thudded against her ribs, she did it.
She lifted her chin, met his gaze straight on, refusing to shrink.
That, apparently, pleased him. The corner of his mouth curled. He stepped closer, slow and unhurried, like he was taking her measure.
Up close, the sharp planes of his face were more defined; weathered in a way that spoke of wind and wilderness rather than drawing rooms and ballrooms. His eyes, now clearer in the light, held a spark that felt almost… wild.
Not dangerous. Just untamed.
And somehow that made him all the more impossible to look away from.
“How would we even meet? We’ve already met under less-than-ideal circumstances,” she murmured, looking away. His stare was too consuming.
“It can be arranged. Ye’ll attend the events yer stepmaither asks ye to attend. Then, ye’ll have moments to catch yer breath in between yer, er, conversations. But for the most intensive lessons, we’ll meet… at me house.”
“No. That can’t be done,” she protested, her head snapping up to look at him again.
“Not a soul would ken. I have some paid, discreet staff who can sneak ye into me house. They’ll come for ye at the Grisham townhouse. Secretly, of course. It’d be at nighttime. The only trouble is it might take from yer sleepin’. Find a way to get some rest durin’ our breaks.”
Elizabeth gulped. Nighttime? At his house?
The words settled like warm coals in her chest—scandalous, impossible, and yet… tempting. She could already hear Lady Grisham’s voice screeching in her head, could feel the weight of everything she stood to lose.
Her reputation. Her sisters’ prospects. What little self-control she still clung to.
But then—lessons. In how to charm, to speak, to be seen. To no longer shrink.
It was outrageous. Improper in every way.
And yet… was it not also what she needed?
She looked at him again. He was so sure, so maddeningly calm. There was no leer in his eyes, no mockery. Just quiet certainty, as if he knew she would say yes.
And the worst of it? Part of her wanted to.
“I… I don’t trust you, Your Grace,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice unsteady.
The duke inclined his head, as if that was only natural.
“A wise instinct. But I could earn that trust. Slowly. We’ll meet only at public events, if that suits ye.
And if, after a lesson or two, ye’ve caught the eye of a promising suitor…
” he gave a faint, infuriatingly confident smile, “then perhaps there’ll be no need for further instruction. ”
Elizabeth wavered. Her mind was a storm: fear, shame, uncertainty. But beneath it all, something flickered.
Hope.
What if he was right? What if this wild, inappropriate arrangement could actually work? If she could learn how to be seen, how to make herself… desirable?
Not for love. Not for fairy stories.
For survival. For Wilhelmina, Daphne, and Victoria.
Desperation surged up, swallowing the last of her doubt.
She drew a shaky breath. “Very well, Your Grace,” she said softly. “We could begin at the next event.”
It was all he seemed to be waiting for, because the moment she said the words, the Duke of Redmoor inclined his head in a small, precise bow.
“Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured.
Then he turned and slipped through the French doors, disappearing into the garden as swiftly and silently as he had come.
Elizabeth stayed rooted to the spot, breathing hard. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.
What had she just agreed to? Why hadn’t she simply refused him? Fled? Joined a circus?
Instead, she had made a bargain with a Highlander. One who moved like danger cloaked in charm and was close friends with a notorious rake.
How could this possibly end well?
She sighed long, low, and tired.
That moment of quiet was shattered as the door burst open again.
Wilhelmina stormed in like a gust of wind, her cheeks flushed with fury and curls bouncing with each step. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“I—I was only trying to clean my dress,” Elizabeth offered weakly, instinctively taking a step back.
“I saw her,” Wilhelmina seethed. “The girl who tripped you. I know exactly who she is. I swear, Elizabeth, I will slap the powder off her smug little—”
“I’m all right,” Elizabeth interrupted, summoning a smile she hoped looked reassuring. It felt brittle on her face.
Wilhelmina’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look all right, Lizzie.”
Something in her voice twisted painfully in Elizabeth’s chest.
It’s supposed to be me protecting you, she thought. Not the other way around.
Suddenly, she missed Marianne and her steadiness, her wisdom, her fierce devotion. The ache was sharp, unexpected.
“I’m just tired, Mina. That’s all.”
She didn’t say a word about the Duke. About the secret bargain. About the wild, impossible notion that maybe, just maybe, he could help her.
She didn’t say that somewhere in all the shame and chaos, she’d felt a flicker of something else.
Hope. Or ruin. She wasn't sure which yet.
But it had his name on it.