Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
“Your Grace,” Lady Grisham said sharply, stepping forward. “Apologies if we disturb your peace, but this is a private family matter.”
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped to the voice behind her.
Alasdair stood only a few paces away, towering and rigid, like a storm barely held at bay. His posture was taut, jaw clenched, his dark green eyes fixed on Lady Grisham and on her. But it was the stillness in him that struck Elizabeth most, the kind that came before something broke.
“Huh,” he murmured, stepping closer. His voice was low and dangerous, the sound of a blade being drawn. “From what I was hearin’, ye were nae treatin’ her like family at all.”
Lady Grisham’s lips curled in disdain. “Be that as it may, whatever is happening here does not concern you, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. This could not be happening. Not here. Not now.
“Is that what ye believe?” Alasdair’s voice sharpened. “Then I cannae say I respect it. When I see a lady dragged through the garden paths like livestock, it troubles me.”
Elizabeth startled slightly as his hand reached out—not roughly, but with a quiet, steady strength and settled on her arm. A protective gesture. A claim.
Her skin tingled where he touched her.
“Let go of her.”
She wasn’t even being held anymore, but the air between her and Lady Grisham still felt heavy, poisonous. The older woman didn’t move.
“Let me repeat meself,” he said, his voice slicing through the silence. “Let. Her. Go.”
“I won’t do that, Your Grace,” Lady Grisham snapped. “You may be a duke of wealth and good repute, but you are not her family.”
Elizabeth stiffened. That word—family—always sounded wrong coming from Lady Grisham’s lips.
Alasdair’s lips curved slowly, mockingly. “Of good repute? I could have sworn yer face turns sour every time ye see me, Lady Grisham.” There was amusement in his voice now, dangerous, deliberate. “As for me not bein’ her family… that can change.”
Elizabeth blinked. What?
“W-what?” Lady Grisham sputtered.
But Alasdair was no longer looking at her.
He turned to Elizabeth fully then, and the world seemed to narrow. His broad shoulders cast her in shadow, but it wasn’t the darkness she felt. It was heat. Urgency. And something else she hadn’t dared name.
“Marry me, Elizabeth.”
Her breath caught. Her entire body froze.
It was not a joke. His voice was too steady, his gaze too intense.
The words struck her like a thunderclap.
Marriage? Now? Here?
Lady Grisham burst into harsh laughter. “Your Grace, I will say this respectfully, but you are insane!”
Elizabeth wanted to laugh too, to deny the moment. Surely this was another one of her fevered dreams.
But she couldn’t.
Because Alasdair wasn’t smiling. His eyes never left hers. And beneath all her panic, something strange curled in her chest: hope.
“Many people say I am,” he murmured, and though his tone was mild, the power in his words hit her square in the chest. “But me offer stands, Elizabeth.”
She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Think carefully before you regret this, Your Grace,” she said, and her voice trembled.
His jaw tightened, then eased. “I have thought of ye marrying another, Elizabeth, and it’s—” He paused, searching for the words. “Marry me. If ye daenae want to, say no. But at least choose yer fate. Ye deserve freedom. One thing I can promise ye is—ye’ll be free with me.”
Free. The word echoed like a bell in her skull.
Lady Grisham stepped forward again, venom in every movement. “Elizabeth, I hope you’re not considering an offer from a savage lord. You don’t know why he’s here, nor his true political allegiances. He’s not polished. You’ll bring scandal on us all.”
But Elizabeth wasn’t looking at her anymore.
She was watching Alasdair.
He didn’t flinch. “I cannae let ye suffer any longer,” he said, softer now, as if the two of them were the only ones in the garden.
Her throat tightened. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
Alasdair looked at her like she was the only person he saw.
“Ye might believe that a proposal from me means ruin, but I offer her respect, Lady Grisham,” he said, though his words were meant for her.
“She can choose how she lives with me. That’s more than ye’re willin’ to give, pushin’ her toward men who care only for heirs and appearances. ”
“You are the insolent brute they all say,” her stepmother hissed. “You’ll make her the scorn of all London.”
Elizabeth flinched.
“Enough!” Alasdair’s voice thundered. Heads turned. A few ladies gasped.
“You may not have birthed her,” he growled, “but ye are responsible for her by marriage to her faither. Stop treatin’ her like her only worth is to be sold off to the highest bidder.”
The words hit something deep inside her. Something buried, something raw.
“You have no right to speak to me like that, you Highland savage.”
“Then ye daenae have to hear the rest of this,” he snapped. “Elizabeth gets to choose now. No pressure. If ye daenae want to marry me, I’ll leave.”
Elizabeth stared at him. His face was resolute, honest. This wasn’t a performance.
“What would it mean?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
“It means ye choose yer own path,” he said gently. “Ye daenae belong to her. She doesnae treat ye like kin. Come with me. I won’t make decisions for ye, but I won’t make them without ye either.”
It was then Lady Grisham delivered her last blade. “Think of your late mother before making such a foolish choice.”
Elizabeth turned to her stepmother, a new steadiness in her spine. “My mother didn’t manage to teach me many things,” she said softly. “She died when I was young, but she showed me art. Music. And most of all, she showed me kindness.” Her eyes narrowed. “She would never speak to me as you do.”
Lady Grisham’s face contorted in fury. But Elizabeth no longer cared.
Alasdair extended his hand.
And she took it.
Her fingers curled around his without hesitation.
“You still need my permission to marry, Elizabeth,” Lady Grisham said, but her voice had lost its edge.
“You will give the permission,” Alasdair said calmly, “or I’ll go to the scandal sheets and say I’ve ruined Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth gasped, stunned.
“You’d never do that,” Lady Grisham whispered, faltering.
“Oh, is that so?” His smile turned cold. “What did ye say I was? A savage brute?”
Lady Grisham froze. She believed him now. She truly did.
“All right,” she muttered at last. “You have my consent.”
Elizabeth felt something twist inside her. Something like relief, something like triumph.
Alasdair turned to her, his voice low. “I’ll acquire a special license,” he said. “And we’ll marry as soon as possible, lass.”
This time, Elizabeth didn’t tremble.
This time, she nodded.
Alasdair could scarcely believe what had come out of his mouth.
He had meant to stop Lady Grisham from berating Elizabeth.
And yet, in the span of a few moments, he’d done far more than raise his voice.
He had defended Elizabeth. Then—God help him—he had offered marriage. When that wasn’t enough to silence her vulture of a stepmother, he had gone so far as to threaten scandal. Threatened to ruin the very woman who’d been haunting his sleep.
And to make it worse—or better?—he had promised a special license.
A wedding by week’s end. Bloody hell.
“I knew she consumed you,” came Seth’s low voice from around the corner, “but I did not expect that.”
Alasdair didn’t even glance back. His friend always lingered when things were likely to explode—and this had been a full detonation.
Alasdair simply kept his eyes fixed on Elizabeth.
He had done it because she’d looked cornered, her eyes wide, her whole body tense like she was preparing to shatter. He’d seen women used and tossed aside by men with polite smiles and honorable names. He’d seen enough of that in his own home growing up.
He couldn’t bear the thought of it happening to her. Not Elizabeth.
“Fine, Your Grace,” Lady Grisham said at last, voice tight with fury. “Take care of her, if you must. But don’t expect my blessing. And I highly doubt you’ll get her father’s, either. Not when you’ll be rushing to make it happen.”
Alasdair’s jaw tensed. He didn’t dignify her with a smile. “I wouldnae dream of waitin’ for yer blessin’, Lady Grisham.”
Lady Grisham couldn’t meet his gaze. But the hatred in her posture radiated off her like heat. Her voice had gone colder, but he could tell she was boiling beneath the surface. No doubt already thinking of ways to twist this into her own advantage or shield herself from the fallout.
It didn’t matter.
Her words only confirmed what Alasdair had known for years: no matter his wealth, no matter his title, no matter how carefully he learned their customs or mimicked their polished London vowels, there would always be those in the ton who looked down on him.
His blood, his accent, his Highland origins, they would never be enough. But for once, he didn’t give a damn.
Lady Grisham turned her full attention to Elizabeth, and he stiffened as her voice went venomously sweet.
“Fix your face,” she hissed. “Make it look like you’re enjoying yourself. Like someone you like has just proposed to you. Because right now, it looks as though you’re about to cry. We will return to the gathering and smile. You’ve humiliated us enough for one afternoon.”
Elizabeth didn’t argue. She simply nodded. “I’m coming.”
Her voice was too quiet. Measured. A little too still. It wasn’t the voice of someone newly engaged, or even angry. It was the voice of someone who had grown used to containing everything they felt.
Alasdair’s heart twisted. Had he just done to her what everyone else had been doing—cornered her into a decision? Even if his intentions were noble, she hadn’t chosen him freely. Not really.
Lady Grisham gave him one last glare, then stalked off, fanning herself furiously as if trying to air out her own fury. But Elizabeth stayed. Just a few paces behind.
She looked at him like she was trying to read something in his face. And he hated how unsure she seemed.
“Are ye all right?” he asked, more gently than before.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose I am. It could have been worse.”
Worse.
The word cut through him like a blade. That was how she measured her days, wasn’t it? Not by happiness or safety, but by how much she could endure.
“That’s not good enough,” he said before he could stop himself. “Ye deserve better than not worse.”
She didn’t answer right away, and he felt the weight of her gaze on him.
“Do you mean it?” she asked. “The proposal?”
“Aye,” he said, without hesitation. His voice felt steady now, even if the rest of him wasn’t. “I mean it. I’ll get us a special license. Ye’ll be me wife before the week is over.”
He waited. Held his breath. Part of him braced for her to run.
Instead, she nodded, slowly, carefully. As if she were still trying to believe it herself.
And in that nod, he saw it: not joy, not yet. But trust.
It terrified him. And it made him want to deserve it.