Well, if Allie hadn’t liked Mr. Penn-Leith already, he would climb in her estimation simply for having irritated the mighty Duke of Kendall.
“You mean you regret not keeping me chained in my cage, Kendall?” she breathed in return.
Allie would never forgive him for kidnapping her as he had, not to mention the laudanum. Surely Saint Peter had reserved Kendall a special place in hell for that offense alone.
“Enough of this recalcitrance. I provide boundaries for your own good.”
“I do believe that is precisely what any gaoler would say.”
“You are not my prisoner.”
“Truly, Kendall? Then you will deed over the Salzi Mine and permit me to return to Italy?”
“Cease this absurd obsession, Lady Allegra. Your future is here in England . . . with me.”
Allie gritted her teeth and shoved the pain of his words down, down, down.
Once upon a time, her twin had been the other half of her soul. Their minds so attuned, they could complete one another’s sentences.
Once upon a time, they had been Tristan and Allie to one another, not the stilted, formalKendallandLady Allegraof now.
As Tristan, he had been the brother who held her hand on nights when their dark nursery felt too oppressive. The one to dry her tears when their mother had ridden off again for London or Paris or whatever place their father demanded. The one to soothe Allie when their father lashed her with the caustic edge of his tongue—or worse, his fist.
As Allie, she had been the sister to coax Tristan outside when he had become too lost in a book. The one who had raced him from the home farm to the mill pond, seeing who could undress first before diving into the frigid water. The one who had fiercely defended him against anyone who mocked his shy nature, even their cruel father.
Now, it was as if the Tristan of her memory had been replaced by a terrifying automaton who resembled her twin but sounded and acted like their tyrannical sire.
She and her brother had become pugilists in opposing corners of a boxing ring—figuratively bludgeoning and bruising at every turn—all traces of their former connection erased.
Allie loathed Kendall. She would never forgive him for his perfidy. Years ago, in her greatest hour of need, he had spurned her cries for help and betrayed her to their father. Then last summer, Kendall had the audacity to have her drugged and kidnapped from Italy. When she finally landed on English soil, he immediately imprisoned her at Hawthorn. Before coming to London last week, she had only seen her twin three times since arriving in October.
For a woman who craved freedom, her existence was as constricted as possible without being in a literal prison. Her life’s goal had devolved into ridding herself of Kendall’s controlling leash. To seizing the reins of her own future once more.
Allie looked at the dais . . . which was probably a mistake.
Mr. Penn-Leith snared her gaze once more.
Truly, the Scot’s attention was akin to cheery sun on a January day. Allie longed to bask in its captivating warmth, letting the warm rays soak into her winter-weary soul.
More the fool her.
Such an instinct would only hamper her plans.
And yet, she didn’t look away.
From the corner of her eye, she noted the dent in Kendall’s brow deepen. His fisted hand opened and closed on his thigh—practically a conniption fit for one so restrained.
Her twin glanced at her and then looked back to Mr. Penn-Leith.
Was he finally connecting the poem with her exploits in Italy?
Allie bit her lip. Her night had only needed this one final complication.
No matter. She would persevere.
Allie had a plan. Kendall would rue the day he double-crossed her.
Mr. Penn-Leith finished the poem with a dramatic couplet:
