Ergo. . . her current situation.
With a steadying breath, Isolde quietly pushed the bedchamber door closed. Fortunately, the sturdy oak swung silently on well-oiled hinges—thanks in part, she was sure, to her mother’s equally well-oiled staff.
Pressing her back to the now-closed door, Isolde surveyed the dim room.
To her left, a large fireplace stood—coals smoldering in the grate—with two tartan-clad wingback chairs angled toward it. The mantel clock ticked steadily, a nagging reminder of both the late hour and her need for haste.
Directly in front of her, a pair of windows stretched from floor to ceiling—shutters pulled shut and curtains drawn—a tall chest of drawers nestled between them. Beside the windows, gas-lit sconces sputtered, flames low.
To her right, a large fourposter bed, draped with lavish blue velvet fabric, dominated the room.
Most significantly . . . Tristan Gilbert, Duke of Kendall, lay asleep in the middle of the bed, the steady rise and fall of his chest lifting the counterpane. Gaslight from a nearby sconce rimmed the left side of his body.
Why had the duke chosen today, ofalldays, to arrive on her parent’s doorstep?
Isolde took another steadying breath, fearful the frantic pounding of her heart would wake the man. Closing her eyes, she slowly counted to ten, willing her pulse to calm.
Truly, this entire situation was Kendall’s fault.
If His bloody Grace hadn’t arrived unexpectedly this afternoon,then Lady Hadley’s best bedchamber—the one reserved for guests who outranked Lord Hadley—would have remained unoccupied.
And the private letters Isolde had hidden in the chest of drawers would have remained safe, both from her prying siblings and, potentially, the one person in all of Britain she didnotwant to read them—the Duke of Kendall.
But Kendall had sent word from Montrose Harbor of his arrival and rolled up the drive shortly after luncheon. His Grace purportedly wished to fetch his sister who had been staying at Muirford House. However, Isolde suspected the sudden visit to be another gambit in the endless chess match between the duke and her father.
Worse, His Grace then had the audacity to be wounded during an altercation with an Italian revolutionary. Isolde could scarcely blame the Italian for firing a pistol. Heaven knew, Kendall regularly inspired vitriol in strangers and acquaintances alike, even if they weren’t brandishing a weapon.
When Old Kendall had finally passed four years ago, everyone had hoped the duke’s heir would depart from his sire’s autocratic ways. That perhaps Lord Hawthorn’s tendency toward arrogance had been more for his father’s benefit than truly innate.
But . . . no.
The current Duke of Kendall was every whit as high-handed and domineering as his sire. Even injured, he had sent Hadley’s servants scrambling for a doctor, for French brandy, for hot water to bathe himself. Though superficial, his wound had bled to a shocking degree and required stitches. Who knew how long His Grace would remain at Muirford House convalescing?
Thankfully, the local physician had likely administered a heavy dose of laudanum after stitching the duke’s shoulder, ensuring Kendall slept deeply and, therefore, granted them all a reprieve from his temper.
Isolde opened her eyes and spared another glance for Kendall.
The duke was in a rather surprising state of dishabille, even for a man asleep and recently wounded.
Before this moment, Isolde would have wagered that His Grace slept fully clothed—coat pressed, hair pomaded, cravat immaculately tied. Kendall always appeared so strait-laced and stern, it was difficult toimagine him as anything approaching human. He and Isolde might be similar in age, but His Grace gave the impression of a middle-aged man in a youth’s body. Granted, his unnaturally gray hair contributed to the perception. Like his father, Kendall had grayed shockingly young.
But the gentleman currently beneath the counterpane was neither inhuman nor aged.
His hair flopped loose across his brow and stuck out around his ears like a haystack, the gray strands contrasting with his unlined face. The same could be said for the silver stubble rimming the sharp edge of his jaw.
His shirt was unbuttoned entirely—the ends of it disappearing under the quilt bunched around his waist. A white bandage wrapped his right shoulder and upper arm.
A light furring of hair—gray, of course—covered his chest that, even from across the room, Isolde could see was surprisingly muscled. What did His Grace do to acquire those muscles? Whip peasants? Berate underlings?
Most interestingly, like a wee boy fallen from an apple tree, he slept with childlike abandon, limbs loose and sprawled across the bed.
It was . . . unexpected.
Swallowing, Isolde tore her eyes from Kendall’s sleeping body, running clammy palms down her dressing gown.
Enough ogling. Retrieve your letters and leave.
Stepping on tiptoe, she soundlessly crossed the room to the large chest of drawers between the windows. Thankfully, the thick pile of the expensive Savonerrie rug muffled the occasional creak of the floorboards.
