Gently, a mere inch at a time, she eased the top drawer open. It appeared His Grace’s valet had already stowed several neatly-folded neckcloths into the chest.
Drat.
But the drawer was deceptively deep, and Isolde knew from experience that one would need to pull the drawer almost entirely out in order to access the back of it. It was unlikely the valet had noticed the ribbon-wrapped bundle tucked at its farthest end.
Though seeing Kendall’s cravats nearly touching her decidedly-private letters underscoredwhytonight’s mission had been necessary.
She darted a glance at Kendall. The duke still slept soundly.
Finally after an eternity of sliding the drawer open—past His Grace’s neckcloths and a small case which she guessed housed cravat pins—her letters appeared.
Truly, she should have burned them already. It was just . . . she had yet to confess the sordid tale scrawled across their pages to her parents. And the letters would be useful for that discussion.
Licking her lips, Isolde quietly, carefully lifted the packet free. Slowly, she began to inch the drawer closed, praying it didn’t stick.
The letters in her free hand remained a heavy weight.
“Do you comprehend how thoroughly I loathe you?” A deep voice rumbled through the quiet.
Startling, Isolde slammed the drawer shut with aclack.
She whirled—the packet of letters held to her bosom like a shield—to find the duke glaring at her from his pillow, dark eyes very much alert.
Notthe gaze of a man with laudanum in his blood.
“P-pardon?” she gasped.
“I loathe you,” Kendall repeated, clearly enunciating every syllable. “I assume that if you are in my bedchamber at—” Here he paused to squint at the clock over the mantel. “—half-two in the morning, we have decided to forgo polite behavior and simply say what we think.”
The candor of his words nearly stole her breath.
“And ye loathe me?”
“Yes.” He said the word sternly, abruptly.
Well.
His low opinion came as no surprise. Isolde would say it was reciprocated.
Regardless, heat swept her cheeks, a firestorm of embarrassment, humiliation, and discomfiture. And as usual, when embarrassed, humiliated, or discomfited, she lashed out.
“I would argue, Your Grace, that constancy in polite behavior is what makes a gentleman a gentleman. If your manners wax or wane depending on the situation in which ye find a lady, are ye truly genteelly born?”
He snorted. “You are hardly a lady.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Proper behavior is rather what makes a lady a lady,” he parroted back. “And all of Polite Society knows proper behavior is somethingyoutossed to the wind years ago, long before you left for America.”
Isolde clenched her letters tighter, hating the smug surety in his words.
Yes, four years ago, she had left Scotland to attend Broadhurst College in Massachusetts. At the time, there were no universities in the United Kingdom that allowed women into their ranks. The United States was a wee bit more progressive. Her parents had been hesitant to permit her to leave, but after much negotiation and arrangement of chaperones, Isolde had prevailed—a decision she would never regret, despite others’ (i.e. Kendall’s) lowering opinion.
Her time studying abroad had opened new windows in her mind and greatly expanded her understanding of the world. In fact, she had only just returned to Britain two months past.
However as Kendall so scathingly pointed out, to pursue a university education as a lady was shocking. At best, it branded Isolde as a bluestocking. At worst, she was considered a hoyden—a woman beyond the pale. Add in her ridiculous height, flame-red hair, boundless freckles, rather angular face, and inability to stem her opinionated tongue . . . well, it was obvious why she had never quite ‘taken’ with members of theton.
Only her standing as the eldest daughter of the powerful and wealthy Earl of Hadley saved her. That and a dowry spectacularly large enough to silence even the most vociferous of detractors.
