In short, Isolde knew her behavior must remain above reproach if she wished to have any standing in Polite Society.
A fact Kendall appeared more than ready to exploit.
He spread his left hand in a half circle, as if indicating the room. “Our current situation—you, uninvited, in my bedchamber in the dead of night—is yet another particularly flagrant example of your poor choices.”
Isolde glared at him, her heart a trapped rabbit beneath her breastbone.
Though her mind snagged on one salient word.
“Uninvited, Your Grace?” she asked, tone incredulous. “Do ye make a habit, then, ofinvitinggently-bred young ladies into your bedchamberof an evening? The fact would hardly surprise me. Regardless, may I refer ye, once more, tae my earlier comment about what constitutes gentlemanly conduct.”
“And again, you are hardly in a position to quiz me on appropriate behavior,my lady.” The honorific spilled from his lips with mocking irony.
He continued to glare from across the room, his dark eyes glittering.
Vividly, Isolde remembered their first encounter . . . years ago in the Duke of Montacute’s garden. The meeting no one knew of save herself and Kendall.
He had appeared boyish then—dark-eyed and dark-haired—his gaze openly peering into hers. The precise opposite of his expression now.
At first, on that afternoon, she had been horrified to mistake Lord Hawthorn for John Gordon, terrified that her misstep would be reported to Old Kendall and then on to her disappointed parents.
But then, Hawthorn had smiled and flirted, easily volleying back her ripostes. He had been warm and clever and . . . unexpected.
It had been enlightening.
As had been the delicious curl of attraction that had stirred in her stomach. John never inspired butterflies; he was more brother than friend.
But Lord Hawthorn . . . well, he had loosed an entire flock of winged fluttering, battering her chest and setting her pulse to thrumming. Their too-brief conversation had spooled through her mind more times than she cared to admit. And even now, years on, she could still recall the searing press of his lips to her wrist.
She had thought of him for days afterward, wondering against reason if he would seek her out, if they would converse again.
And then came that disastrous second meeting at the opera, when Hawthorn had realized her identity, and any warmth she felt for him had died with his words—I have no wish to associate with vulgar riff-raff.
Now, all traces of that earnest, charming youth had been subsumed into the arrogant, haughty mantle his father had molded. Meeting one another again a few weeks past, Kendall had made his disdain and contempt for herself clear.
Though Isoldehadrecently formed a friendship with the duke’stwin sister, Lady Allegra, during the lady’s stay at Muirford House. Allie insisted there was good within her brother.
If so, Isolde had yet to see it.
She met Kendall’s narrow-eyed glower with one of her own, her heartbeat a rapid tattoo against her ribs.
His lip curled in a faint sneer, the gaslit sconce beside the bed casting his face into planes of light and dark. “Please vacate my bedchamber immediately, Lady Isolde. I should hate to summon a footman.” He shot a telling look at the servants’ pull beside the bed post to his left.
Isolde feared her heart would give out. Would Kendall tell her father of this?
Hadley was an indulgent and doting parent, but invading a guest’s bedchamber in the dead of night was truly beyond the pale.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” she said with saccharine sweetness, dropping the duke her prettiest curtsy. “I shall leave ye to your rest, Your Grace.”
Clutching her letters in both hands, she arrowed for the door.
“Dare I hope you plan to burn those posthaste?” he asked.
She froze and pivoted to look at him once more.
Kendall nodded toward the letters nestled against her palm.
Like a simpleton, Isolde glanced down at the bundle, as if surprised to find them there.
