Isolde’s spine straightened, as it tended to do when she felt threatened. Unfortunately, such moments rendered her more reckless than usual.
She knew this, and still, she could not stem her tongue.
“Do your worst, Your Grace.” She pivoted for the door. “I’ll be waiting for ye.”
2
May 1849
London, England
Two Years Later
. . . The Duke of Kendall is currently on a meteoric rise to power within Her Majesty’s government. Having shed the disgraces of his father, he has become the most sought-after guest among hostesses this Season. As a boon to our female readership, the editors of this publication have heard rumors that His Grace may finally be searching for a Duchess . . .
—article in theThe London Tattler
Tristan Gilbert, Duke of Kendall, detested balls.
He disliked hot, stuffy ballrooms filled with matchmaking mammas—their fresh-faced daughters in tow—who flocked to quiz him on the weather and the possibility of a ride along Rotten Row.
He disliked witnessingthe absurd indignity of dancing, elbows flying, hair bouncing. And even worse, enduring the expectation that he himself might engage in such ludicrous behavior.
However, Kendall particularly disliked balls as they often brought him into proximity with Lady Isolde Langston. Words rose to describe her—scapegrace, virago, termagant. Truly, it was astonishing the lady was still received at all.
Thankfully, most of thetonfollowed Kendall’s lead in shunning her.
Case in point, Lady Isolde stood across the ballroom, fanning her face with careless insouciance. Guests eddied around her, but few acknowledged her presence. And if they did, it was only to nod a greeting at the young woman standing at Lady Isolde’s side—her sister, Kendall supposed, the lady’s similar height, build, and red hair all being clues.
As he watched, old Lord Masterson tottered over to the pair—leaning heavily on his cane—and struck up a conversation. Lady Isolde replied with a polite smile, appearing oblivious to the way Masterson ogled her bosom. The man’s leering raised Kendall’s hackles even at thirty paces.
Though . . . Kendall’s eyes narrowed . . . Lady Isolde’s dresswasrather daring. Yards of shimmering dark green satin banded across her upper arms to showcase bare shoulders and the swell of her bosom before falling to cinch her trim waist. The contrast of the luminous silk with the lady’s creamy skin and vibrant auburn hair . . .
Kendall looked away, but not before seeing Masterson grin and lean in to murmur something in Lady Isolde’s ear, causing the lady to flinch.
Kendall’s stomach lurched.
A true lady would remain at her mother or father’s side and avoid such impertinence.
Granted, a true lady would not be nearly thirty years of age, unmarried, a known bluestocking, and attending balls as if she were a débutante embarking—
“Smile, Tristan,” Kendall’s twin sister, Allie, hissed at his elbow. “Or at the very least, adopt a less brooding scowl.”
Kendall looked down at his twin.
Only his sister had permission to call himTristan, an homage to a time long past. When the two of them had raced twigs downstream and chased dandelion fluff through meadows. When he had been idealisticand sentimental. When his twin herself had been carefree and starry-eyed.
Both of them had fundamentally changed over the ensuing years. So much so, that he scarcely thought of himself asTristananymore.
Consequently, the moniker both soothed and grated in equal measure . . . all reasons why Allie continued to use it. His twin delighted in needling his ducal pride, and he tolerated her teasing as a sort of penance. Years before, his actions had prevented their father from using her as a pawn, but those same actions had also ruthlessly betrayed her trust.
And yet, Allie had somehow forgiven him for his cruelties, choosing instead to love him and renew the intense bond of their twinship.
“I cannot appear pleased to be here, as well you know.” He tugged on one cuff, straightening the fabric of his shirtsleeve. “My brooding—as you put it—wards off sycophants and ambitious débutantes. Idespiseballs, and you are the only person on this planet I would humor by attending one.”
“I so adore when you wax grumpy and hyperbolic,” she grinned, batting her gray eyes at him. Like himself, Allie had inherited their mother’s dark Mediterranean coloring, which made the contrast of her light eyes—the only positive gift from their father—even more striking. “But I thank you for the decidedly-backhanded compliment. Though if you intend to become Prime Minister one day, you should likely learn to enjoy balls more.”
Kendall suppressed a grimace, as Allie had the right of it. Since their father’s death, he had been so focused on eradicating the stain of Old Kendall’s actions, he rather neglected entertainments such as balls.
