Fortunately, she successfully crushed the wave of interest and curiosity that threatened to rise.
The duke crossed his arms, feet planted wide. “Say what you must, my lady, and then get the hell out of my library.” That muscle in his jaw jumped again.
“Manners, Your Grace.” Isolde mimicked histskingnoise, unable to stem her tongue. “I should think that a student of Mr. Whewell—” Here she paused to shoot a pointed look at the book he had discarded. “—would be capable of deducing the reason for my presence.” She gave him a wee smile. “The scientific method and all that.”
Isoldeknewshe was a fool to taunt him. She wished to inspire cooperation, not engender more vitriol. But there was just something aboutthisman that provoked her. That enjoyed jabbing at his cold exterior, willing it to shatter and spill turbulence into the space between them.
“No,” he replied.
“No?” She frowned. “Meaning . . . ye refuse tae even guess?”
“Noooo.” He drew the word out, as if speaking to a particularly lack-witted child. “I will not stop my investigation into your father’s business dealings.”
Oh.
He did not elaborate further.
Isolde settled further into her chair, propping her chin on her knuckles with deliberate insouciance. “I would appreciate more information.”
“I do not have to explain my actions to one such as yourself.”
“Your Grace, perhaps ye would consid—”
“If you have truly studied Mr. Whewell’s work”—he mimicked her telling look at the book in question—“then consider this an exemplary situation in which to utilize his scientific methodology—deducing my reasoning for yourself.”
Isolde hated his smug expression.
She preferred blackguards to be monolithic and blessedly un-paradoxical. Yet, Kendall remained stubbornly multi-faceted—both an absolute arse of a manandinterestingly well-read and intelligent.
Worse . . . here she admitted a painful truth to herself . . . were he a different person—onenotimpossibly conceited and dedicated to destroying her father—she would likely fancy him.
Unbidden, she remembered that first meeting in Montacute’s garden. How attraction had swirled, weaving like gossamer between them and fluttering with each syllable.
And then, once more, she had to quash the memory.
“So if that is all,” the duke continued, “I must once again demand you vacate my home.”
Isolde ignored his request. “We both know ye don’t like me, Your Grace.”
He snorted.
“I don’t ken what I did tae earn such disdain.”
“Shall I compose a list?” With deliberate boredom, he flicked open his pocket-watch again and studied the time. “Though given the breadth of what must be cataloged, it will likely take what is left of the day, if not more.”
Isolde sat up slightly and waved a careless hand, refusing to permit his words to sting. “Precisely. Your argument is with myself, but as ye cannot wage war against a mere woman without being branded a cad, ye be choosing tae attack my father instead. I’m asking ye to stop. If your quarrel is with myself, then address me.”
“Lady Isolde, my dispute is squarely with your father.” He snapped the watch case closed and returned it to his waistcoat pocket. “How typical of your own conceit to assume that any action I undertake involves yourself. I cannot say I ever devote an iota of cranial energy to thinking upon you.”
Isolde’s eyebrows winged upward in disbelief. The man studied her like a mathematician studied an unfathomable equation, far too often and too studiously for his claimed apathy to ring true.
“Mmm, why do I doubt your sincerity?” She reached for the tumblerof whisky, taking a healthy sip before rotating it slowly in her fingers, permitting the amber liquid to catch the light.
“Is that . . . is that my Glenturret Scotch?!”
Isolde found the outrage in his voice utterly delightful.
“Scotch?” she asked, affronted. “I don’t know what ye can mean. This—” Here she lifted the glass. “—isuisge beatha, the breath of life . . . or whisky to those who don’t speak Gaelic. Though I suppose aSassenachlike yourselfwouldcall it Scotch.” She took another sip. “It is quite excellent, which is not surprising as it was brewed in Scotland. Were ye tae mend fences with my father, he might send ye whisky that is superior tae even this.”
