A man who truly detested her would scarcely notice the simple motion. He would turn away on a huff, point toward the door, and order her to leave.
Kendall, however . . . did none of those things.
Instead, his eyes dipped down, as if helpless against the thrall of her trailing fingers, tracking their progress with fervent concentration.
That Adam’s apple made another up-down journey as he swallowed. Audibly.
So, he was . . . not unmoved.
Glee rose in Isolde’s chest as she took one step closer.
But she had failed to calculate her own attraction to him.
Abruptly, only two feet of space separated them. Had she ever been this close to the Duke of Kendall?
The scent of his cologne—something exotic, knee-weakeningly male, and no doubt, absurdly expensive—engulfed her. Wee details assailed her senses—the light amber streaks in his dark brown eyes, the gray night whiskers stubbling his tanned cheeks, the breadth of his shoulders so near.
And most disturbingly, how easy it would be to tip her head back, lean upward, and press her lips to the pulse that thrummed in his neck.
Isolde inhaled sharply.
At the sound, Kendall flinched and stepped back, his gaze flying to hers. A red blush climbed his cheeks and tinged his ears.
“Get out,” he all but snarled.
He did not, however, turn away from her. Nor cease his study of her face.
Well . . . Isolde had wanted to test her hypothesis. She was fairly confident she had her answer.
“As ye wish, Your Grace.”
She curtsied then, graceful and lingering, forcing him to watch her dip and rise.
Straightening upright, she walked past him, close enough for the bell of her skirts to brush his shins, close enough for them both to feel the heat of the other’s body.
“We are not through with this conversation, Duke. This is merely my opening sally.”
Hand on the door knob, she paused to look back at him. His gaze shot from her waist to her face, the flush on his cheeks deepening.
“Consider yourself warned.” She closed the door behind her with a decisiveclick.
6
. . . I grow more concerned over this issue with Stephen Jarvis. Correspondence has surfaced between myself, Jarvis, and a solicitor in Manchester. Though I know the innocence of my own words there, when viewed through the lens of Jarvis’s crimes, they could be seen as incriminating. Kendall, of course, has seized upon them to bolster his claims of my wrongdoing. How I long for the day when I can safely forget that the damned Dukedom of Kendall exists.
—private letter from Lord Hadley to Sir Rafe Gordon
Kendall stared at the closed library door.
What the bloody hell had just happened?!
After several days of social engagements, he had been looking forward to an evening at home, reading Mr. Whewell’s book and conversing with Allie.
Instead, he had found Lady Isolde curled like a cat in his favoritechair, her hair a flaming beacon against the printed blue-and-green muslin of her day dress.
The sight of her had been . . . jarring.
Worse, he feared that when he closed his eyes to sleep, he would still see her elegant hand tracing a leisurely line across her collarbones and calling his male attention to the curves of her lithesome body.
