But the most egregious, most infuriating offense had been theknowingin her gaze. She had acted deliberately, drawing out his baser nature in order to tease and torment. As though she knew she had cast a love potion on him all those years ago and now delighted in torturing him.
As if he needed any further reason to detest her.
His pulse still raced, heart pounding like he had gone a bruising round with his fencing master.
But then,that womanalways invaded his blood like sloe gin bolted too quickly—exhilarating but almost instantly nauseating.
For not the first time, he pondered how it was possible to be simultaneously so captivated and yet so repulsed.
While Lady Isolde had been away at university in Massachusetts, he had been able to resist his earlier infatuation. To cast it aside as a youthful folly.Out of sight, out of mindas the adage went.
But the two years since her return . . .
He swallowed, turning away from the library door.
Enough.
He had to overcome this relentless physical pull toward her. It was unacceptable.
The soft murmur of Allie’s voice carried from the entry hall as she ushered her ill-choice of a friend out the front door.
Lady Isolde laughed, musical and trilling, like a bloom sprung in winter.
With a low snarl, Kendall snatched up his book—devil take her for recognizing Whewell’s book and knowing the man’s work—and poured himself two fingers of Scotch.
Savoring the burn of the alcohol, he sat in his preferred chair. The leather was still warm from her body, dammit.
Worse, the smell of her lingered . . . lemons and sunshine and laughter.
The scent of happiness, he supposed.
He detested it.
That . . . that . . .
Harpy?
Witch?
Shrew?
Fortunately, the English language did not lack words to describe a belligerent woman.
Sipping his drink, he settled onhell-cat.
That hell-cat would not win. Not this battle.
Kendall had fought too long and too doggedly to reach this point. His own meteoric rise to power was well underway, and he was rapidly amassing support in Parliament to serve Hadley his comeuppance.
But first . . .
The front door clanked closed.
Allie flounced into the library, a pleased-as-Punch smile on her face.
“That went rather well, I think.” She crossed to a hidden cabinet in the bookcase beside the window, pulled it open, and poured herself some of his whisky.
“There is no Scotch for you,” he growled. “Lady Isolde drank your share.”
