In terse terms, the author outlined the accusations against Hadleyand the growing momentum in Parliament for the wealthy Scot to answer questions about his involvement with Stephen Jarvis. It even hinted that an impeachment vote might be forthcoming within the next month.
Though giddiness was not an emotion Kendall cultivated, the thread of childlike delight that suffused him had to approach the sentiment.
Even hours later, the lightness remained, swelling his lungs as he escorted Allie to the annual evening soirée of the Marquess of Lockheade. Lord Lockheade was a staunch ally of Lord Hadley, but Kendall understood the importance of attendingtonfunctions.
Tonight, in particular, promised to be entertaining. The evening was to feature a private performance by the ‘Swedish Nightingale’ herself—Miss Jenny Lind. Therefore, the entirety of Polite Society would be in attendance, including the Queen and Prince Albert.
Fortunately, Lockheade House was a sprawling affair in Belgravia with a similarly sprawling ballroom to accommodate the crowd.
Kendall and Allie arrived ten minutes late to the soirée—courtesy of his sister’s uncooperative coiffure—and found themselves seated four rows behind Her Majesty. Regrettably, their position gave Kendall a rather unencumbered view of Lord Hadley and his brood sitting two rows ahead and to the right.
Most significantly, it placed Lady Isolde squarely in his line of vision, the flickering gaslight illuminating her elegant profile.
As usual, he tensed at the mere sight of her . . . as if his senses required fortification against the visual ambush.
Tonight perhaps more than usual.
The lady wore a gown of gold silk that dipped daringly off her creamy shoulders and echoed the amber highlights in her coppery hair—yes, he was noticing, devil take it. Lady Isolde watched Miss Lind’s performance with rapt attention—lips parted, breaths rising quickly, fingertips pressed against the pearl necklace at her throat. Kendall noted at least three other young men staring, as well. Gentlemen may avoid Lady Isolde, but that did not stop them from feeling the pull of her siren song.
Truly. She was a torment to noblemen everywhere.
Kendall dismissed Allie’s opinion—that he found Lady Isolde appealing because, unlike other ladies, she did not curry his favor or covetthe title of Duchess. That he saw her as a challenge to be conquered, as it were.
As if his behavior were so predictable.
And yet, Kendall remained riveted by Lady Isolde’s profile, watching expressions chase to and fro as she listened to Miss Lind perform a particularly formidable aria from Verdi’sThe Corsair.
Oddly, Lady Isolde frowned occasionally . . . once, twice, three times.
He sincerely hoped it was due to remembering the book he had delivered to her. With any luck, the entire exercise had left her outraged and spitting fire. He smiled at the thought.
“I was unaware you enjoyed opera so, Brother,” Allie whispered in his ear. “You are practically beaming with delight.”
Blinking, Kendall glanced down at his sister.
“Yes, well.” He swallowed carefully. “Miss Lind is remarkably talented.”
Allie lifted her eyebrows and then turned her attention back to the raised dais.
For his part, Kendall tried to focus on Miss Lind, but his traitorous gaze drifted back to Lady Isolde.
She had moved from fingering the pearls at her throat to absently drawing the tip of her index finger across her neckline. Vividly, Kendall recalled that moment in his library not even a week past.
There is nothing ye might desire from myself?
Her question haunted him, flitting through his memory at inopportune moments. Like now, for example.
His baser self—the one bewitched by her love potion—desired things of Lady Isolde he refused to let his conscious mind entertain.
And yet, as Lady Isolde dragged that fingertip with infinite slowness across her collarbones, he struggled to keep a single coherent thought in his head. Blood pulsed against his eardrums, thudding in time to Miss Lind’svibratoand turning the room unbearably warm.
Cease staring at Hadley’s daughter, he ordered his wayward eyes.Look away.
And yet, he watched helplessly as that solitary fingertip traced a leisurely trail up the side of her neck, pausing in the shadowed hollowbeneath her earlobe. The precise place, in fact, where a lover would press a trembling kiss.
His lips burned at the thought.
Her finger began to retrace its path, holding him powerless in its thrall.
