They had scarcely walked fifty paces up the path when Kendall’s familiar gray head appeared in front of them. His Grace had paused to study a rhododendron bush covered in vivid purple flowers.
Isolde hesitated, briefly considering skirting off the path once more to avoid His Grace, but then her chin notched higher. The gaggle of busybodies was no longer in sight. And she needed to seize the chance to sway Kendall’s opinion.
“Your Grace,” she intoned, stopping at his side.
His gaze whipped to hers, lip curling in distaste.
She detested that she had to tilt her head up to meet his dark eyes.
She detested even more the zing of electrical charge she inevitably felt in his presence.
“Must you follow me everywhere I go, Lady Isolde?” He rested a palm on his walking stick, his frock coat snapping in the wind. “Such recalcitrant behaviorshouldbe beneath you.”
Oof!
“I did not know ye would be in attendance today, Your Grace.”
“Of course not,” he scoffed. “The answer to your petition is stillnoand will always beno.”
“I haven’t asked a question.”
“Merely anticipating another pathetic plea on behalf of your father. It won’t happen. I will see justice served.”
Isolde loathed the arrogant surety in his tone.
Perhaps shewouldfind a convenient bridge after all, consequences be damned.
“Justice?!” she hissed. “Your actions have nothing to do with justice, Your Grace, and everything to do with this vendetta you have concocted against Hadley.”
“I believe you are confusing the wordvendettawithvictory, my lady.” A gleam lit his eyes. “Myimminent victory, that is.”
The bastard.
He was needling her and reveling in her seething reaction, aware that she couldn’t slap his smug ducal face for fear of social reprisals.
Isolde knew she should leave. Turn around, return to her carriage, and concoct a more stealthy plan.
Unfortunately,restraintandself-controlhad never been her fortes.
“Despite what the voices in your head say, Your Grace, ye are not, in fact, victorious in this matter.”
“Oh, but I think I am,” he replied silkily, leaning toward her. An unhelpful gust of air ambushed her with the scent of his cologne. “Desperation nearly vibrates off your skin.”
Oh!
Isolde glared, wishing her gaze were that of a gorgon and could freeze him to stone.
Only then did she realize: Fiona was watching their exchange with an almost unholy glee.
Och, Isolde did not wish to provide more fodder for her servants to feed the Mayfair gossip mill.
“Fiona, please sit on the bench there.” Isolde pointed to a bench a few paces off the trail. “I wish a more private word with His Grace.”
Dutifully, Fiona sat.
Isolde turned up a side path that appeared to lead to some sort of outbuilding, Kendall following at her heels. Thankfully, the stray cat found Fiona again, diverting the maid’s attention.
After walking thirty paces, Isolde whirled and fixed the duke with her haughtiest stare. Weeks of frustration over this man’s actions boiled to the surface.
