Isolde paused, looking between her father, Uncle Rafe, and Kendall.
She knew her father was opposed to a marriage between herself and the duke.
But was she not going to be permitted to even speak with Kendall? To hear his proposal for herself?
“I should like to speak with Lady Isolde alone, if possible,” Kendall said, his shoulders rigid and lips scarcely moving.
“Nae,” Hadley snapped.
“Of course,” Isolde said at the same time.
Her father glared at the duke, color rising along his collar.
“Papa,” she said, “ye ken that I must speak with His Grace myself. It is how things are done.”
“Izzy,” Hadley rasped, hand lifting as if he would reach for her, anything to stem the rushing tide of this situation.
Isolde feared her heart would crack in her chest.
“Come, Andrew.” Rafe motioned for Hadley to leave. “Let us give Kendall and Lady Isolde a moment to discuss their possible future.”
Gritting his teeth, her father followed.
“Five minutes,” he hissed to Kendall. “Any more and I’ll personally toss ye into the street!”
The men filed out, the study door clacking shut. Briefly, Isolde wondered if her coffin lid might make a similar sound when closed.
Finally, she properly studied her prospective bridegroom.
Gracious.
He appeared a wreck.
Yes, he was starched and pomaded as usual. But there was a haggarddroop to his eyelids and a faint rash on his neck, as if a razor had been scraped too roughly over his skin.
More to the point, his famed hauteur was notably absent. Instead, he seemed nearly an automaton, so stiff was his bearing.
“Ye wished tae speak with me, Your Grace?” she managed to say.
Her words shook him from his stupor.
He spared a fleeting glance for her before audibly swallowing.
Then, Kendall did something Isolde would have considered unthinkable even five minutes past—
He ran a shaking hand through his gray hair, disheveling the lot and completely undoing his valet’s efforts. A lock tumbled across his forehead and curled against his temple, half covering one eye.
Disheveledlooked good on him, she noted. It took his appearance fromsternly controllingtodangerously rakish.
“I don’t . . .” he began, licking his bottom lip. “That is . . .”
He swallowed again and darted her a second glance that was, well, hesitant. Unsure, even.
Oh.
Hesitantandunsurelooked even better on him.
Was this the softer man that Allie knew? The one that Isolde had glimpsed in the ice house?
