Letting out a deep breath, he spoke again, “Despite the accidental nature of our entrapment, the consequences remain the same.”
“Aye.”
“I have respectfully requested your hand in marriage, Lady Isolde. Your father has denied that request.”
“I suspected as much.”
“But as I fear you will bear an unfair portion of this decision”—deep breath—“I wished to put the question directly to yourself.”
He said the words woodenly, gaze locked on the floor. But he fidgeted as he spoke—his hands clasped before him, then behind, then finally shoved into his trouser pockets, as if helpless to know where to put them.
“And what . . . what question was that?”
She needed to hear him say the words, she realized. To know that there would be no misunderstanding.
No turning back.
He lifted his head, dark eyes meeting hers, shoulders squared, expression clear and intent.
“Lady Isolde,” his voice quiet but firm, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She saw it then, buried deep in his soft brown eyes—
The faintest glimmer of that earnest boy in Montacute’s garden. The one who had flirted with her, volleying ripostes and winning her laugh. The one who had kissed her wrist with such electric fervor.
She had liked that boy very much.
And so, it was almost to that boy she replied.
The only response she could give that would save her own honor and that of her family.
Straightening her spine, she met the duke’s gaze.
“Yes, Your Grace”—her heartbeat a deafening roar—“I will marry ye.”
14
The Duke of Kendall has suffered a spectacular tumble from grace. Though rumors swirl that he will soon marry Lady Isolde Langston, the stench of indiscretion will haunt the dukedom for years. The Queen has made her displeasure known, describing both His Grace and Lady Isolde’s behavior asreprehensible.
Regardless, the investigations Kendall set in motion continue. The trial for Mr. Stephen Jarvis will begin next week, and the impeachment vote for Lord Hadley is still outstanding.
—article inThe London Times
Kendall scarcely saw his bride-to-be in the two weeks leading up to their wedding.
Most of his time was spent with solicitors, hammering out the marriage contracts with Hadley. The earl was ruthless in protecting hisdaughter’s interests. And Kendall was too stunned, too numb to do anything but concede to Hadley’s demands.
Kendall expected that someday he would feel profound shame for his lack of spine, but for now, it was all he could do to breathe through each day.
Everything tasted of a funeral pyre—ash and destruction.
One by one, gentlemen who he had considered friends—or at least friendly colleagues—sent him polite notes severing their acquaintance: Lord John Russell, Lord Palmerston, Lord Aberdeen . . .
The list went on.
Kendall was a sinking ship that others abandoned in panic, eager to escape the wreckage.
No invitations arrived at Gilbert House. At least, none from Peers whom he respected.
