Dressed in a gown of palest blue satin that cinched her trim waist and shimmered in the candlelight, she looked at Hadley with a soft smile before noticing Kendall and Tristan. Her expression froze.
She was still achingly lovely—vibrant hair artfully piled atop her head and clusters of curls framing her fine-boned jaw as she gracefully sank into a polite curtsy.
But . . . she had called HadleyPapa.
Tristan’s body jolted as if kicked in the chest by a temperamental stallion—stomach plummeting, heart thudding, ribs cracking in pain.
The evidence was as plain as day. His mysterious lady had been found.
But she was nearly the last woman he would ever take as a bride. The daughter of the only gentleman in Christendom that Tristan—not to mention Kendall—could not stomach: Lord Hadley.
The Scot lifted a hand to his daughter’s elbow. “Ye can return tae the box,” Hadley said gently. “I have this in hand.”
Her gaze lingered on Tristan before sliding to Kendall and then back to her father. “Ye be sure, Papa?”
“Aye, Isolde.”
Isolde.
Her name was Isolde.
Boldly, Tristan met her blue gaze.
Lady Isolde Langston, Hadley’s eldest daughter, as Tristan’s perusal ofDebrett’shad shown. He only remembered her name because of its close association with his own—Tristan and Isolde, the ill-fated lovers of Celtic legend.
Hadn’t there been some scandal surrounding Lady Isolde Langstonlast year? Tristan recalled Kendall going on at gleeful length. Something about Hadley’s daughter offending the Queen with her unbridled tongue.
Yet another nail in the coffin of his hopes regarding her.
Lady Isolde had known Tristan’s identity—addressing him as Lord Hawthorn in the Duke of Montacute’s garden. And of course, she would have been in attendance despite Hadley’s standing within theton; her mother was Montacute’s half-sister. Another fact gleaned fromDebrett’s.
Swallowing, Lady Isolde spared a quick smile for Mr. John Gordon.
The sickening reality curled through Tristan. She had clearly mistaken him for John that day in the garden. From behind, they would likely have appeared identical.
Lady Isolde returned her gaze to his. As if she, too, felt the unnatural pull between them. As if she were just as aware of him.
The ache of her spirit—fascinating and so very alive—fractured something under his sternum, like rocks splitting inside the earth.
Her left eyebrow rose in challenge, daring him to do something now that he knew her identity.
That damnable yearning surged in his chest. She was simply so lovely, so fiery—
No.
No more.
Lady Isolde would never be for him, no matter how much his baser self admired her.
Even if Kendall were to die tomorrow, Tristan would not ally himself with a family of Hadley’s ilk, with a lady of such tarnished reputation. To do so would be the kiss of death for his personal aspirations. And given the vitriol between their families, Hadley would never countenance an alliance regardless.
With a dismissive jerk of his chin, Tristan broke free of the lady’s gaze.
He turned to Kendall. “Let us leave, Father. As you said, I have no wish to associate with vulgar riff-raff.”
Lady Isolde’s eyes flared wide at the hit.
“Indeed,” Kendall harrumphed, pivoting away.
