“As a proper wife, you should not ask such a question. A proper husband would never answer it,” was his terse reply.
“We both know I am not like other wives, Kendall. It is why ye have found marrying myself so distasteful.”
“I also find the prospect of paying women for pleasure distasteful. So it appears we are at an impasse on this matter.”
Hmmm.
This entire conversation was . . . unexpected.
Kendall would not force her to his bed norpaya woman for services rendered. But a willing woman—a lonely widow, perhaps?—might be a different matter altogether.
The thought of him seeking comfort in the arms of another lady . . .
Isolde frowned. She was rather sure a wee sliver of jealousy lodged in her heart.
How ludicrous.
“What if I wish to stop in Scotland, Your Gr—Kendall?” she asked, desperate to change the direction of her thoughts.
Again, he turned to look out the window, expression once more impassive.
Isolde stared at his profile. The man was a geometric puzzle—the isosceles triangle of his nose, the slightly acute angle of his chin, the parallel lines of his cheekbones and jawline.
She wanted to crack him apart.
“Scotland?” he repeated. “Why?”
Isolde could not suppress a huff of astonishment. “Because Scotland is my home. That is reason enough, is it not?”
He continued to contemplate the streets of London outside the carriage window, sunlight dappling his face.
“At the very least,” she continued, “I should like tae call upon Sir Rafe and Lady Gordon at Dunhelm Castle. It is so lovely there this time of year, and Uncle Rafe expressly invited us to—”
“UncleRafe?” Kendall’s eyes whipped to hers.
“Aye, not a true uncle, of course. But Uncle Rafe and Aunt Sophie have always felt like family. I should like to visit them if only for a day or two as—”
“No,” he said, sharply.
“No? Why not?”
“Because you are my wife, and I do not wish you to maintain an acquaintance withthatfamily.”
“Thatfamily!” Isolde repeated, jaw certainly flapping open now. “Rafe isyourfamily. He isyourbrother and received into Polite—”
“I will never call that man anything other than a disgrace!” Kendall snapped.
At last!
Isolde had broken through the duke’s icy, English hauteur—removed a chink of that formidable armor.
“I am eternally grateful Sir Rafe changed his own surname from Gilbert to that of his mother—Gordon,” Kendall continued. “’Tis the only intelligent thing the man has ever done. You said you will do your duty by me, Duchess. And part of thatdutyis severing contact with ilk like Sir Rafe Gordon!”
“And my own flesh-and-blood family?” Leaning forward, she punctuated her words by poking his knee with her fingertip. “Will I be required to sever contact with them, as well?”
Kendall caught her hand, wrapping it in his much larger palm and sending heat licking up her arm. Isolde froze at the unexpected contact.
“If I thought Hadley would tolerate it, yes.” He matched her leaning, dark eyes drilling into hers. Color tinged his cheeks. “I would be delighted to forget that man is now my father-in-law.”
