“I find your Scottish accent so very endearing,” she said with the feigned nonchalance of a spider spinning a web and laying in wait for its prey.
Isolde recognized the words for the lie they were.
“Thank ye,” she replied with equal insincerity.
“Oh, and I found a book to my liking.” Lady Lavinia lifted the book in question, but her smile did not reach her eyes.
“Lovely.” Isolde looked back to the invitation.
“I decided against a book on travel.”
“Indeed.”
“I choseLa Mort D’Arthur, instead. I hear it’s a fascinating read.”
Isolde forced herself to not react. Damn this woman. She had deliberately chosen a tome on the legend of Tristan and Isolde. Mischief certainly was her game.
“I wish ye happy reading of it,” Isolde said.
Lady Lavinia rounded the small desk where Isolde worked, effectively blocking the sunlight from the large window and dimming the room. Isolde looked up, forcing her face to reflectnothing but bland interest. She knew that the Lady Lavinias of the world thrived on attention and reaction.
She would give the woman neither.
Lady Lavinia ran a finger over the leather-bound cover. “I wished to refresh my memory of the Arthurian tales and satisfy my curiosity.”
Isolde raised an eyebrow.
“In the legend,” Lady Lavinia continued, “Sir Tristan is forced to fall in love with Princess Iseult, but as soon as the love potion wanes, he disavows her again. I don’t think Iseult was ever actually wanted, poor thing. Sir Tristan’s affections vanish as quickly as they began.” She flipped through the pages of the book nonchalantly.
Bloody hell but this woman was horrid.
Had Isolde doubted Tristan’s affections in the slightest, Lady Lavinia’s pathetic attempt to sow discord might have worked. As it was . . .
“Indeed. How interesting,” she said with an uncaring shrug. And then, in a flash of inspired brilliance—or perhaps stupidity . . . time would tell—Isolde deliberately adjusted the collar of her dressing gown, causing the neckline to sag dangerously low for a fraction of a second.
Just long enough for Lady Lavinia to see the red love mark Tristan had left there earlier in the day.
The woman stiffened.
Isolde tugged her gown tight once more, but try as she might, she couldn’t keep a smug look from her face.
Lady Lavinia swallowed, eyes shooting daggers. “I shall leave you to your writing, Your Grace.”
Isolde watched as the woman all but stomped out the door, skirts swishing.
Mmm.
That might not have been her finest hour.
What would Lady Lavinia do in retaliation?
Because if Isolde knew anything, she and Lady Lavinia were at war.
Isolde didn’t haveto wait long for Lady Lavinia’s next attack.
A few hours later, Isolde sat in the large drawing room on the second floor of Gilbert House. An opulent space, it featured not one, but two marble fireplaces. The walls sported gilded mirrors and sconces, silk wallpaper, and priceless artwork by Rembrandt and Caravaggio.
In short, it was a room fit for a powerful duke and his duchess.
