If Gray intended to cast her out, he would have to do it publicly in front of Lord and Lady Milmouth. And Isla was betting her brother was too scandal-averse to make such a scene.
As a peace offering, she sat with her back to the horses. Typically, a gentleman would take the rear-facing seat, ceding the preferred forward-facing side of a conveyance to a lady. But Gray suffered from nausea after traveling too long, particularly when sitting against the flow of motion.
A typical carriage ride would end with Gray slowly turning an alarming shade of green until Isla forced him to sit beside her.
Today, she surrendered her seat in a show of humility.
Gray arrived a short while later, walking stick in hand and gait still uneven . . . which did not bode well for their conversation.
He scarcely glanced at her as he took his seat and rapped the ceiling, indicating the coachman should spring the horses.
Carriage in motion, Gray stared out the window, one hand resting atop his walking stick, his gloved fingers opening and closing around its brass top. With an irritated toss of his head, he tugged off his top hat, setting it on the seat beside him. A few minutes later, his gloves followed, landing inside his hat. He ran a hand through his hair, standing the tawny strands on end before turning back to the window.
Yes. Gray was incandescent with rage.
Usually, he could resist his fidgeting and loathing of confining clothing.
Not today, however.
Isla said nothing until they crossed the gate marking the entrance to Kingswell House.
“Captain Balfour and I intend to divorce.” Isla kept her tone even and factual. “He has already made inquiries into the matter.”
Gray flexed his fingers, jaw tensing. The only indication he had heard her.
“I still intend to marry a gentleman who meets with your approval,” she continued. “Perhaps . . . perhaps even Colonel Archer, if he will still have me.”
Thatgot her brother’s attention.
Ever so slowly, his head rotated toward her, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes flashing fire.
“Before last night, I had considered you to be a lady of some sense, Isla Kinsey. But now?” He laughed, an acidic sound.
Isla recoiled as if scalded.
Gray leaned forward. “What gentleman of reputation, pray tell, would marry a divorced, scandalous woman?” A slice of his head. “None. Not. One. You are naive in the extreme if you think Milmouth or Archer will even associate with you after this, much less consider allying themselves with your reputation.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“But NOTHING!” Gray roared.
Isla recoiled. This was the Gray of that dreadful night long ago, the last time he caught her kissing Tavish Balfour. The Gray she hadn’t seen since, but lived in fear of. The one who looked like her brother, but was anything but brotherly.
“You idiotic, stupid slattern of a woman! You will drag us all into your disgrace!” he continued, eyes blazing. “And I had thought our light-skirt of a mother to be beyond the pale! At least Father managed to keep that quiet.”
A terrible trembling started in Isla’s legs.
“Once word of this gets out, not one gentleman will have you, Isla. Not. One! You are as good as dead to Polite Society!”
Isla’s natural instinct was to retreat, to cower before Gray’s fury.
But she was no longer that terrified girl.
The woman she had become at Malton Hill reared up within her. The one who had stood up to angry tenants thinking they could run roughshod over their young landlord. The one who had argued for better work conditions for the poor house and a school for the village children. The woman who, just this week, had hatched a plan to save a young widow and her children from penury.
“I’m married, Gray! To the son of an Earl of the Realm. You may hate Lord Northcairn and his children, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that they are members of the Peerage. It’s not as if Tavish and I have carried on in sin! There has been no sinning at all!”
“That kiss was the verydefinitionof sin!” Gray let out a shout of laughter. “It appeared akin to how a sailor falls upon a harlot after too long at sea. The sort of kiss a man bestows right before he tups a woman senseless against an alleyway wall. Or a bedpost, in your case.”
