Her call was aimed toward the far end of the ballroom where a set of tall drapes hung loosely from ceiling to floor.
At once, the footmen positioned beside the drapes stepped aside. With a single, practiced sweep, they drew back the heavy fabric, revealing a line of men waiting silently behind them. The footmen withdrew, and the troupe strode confidently into the ballroom.
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
“They are actors I have engaged,” Lady Kendrick announced, her eyes sparkling with mischief, “to present a theatrical performance.” She paused, then arched a brow and added, “But perhaps a… slightly revealing one.”
A stunned silence followed, broken moments later by a ripple of excited, scandalized shrieks.
The men, disciplined and fluid, began to shed their coats and shirts in measured, synchronized motions, exposing sculpted shoulders and torsos honed from a combination of dance, stage training, and no small vanity. Each movement was deliberate, theatrical, yet carefully choreographed to impress without entirely crossing propriety.
Several ladies gasped, clutching fans or gloved hands to their mouths, while others peered through their fingers, curiosity overcoming decorum. One or two seemed ready to swoon, and Lady Kendrick, clearly delighted with the controlled chaos, merely folded her hands behind her back and watched the spectacle unfold.
“I thought it might provide a… suitably educational experience,” she said sincerely to Isabella, who had joined her at her side.
The shirtless actors began to move in slow, sinuous rhythms—bending, twisting, and stretching into dramatic poses inspired by mythological tableaux or classical masques, all while maintaining a teasing edge of propriety.
The scandalized murmurs gradually gave way to nervous laughter and restrained fascination.
Even Isabella, despite her initial shock, found her gaze drawn, though not in admiration of the actors’ artistry. Her thoughts betrayed her entirely.
As the men flexed and posed, performing lifts, spins, and carefully choreographed displays of strength and agility, Isabella’s mind could think of only one comparison: the Duke of Everthorne. Every sculpted muscle, every deliberate motion on stage seemed to echo the image she had glimpsed of him: not a performer, not a prop, but the duke himself.
Unfortunately, inconveniently, and unavoidably.
It was ridiculous to think of him at all. More ridiculous still to obsess over his shirtless form. And yet the notion sprang into her mind before she could suppress it.
And once it appeared, it refused to leave as she realized the duke was broader, looked stronger, and was far more disciplined than the performers.
The duke would never behave in such a manner, never attempt to seduce or entertain a room full of ladies with a mere tilt of his chin. He would glower, scowl, mutter something utterly disapproving, and stalk away like a storm refusing to be watched.
Isabella despised that she noticed, despised it even more that she compared.
She dipped her brush too hard into the paint, and a blotch spread unevenly across the corner of her canvas. She rushed to dab it before it ruined the entire picture, trying her best to quiet herself down, to avoid drawing any attention, but she failed.
“Isabella, dear,” Lady Kendrick turned toward her with far too much amusement on her face, “you look rather flushed.”
“I am perfectly well, My Lady. Thank you,” Isabella replied, perhaps too sharply, but Lady Kendrick only smiled knowingly and returned her attention to the ladies.
However, Isabella hadn’t fully wiped the crimson on her cheeks when the young butler came rushing in.
“Lady Kendrick! His Grace has arrived.”
Chapter Nine
“Where is Michael?” Cassian muttered to himself, aimlessly wondering why the butler hadn’t come to receive him.
When the carriage pulled to a halt before Everthorne House, Cassian stepped out with a stride too brisk to be natural, handing his hat and gloves to one of the footmen. Then, he stalked towards the ballroom.
Cassian crossed the hall, each footstep echoing softly, as he arrived at the ballroom door and pressed his palm against one handle, intending only to take a monitored peek inside. However, the moment he opened the door, he froze.
His vision filled at once with the sight of half-naked men.
Performers. Shirtless performers. Dozens of them, it seemed, scattered about the ballroom in various dramatic poses, and among them, surrounded, no less, were the Laurels, someof whom looked mortified, others intrigued, more still utterly bewildered.
Cassian saw red. Rage bubbled up from the pit of his stomach.
A roar of fury, silent but searing, ripped through him, his breath becoming tight in his throat. His heart slammed once, painfully, against his ribs, and then his eyes found her.
