Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

“Your Grace, please lower your voice,” Madame Lambert hissed. “You’re drawing attention.”

Isolde rose quickly from her seat and dipped into a perfect curtsy before the scowling Duke.

“Perhaps we might continue this discussion at the table?” She gestured toward the corner where her maid sat, her hands folded primly in her lap.

The Duke of Meadowell’s emerald-green eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “I will not be a part of this farce,” he growled, turning his glare on the matchmaker.

“Farce?” Isolde’s temper flared. “I quite agree, Madame Lambert. Is this,” she waved a dismissive hand toward the Duke, “truly the best you could manage? Particularly given the rather excessive fee?”

The matchmaker’s face paled. “My lady, I assure you that His Grace,” she said in a heated whisper, “is one of the few gentlemen whose reputation is questionable enough that he can overlook yours.” A flush crept up her neck at the Duke’s sharp intake of breath. “And you both share a fondness for the arts—theater, opera⁠—”

“Enough.” Arthur’s voice could have frosted summer roses.

Madame Lambert leaned closer, her voice barely audible. “People are beginning to stare. If you wish to avoid becoming the subject of tomorrow’s gossip, I suggest you both sit down. Immediately.”

Isolde glanced around the tea shop, noting the curious looks already being cast their way. Memories of the mortification she felt at yesterday’s garden party were still too fresh.

With a resigned sigh, she made her way back to the table, the Duke’s reluctant footsteps following behind her.

They sat in rigid silence as a maid brought tea and delicate almond biscuits. Madame Lambert, who had orchestrated their meeting, hovered momentarily.

“I shall leave you to become acquainted,” she said with a meaningful look, her voice soft but carrying a hint of matchmaking triumph.

With a rustle of silk, she withdrew to a nearby table, close enough to observe but far enough to allow a semblance of privacy.

Isolde focused on arranging her skirts, steadfastly avoiding the Duke’s piercing gaze.

“Are you so desperate for company,” he drawled, “that you would accept meeting with a rake like me?”

Isolde’s cheeks burned as she raised her eyes to his. “At least I’m trying to reclaim my life, Your Grace. You, on the other hand, seem content to wallow in your arrogance.”

“You are quite mouthy for a ruined woman, Lady Isolde.” There was a dangerous edge to the Duke’s voice that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

“I am certain you’re used to more agreeable company,” Isolde replied, proud that her voice remained steady. “A group of vapid women who hang on your every word, perhaps? Do you find it exhilarating to toy with them, or is it just a means to fill the hours?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. The scent of sandalwood and leather threatened to muddle her thoughts.

“I prefer a challenge, actually. You should consider yourself lucky. Most women wouldn’t dare speak to me so directly.”

“Most women haven’t already lost everything worth losing.”

“Haven’t you?” His voice dropped lower, his eyes flickering to her lips. “I can think of several things worth losing… or gaining, depending on one’s perspective.”

Isolde’s breath caught in her throat. “You are precisely what everyone says you are, Your Grace.”

“And what might that be?” His smile was pure sin.

“A devil with a duke’s title.”

“Devils,” he murmured, “are far more interesting than angels, wouldn’t you agree? At least we know how to make paradise worth the fall.”

“I’ve had quite enough of false paradise,” Isolde replied, stirring her tea with precise movements. “Or have you forgotten that I’m the notorious runaway bride?”

“Ah yes, how could anyone forget?” His smile was as sharp as a blade. “Though I wonder, was it truly courage that made you flee, or simply the fact that you hadn’t yet learned the pleasures of surrender?”

Isolde nearly dropped her spoon. “I beg your pardon?”

“You hold yourself so rigidly, Lady Isolde.” His voice was like warm honey—dangerously sweet. “So proper, so controlled. Don’t you ever tire of it?”

“Unlike some, I value propriety.”

“Do you?” He leaned closer, and curse her traitorous heart for beating quicker. “Your flushed cheeks suggest otherwise. As does your sharp tongue—though I can think of far better uses for it.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And you are fascinating when you’re angry.” His eyes traced her face with dangerous appreciation. “Your eyes sparkle like amber in sunlight. I wonder what other displays of passion you’re capable of?”

“You mistake outrage for passion, Your Grace.”

“Do I?” His fingertips brushed against her gloved hand as he reached for a biscuit. “Outrage, passion—both make the pulse race, the breath quicken. Both can leave one… satisfied, with the right guidance.”

Isolde snatched her hand away, ignoring the tingling sensation his touch had left behind. “I’ve had quite enough guidance from rakehells claiming to know what’s best for me.”

“Ah, but none quite like me, I wager.” His voice seemed to caress her skin. “I could show you pleasures beyond your wildest dreams, teach your body things your mind refuses to acknowledge that it wants.”

For one dangerous moment, Isolde found herself imagining exactly that—those elegant hands on her bare skin, that wicked mouth teaching her all manner of forbidden things. Heat bloomed in her chest, spreading lower, making her shift uncomfortably in her chair.

“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice hardly steady, “you go too far.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured, “I don’t believe I’ve gone nearly far enough. The way you’re looking at me now—like you want to slap me and kiss me at the same time—tells me everything I need to know.”

That smooth, knowing tone snapped Isolde back to reality.

This was precisely the sort of man she’d sworn to avoid—one who viewed women’s hearts as objects to be won and discarded.

She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping across the floor.

“I would never,” she whispered fiercely, leaning close to his ear, “ever consider finding paradise with a man who treats women’s hearts as carelessly as you treat your cravats.”

With that, she turned to Madame Lambert, who was watching with barely concealed anticipation.

“Thank you for your consideration,” Isolde managed with as much grace as she could muster.

The matchmaker inclined her head, a knowing smile playing at her lips.

She gestured sharply to her maid and swept out of the tea shop, praying that her trembling knees wouldn’t betray her before she reached the safety of her carriage.

Her hands trembled slightly as she settled into her carriage, her lady’s maid, Martha, taking the seat across from her. The older woman’s face showed appropriate concern without overstepping the bounds of her position.

“Are you quite well, my lady?” Martha asked softly as the carriage pulled away from the tea rooms.

“That man is absolutely insufferable.” Isolde pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks. “To think Madame Lambert believed him a suitable match!”

“Indeed, my lady.” Martha’s tone was carefully neutral, though she’d served Isolde long enough to offer gentle counsel when needed. “He is a duke, though.”

“A rake with a duke’s title,” Isolde muttered, then caught herself.

Ladies didn’t mutter.

The rest of the journey passed in silence, but Isolde’s thoughts refused to quieten. The Duke of Meadowell’s words echoed in her mind, each syllable sending unwanted shivers down her spine.

When they arrived at Winthorpe House, Isolde found her father and Matilda, the Dowager Countess of Langhall, having tea in the morning room.

The sight of them together—her father’s obvious adoration as he handed Lady Langhall a cup—made her heart ache with renewed longing.

“Ah, Isolde!” Lady Langhall’s sharp eyes missed nothing as she took in Isolde’s flushed appearance. “How was your excursion?”

“Quite fine, thank you.” Isolde managed a polite smile. “Although I find myself rather fatigued.”

Her father finally tore his gaze away from Lady Langhall. “But you’ve only just returned! Surely you will join us for tea?”

“Another time, Papa.” Isolde noticed how his eyes drifted back to Lady Langhall even as he spoke to her. “I really must rest.”

In the sanctuary of her bedchamber, Isolde sank onto her chair as Martha helped her remove her bonnet and gloves. Her hands trembled slightly as she tugged at the ribbons, still feeling the phantom pressure of Arthur’s heated gaze.

“I shall have to ask Madame Lambert to find me another match,” she said, more to convince herself than her maid. “Someone more… suitable.”

“Very wise, my lady.” Martha’s practiced fingers began unpinning Isolde’s hair. “His Grace does have quite the reputation in certain circles. My cousin’s friend works in his London residence, and the stories she tells⁠—”

“Yes, well…” Isolde cut her off, not wanting to hear tales of the Duke’s conquests. Even the suggestion of his past dalliances made something twist uncomfortably in her chest. “He’s completely unsuitable.”

“But he is uncommonly handsome,” Martha continued, seemingly unable to help herself. “And they say he’s quite generous with his staff, unlike his father. Why, just last week⁠—”

“Martha, please.” Isolde’s voice came out sharper than intended, so she softened it. “I’d rather not discuss the Duke of Meadowell’s… qualities.”

But even as Martha continued her ministrations, Isolde couldn’t banish the memory of emerald-green eyes darkened with promise, or the way his voice had seemed to stroke her skin.

The way he’d leaned close during their verbal spar, that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and leather teasing her senses. The dangerous grace with which he’d moved, like a predator barely contained by his elegant clothing.

Unsuitable, indeed—and all the more dangerous for how tempting he’d been.

Her fingers found the delicate chain of her mother’s locket, seeking comfort in its familiar weight.

What would Sylvia Townshend have thought of the infamous Duke of Meadowell? Would she have seen past his rakish reputation to…

To what?

“Shall I fetch you some tea, my lady?” Martha asked, finishing with her mistress’s hair. “Perhaps some of that lavender blend to settle your nerves?”

“No, thank you.” Isolde moved to the window, needing something to occupy her restless hands. “I think I shall rest a while.”

But as she gazed out at the London streets below, watching carriages roll past and ladies stroll with their parasols, she knew rest would be elusive.

How could one rest when one’s mind insisted on replaying every heated word, every scorching glance, every moment when propriety had warred with desire? When her treacherous imagination kept conjuring images of those elegant hands cupping her face, those wicked lips claiming hers…

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching her breath fog the pane.

One thing was certain—she must never again find herself alone with the Duke of Meadowell. Her reputation could not withstand another scandal, and her heart…

Well, her heart had no business racing at the mere memory of a rake’s smile, no matter how wickedly tempting that smile was.

And if her dreams that night were haunted by emerald-green eyes and a voice that promised pleasure beyond imagining, well… that would be her secret to keep.