The way each bite crossed her lips, as if appreciated, thoroughly, down to its last scrumptious molecule, produced a discomfort inside Percy. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a woman enjoy food, or frankly anything, the way this woman was savoring that slice of venison. He glanced at his usual bowl of oat porridge and cup of black coffee, both half empty, and couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm.
In truth, the way this woman ate was decidedly sensual. His mouth went dry, and an unbidden thought crept in. Was this how she enjoyed everything, unreservedly and with utter abandon?
A side of himself sparked to life at the question. It was a side that experienced pleasure without reserve. He and she were similar in this way, except she didn’t try to control it, and, oh, how that attracted him more than even her matchless beauty. This insight that she, too, possessed a touch of wickedness had his body responding, if his half-full cock was any indicator.
Her mouth stopped moving, mid-chew, and she went utterly still. Slowly, her head turned until she faced him. “What?” she asked, the question muffled by the currant bun she’d just inserted into her mouth.
A laugh—his first genuine one in years, it felt like—startled from him, loud enough to draw a few eyes. Before he could reply, servants began setting flutes of champagne on the table, even in front of Lucy and Miss Radclyffe. Again, protective fatherly concern surged, which he instantly suppressed.
Actually, not everyone had champagne placed in front of them. Before Isabel sat a glass full to the brim with a dense brown liquid that surely should be bubbling and giving off a noxious plume of smoke.
“My dear,” began the Duchess, “I promised you Cook’s special megrim cure, and here you have it. You must finish it entirely and not neglect the bits and pieces that tend to settle on the bottom.”
All eyes—ranging from those of an indifferent Lady Exeter to a horror-struck Lucy—swung toward Isabel, who smiled bravely. Beneath the Duchess’s watchful eye, Isabel’s fingers wrapped around the glass. As she brought the concoction to her mouth, she darted a fearful glance toward Percy. Guilt pinged through him since his lie was directly responsible for getting her into this situation. But there was no escape, not while the Duchess watched.
Isabel squeezed her eyes shut and began to drink, suspense building as she took one resigned gulp after another until she’d drained the contents to the last drop. She set the glass down and swallowed back what was surely a roil of nausea. A beat later, the room’s collective breath released. Percy caught wonder in more than one set of eyes.
Isabel’s empty glass was replaced with one bubbly with champagne, rather than eye of newt or whatever substance that had been in that glass. One could only admire the woman’s aplomb.
Discreetly, he pushed his water glass toward her. She shot him a grateful glance. Was it so surprising that he contained a morsel of decency?
The Duke lifted his glass. “To the newest member of the family. To Isabel!”
In unison, a few hear hear’s scattered around the table, glasses raised, and contents tossed back. For all intents and purposes, Isabel, the Spanish dressmaker-cum-strumpet—or was it the other way around? Or something altogether different?—was a Bretagne. Blast.
By order of precedence, introductions went around the table.
“Enchanted,” emerged from his older brother Michael, Marquess of Exeter and heir to the dukedom, who hadn’t bothered glancing up from his newspaper. Michael always had been a pompous ass. Even though their relationship was a complete sham, Percy felt the sting of insult on behalf of Isabel, on principle.
Next came Susan, Lady Exeter. “How delightful to have a new sister.” Her tone and countenance matched her husband’s in aloofness. “And one with such a delightfully healthy appetite,” she added, clearly not delighted at all.
“Charmed.” This from Michael and Susan’s eldest son Hugh, Earl of Avendon and second in line to the dukedom. In appearance, he was the perfect synthesis of his parents’ features, with his mother’s blonde coloring and his father’s amber eyes. In personality, too, was he a chip off his parents’ block, supercilious and self-sure to the point of insult.
“If I am to understand the timeline of courtship to marriage,” Lucy began when it became her turn, “then I believe my step-mama and I are old acquaintances by now.”
Impudent girl.
“I’m Miss Radclyffe and am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Miss Radclyffe, Lucy’s step-sister, bosom friend, and apparently possessor of the best etiquette in the room. Contrary to the message their refinement sent the masses, aristocrats weren’t a particularly well-mannered lot.
Isabel’s stomach emitted a monstrous grumble into the quiet that followed. Percy detected a brightening of her cheeks. “Eat,” he murmured. The woman had an appetite.
She lifted a forkful of food to her mouth and took a bite. Her eyes closed in momentary bliss as she chewed and swallowed, her throat undulating gracefully with the act.
Yet again, his mouth went dry, and his cock stirred.
Her eyes opened and met his.
Percy reached for his coffee, tamping down a physical reaction both unexpected and disconcerting.
Surprisingly, it was Lady Exeter who spoke next. “And who are your family, Lady Percival?”
Isabel’s mouth stopped. A beat of time passed, and she swallowed. “My sister and I operate a dressmaking shop in Cheapside.”
Stunned silence filled the room. Lady Exeter’s head canted to the side, and a mean, little smile tipped at the tight corners of her mouth. “But who are you?”
Isabel carefully placed her fork and knife down. She drew herself up, regally, fire in her eyes. “I am the Señorita Isabel Galante, daughter of Don Ariel Galante, un hidalgo de privilegio.”
Blankness met her statement.
“Her father is a Spanish lord,” Percy supplied.
A few oh’s sounded around the table, and Lady Exeter’s concern dissipated into indifference in an instant. Percy, however, sat shocked to the soles of his feet. Hidalgo de privilegio was a title that only the king of Spain could confer onto one of his subjects. Percy considered the possibility that Isabel could be lying. But, no, he didn’t think so.
In fact, it explained a few matters that hadn’t added up. The refinement of her speech. The elegance of her comportment. The grace of the curtsy she’d given the Duke.
Who was this woman, indeed?