Chapter 8 #2
She doubted it. The duke did not strike her as a man easily undone by anything, least of all women in his halls. And yet, ever since the first gathering of the Laurels, the morning he had marched into the ballroom, glowered, and promptly disappeared, he had not shown himself once.
Not in the corridors nor the entrance hall. Not even the distant echo of his footsteps was heard. As if he simply did not exist anymore.
Countless times, Isabella had been tempted to ask Lady Kendrick about the duke’s whereabouts, but each time, the words lodged themselves in her throat. Pride, or perhaps common sense, prevented her from appearing even remotely curious. Still… it gnawed at her.
She should not care, she told herself repeatedly, and yet…
Their task for the day was art—learning to paint mundane objects—and as she sat before her canvas, brush in hand, listening to the quiet scratch of bristles and the soft hum of ladies chattering, her thoughts drifted once more to the Duke of Everthorne like an unwelcome guest returning again and again.
“It is safe to think His Grace hides himself from us, is it not?” one of the ladies asked suddenly, as though plucking Isabella’s very thoughts from her mind.
The lady did not even lift her eyes from her canvas, her brush moving steadily across the page as she continued, “He has not shown himself today, and it cannot be a coincidence.”
A few ladies murmured in agreement, their voices low with mischief.
Isabella stiffened, her brush hovering in the air. She did not wish to appear invested in the answer, though she was far more invested than any proper lady ought to be.
“It is not,” came Lady Kendrick’s firm voice from the doorway.
The older woman had excused herself nearly half an hour earlier and had only just returned through the ballroom doors with a triumphant stride in her steps.
“Why not, Lady Kendrick?” another lady called, turning in her seat.
“That is because my grandson,” Lady Kendrick explained, raising her brows with an exaggerated flourish, “left for a business trip days ago. He shall not return until the morrow.”
A ripple of sound moved through the group, not quite enthusiasm, not quite disappointment. Merely mild surprise.
Lady Kendrick, however, remained unfazed by the lack of excitement. “Well! You all needn’t look so dull,” she said briskly. “I come bearing a gift.”
She clapped her hands once—sharp, dramatic, entirely unnecessary—and all heads turned toward her.
Isabella blinked. She had learned by now that Lady Kendrick’s gifts could range from delightful to mildly alarming, but she was curious, nonetheless.
“I curated this gift from the bottom of my heart, so not one of you is allowed to spew hate,” the older woman declared, and her arms spread wide as though presenting a grand feast, “Come on in, good sirs!”
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.”