Page 84

Angelo moved on to Henri, who was watching Isolde with frank curiosity and something that looked very much like admiration.

“And his wife, Lady Henrietta Strathmore, Viscountess Trenwith.”

“Miss Fairfax.” Henri stepped forward and, to Angelo’s surprise, took Isolde’s hands in her own. “What a pleasure to finally meet you. I must confess, I suspected there was more to this house than met the eye. The care with which it is maintained, the quality of the furnishings, it all spoke of a mistress who loved her home deeply.”

Isolde blinked, clearly startled by the warmth of the greeting. “You are very kind, my lady.”

“Not at all. I am merely observant.” Henri’s eyes sparkled with intelligence and good humor. “I do hope you will join us for breakfast. I have a thousand questions about this extraordinary house, and I suspect you are the only one who can answer them.”

The knot of tension in Angelo’s chest eased slightly. Gabriel and Henri had acquitted themselves exactly as he had hoped. With grace, warmth, and not a flicker of reaction to Isolde’s marks. But the true test was yet to come.

He turned to Nicholas, who was standing slightly apart from the others, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression inscrutable.

“And Mr. Nicholas Scott,” Angelo said carefully. “My uncle.”

Nicholas’s eyes swept over Isolde’s face, and Angelo saw them flicker, just for an instant, to the rose and mauve streaks that marked her cheek. It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but Isolde noticed. Angelo saw her stiffen, saw her steel herself for the reaction she had spent a lifetime anticipating.

And then she did something that made his heart swell with pride.

She drew a deep breath and spoke before Nicholas could. “You have noticed my markings, Mr. Scott.”

Nicholas’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he did not deny it. “I have.”

“Most people do.” Isolde’s voice was calm, steady, only the slight tremor in her hands betraying her nerves. “I am what botanists call a broken tulip. One with shattered colors, unpredictable streaks that cannot be bred on command.” She paused, a hint of self-deprecating humor entering her tone. “A broken human, if you will. Though I must confess, I find the name rather unimaginative. One would think the botanical community could devise something more poetic.”

Silence fell over the room. Angelo held his breath.

And then Nicholas laughed.

It was not a polite chuckle or a forced expression of amusement. It was a genuine laugh, the kind that transformed his usually sullen features into something almost handsome.

“I like this young lady,” he declared, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “She has spirit.” He turned to Angelo with a smirk. “Tell me, Miss Fairfax, do you have any healing abilities? You would make a far better nurse than my overly cheery nephew here. He has an unfortunate tendency to whistle while applying liniment. It is most aggravating.”

The others broke into smiles, and Angelo felt warmth flood through him. Nicholas’s gruff acceptance, his light flirtation, was exactly the boost of confidence Isolde needed. His uncle had understood that instinctively, had set aside his natural reserve to offer a kindness that cost him nothing but meant everything.

Angelo caught Nicholas’s eye and gave a brief nod of appreciation. Nicholas responded with an almost imperceptible shrug, as if to say it was nothing, but Angelo saw the flicker of something soft in his uncle’s gaze.

Only one introduction remained.

Angelo turned to Lorenzo, who had been standing in uncharacteristic silence throughout the proceedings, his dark eyes fixed on Isolde’s face with an intensity that bordered on unsettling.

“And finally, Signor Lorenzo di Bianchi. A scholar of Renaissance art and history.”

Lorenzo did not bow. He did not offer a greeting. Instead, he stepped forward, his gaze never leaving Isolde’s face, and slowly raised his ungloved hand.

“May I?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Isolde blinked, clearly taken aback by the unconventional request. Angelo saw her hesitate, saw the old instinct to withdraw flicker across her features. But then she glanced at him with a quick, questioning look, and whatever she saw in his face seemed to reassure her.

She nodded.

Lorenzo reached out and touched her cheek.

His fingers were gentle, almost reverent, as they traced the edges of her birthmark. Angelo shook his head slightly at his Italian friend’s singular focus. Lorenzo had never been one to observe social niceties when art or beauty was involved. Many found him far too intense, too opinionated, too consumed by his obsessions to function comfortably in polite society.

But as Angelo watched, he realized that something profound was happening.

Lorenzo was not examining Isolde as a curiosity. He was studying her as a masterpiece.