Page 20 of Isabel and the Rogue

So, too, did the duke, for he arched a severe brow. “You are your sisters’ defender, Miss Gabriela. Truly, I suspect you belong to the mythical Gorgons, and men cross you at their own peril.”

Isabel sucked in a breath, darting her gaze to Gabby to take in her reaction. Her sister could be offended or pleased, and seeing as how Whitfield and Gabby had been at each other’s throats since they’d first met, Isabel could envision either being true.

Perhaps it was that long acquaintance that buffered the duke’s words now, for Gabby grinned, her hazel eyes sparking with glee. “My, Whitfield, I’m touched by the comparison. Can you imagine how incredible it would be to have the power to turn men into stone?”

Whitfield smirked. “I suspect half the ton would be statues by now.”

Gabby flicked her fingers. “Oh, more than a half. And you, Your Grace, would have been my first victim.”

Isabel knotted her hands together as she watched Gabby and the duke stare at each other, their bodies canting in such a way that it was almost possible to believe they were on a dueling field. Isabel decided to end this stalemate.

Stepping forward, Isabel placed a hand on Gabby’s arm. “I’m forced to agree with His Grace’s assessment. You’ve defended me more than once, querida.”

“Para siempre y por siempre. The duke has summed me up perfectly.” Gabby turned to bat her long lashes at Whitfield. “A Gorgon? Only to those deserving of such treatment.”

Instead of sneering at Gabby or continuing the trade of barbs, Whitfield chuckled. “I’m grateful I can count on you to keep my ducal ego in check.”

“Someone needs to,” she grumbled, brushing a sable lock from her cheek and looking away.

Whitfield stepped toward Gabby, a taunting grin spreading across his mouth, and Isabel knew she needed to interrupt.

“Who have you come to cheer for at the races today, Your Grace?”

Swiveling his head to her, Whitfield halted, his expression sliding into his usual indifference.

“Dawson asked me to accompany him. He was invited by Viscount Westhope to sit in his box.” Whitfield gestured behind him with his head. “The viscount has a colt racing in the derby.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the viscount,” Isabel said, darting her gaze to Gabby, who twirled her parasol in apparent boredom. But Isabel knew her sister was following the conversation.

“He’s…a…” The duke paused, tapping his cane on the lush lawn. “Amiable.”

“Amiable?” Isabel repeated.

Whitfield nodded. “Friendly. Very…loquacious.”

Isabel wasn’t sure if the duke was complimenting Lord Westhope or not. One never could tell with His Grace.

“Westhope is nice enough, but he smiles too much,” Whitfield elaborated.

Now Isabel frowned. “And that’s…a bad thing?”

Gabby wrinkled her nose. “You can’t trust someone who smiles too much.”

“Precisely,” the duke echoed. He nodded his head in approval at Gabby, who lifted her chin and turned away in response.

While Isabel wasn’t sure she understood the issue, it was obvious that Gabby and Whitfield did, and she had no interest in disrupting their newfound accord.

“Regardless of how I feel about Westhope, Dawson has struck up a friendship with the man.” The duke leaned on his cane and shook his head. “They’re over there now talking about his colt and Westhope’s childhood in France.”

Her muscles seized as they always did when someone made reference to France.

“Why would they be talking about his childhood in France?” Gabby asked.

Whitfield shrugged. “The late viscountess, his mother, was French, and Westhope maintains a close relationship with her family. Dawson seemed to find the topic interesting.”

“That’s nice,” Isabel managed, her heart pounding in her ears.

“I suppose.” Whitfield glanced back to the box, a disgruntled look on his face. “Apparently his colt—I believe the beast is named Delano—was purchased from a breeder in Normandy.”