Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

W hy had she never noticed how gorgeous Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy was?

Perhaps gorgeous was the wrong word. He certainly wasn’t pretty, like so many men of the ton who flitted about worrying about their meticulously windswept hair or spending a significant proportion of their waking hours trying to transform their cravat into a waterfall.

He was better than pretty . He was powerful. Manly.

Virile .

And the way he kissed?

Being a fan of Gothic novels, Izzie knew certain things about kisses. They were supposed to change your life, for one. When you kissed your one true love, you would know it at once.

And a real kiss would make you feel things.

Being eager to experience these things for herself, she had specifically sought out opportunities to have one of those magical kisses. She had, in fact, kissed five young men before tonight.

And she had felt things, all right.

Primarily disappointment. But also, upon occasion, boredom, righteous indignation, and the desire to wash her face and hands with lye soap.

But Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s kiss was completely different. She loved the way it felt to be cradled against his muscular chest, to have his strong arms surrounding her. Moments ago, she had literally been running for her life, but in his arms, she felt safe . He was the sort of man who made you feel absolute confidence in his ability to protect you. And, unlike so many men, he didn’t grab and paw at her. Only after she pressed herself against him had he enfolded her in his arms. He took no more than she was willing to give, and there was a reverence in the way he touched her, as if she were a precious treasure. His was a kiss that gave instead of took, that venerated instead of plundered, and it was exactly what she needed after her frightening encounter with Mr. Bassingthwaighte.

And dear lord, the man could kiss! He kissed her as if the explosions going off around them were cannonballs rather than fireworks. As if the world was about to end and kissing her was the last thing he would ever do, and he wanted to make it count .

Everyone sneeringly said that he was little more than a blacksmith . He was built like a blacksmith, but he reminded Izzie more of a Viking, and she suddenly found herself wishing he would ransack her.

She couldn’t seem to stop touching him. God, but his chest was broad, and his shoulders? Magnificent. Every place her hands strayed was so firm, so warm. It made her wish they weren’t separated by so many layers of fabric…

Suddenly, he growled, hugging her body against his chest and lifting her off the ground as easily as if she were a rag doll. He carried her to one of the faux Greek ruins along the side of the path. This one looked like a cluster of columns, but, as this was Vauxhall, they were really logs with a little paint slapped on.

One of them had been sawed off at waist level, with a flat, smooth top. As he set her down upon it, it struck Izzie that it looked like an offering table, just the kind of place where the Ancient Greeks might have made a virgin sacrifice. The thought should have terrified her, but suddenly, the notion of sacrificing her virginity to Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy on a pagan altar in the moonlight did not sound like the absolute worst idea she’d ever had.

Without breaking contact with his lips, she tugged her skirts up so she could get her knees out of the way. He immediately stepped into the cradle of her thighs, and now things were getting interesting . Her pulse was flying, and her breath was coming in pants. She made a mewl of protest when he tore his lips from hers, but then he started kissing his way down her neck, which was equally delicious.

She could feel a hard ridge beneath the falls of his trousers. Having snooped through her brother Harrington’s room thoroughly enough to find the book of scandalous prints he kept hidden beneath his mattress, she had a fair idea what that was, and the notion that Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy was having those sorts of thoughts while kissing her made her purr with satisfaction.

She scooted even closer to the edge of the column, her curiosity getting the better of her, as usual. He did not retreat but began to circle his hips, grinding his hardness against her softness, and… and… She did not have any words for that.

She was gasping for breath as his hand slid up the silk bodice of her dress, his fingertips stroking her nipple through the cloth, and that was when she cried out.

And ruined everything .

“Isabella?” a reedy voice called from within the grove of trees behind them. “Isabella, is that you?”

The voice was familiar.

Familiar, and irritating .

Surely enough, a few seconds later, Tristan Bassingthwaighte came stumbling out of the woods.

Izzie buried her head in Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s neck. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed for Mr. Bassingthwaighte to discover them locked in an intimate embrace. She dimly recalled that this had been her original purpose, what felt like a thousand years ago.

But Izzie’s nerves were raw, and her emotions were alarmingly close to the surface. She didn’t think she could bear to meet anyone’s eye at that moment when she was feeling so vulnerable.

Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy seemed to understand, for he pulled her securely against his chest, cradling her head in one of his marvelously capable hands. She immediately felt comforted.

It appeared that Tristan Bassingthwaighte had not yet spotted them, as they were in the shadow of the archway. “You can stop playing coy, Isabella. You wanted me to chase you, and I did. But now you owe me a favor. And I don’t mean just a kiss.”

Isabella cringed. That was why she’d been running away, all right.

Beside her, Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s brow descended into a ferocious scowl.

“Aha! I recognize those red skirts,” Mr. Bassingthwaighte called. “I’ve found your hiding spot, and now… Oh .”

From over Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s shoulder, she saw him stop short as he noticed that she was not alone.

The poet scowled. “What are you playing at, Isabella?”

She drew herself up, willing her voice to sound haughty and not terrified. “As I told you earlier, my reasons for visiting the dark walks tonight have nothing to do with you . Now, if you will excuse us.”

Mr. Bassingthwaighte scowled. “Oh, no. You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you are in any way interested in this crude—”

“He’s not crude!” Izzie snapped. “Now, I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” Mr. Bassingthwaighte said, advancing on her. “Not until I’ve had my turn.”

His turn ? To think, he had the absolute gall to imagine that he was entitled to a turn when she had just told him no!

“She’s not a bowl of nuts, and I’m not going to hand her to you when I’ve had my fill,” Archibald snarled. “If she doesn’t want your hands on her, then you’re not going to put them there. Full stop .”

She’s not a bowl of nuts . They weren’t the words of a poet, such as Mr. Bassingthwaighte.

But Izzie found the sentiment behind them more affecting than the most polished sonnet.

Mr. Bassingthwaighte stopped, his face turning pale in the moonlight. Although he was an inch taller than Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy, he looked positively scrawny by comparison. He held his hands up, placatingly. “Come, Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy—let’s not get all worked up over a bit of muslin.”

“A bit of muslin?” Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s voice was quiet. Quiet, and dangerous . “Did you just refer to Lady Isabella as a bit of muslin ?”

Izzie sensed that an explosion was about to occur.

Mr. Bassingthwaighte did not seem privy to his impending doom. “You know what I mean.”

Archibald snarled. “You will never speak about her that way again. In fact”—he glanced down at Izzie—“do you wish to speak to this man again?”

“Never,” she confirmed.

He returned his menacing glare to Mr. Bassingthwaighte. “You will never speak to her again. If you are standing in a ballroom and she enters, you will fabricate an excuse to leave. You will do everything within your power to make sure that she never has to clap her eyes upon your worthless carcass ever again.”

Mr. Bassingthwaighte seemed to have finally comprehended the danger he was in. He was trying to put on a brave front, but his eyes were darting around as if looking for a route of escape. In a nasal voice, he asked, “And if I don’t?”

Leaving Izzie sitting on the faux column, Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy took a slow step toward Mr. Bassingthwaighte, then another.

Izzie could see the whites of Mr. Bassingthwaighte’s eyes in the moonlight. He retreated three steps, bumping into one of the columns.

Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy seized the lapels of his coat in his right hand. Lifting him off the ground with one arm, he slammed him against the faux ruin, holding him in place with his feet dangling off the ground. “If you don’t,” he said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, “then I will break every bone in your body.” His voice crescendoed to a roar as he said, “Which also happens to be what I will do if you breathe a word to anyone about her presence here tonight! Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes!” Mr. Bassingthwaighte squeaked.

“Good.” Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy tossed him to the side.

Mr. Bassingthwaighte stumbled but managed to keep his feet. “Lady Isabella, I—”

“Don’t talk,” Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy ordered. “Just leave.”

Mr. Bassingthwaighte complied, scrambling back into the grove of trees from whence he’d come.

Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy hurried back to the column where Izzie still sat. An image flashed across her mind of him dressed not in an evening suit but in plate and chainmail.

My knight in shining armor.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I am. Thanks to you. He was the one I was running away from when I crashed into you.” She swallowed. “He assumed I had come back here looking for him. I panicked and told him I was meeting someone else. So, when I saw you, I… I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have… you know…”

She trailed off, wondering how he would react. She had admitted that the reason she had kissed him was to stage a scene for Mr. Bassingthwaighte. And it had certainly started off that way.

But by the end… By the end, everything had changed.

Which was exactly what was supposed to happen when you kissed the right man.

Izzie bit her lip, wondering if Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy really was the right man for her and if she had just given the impression that she hadn’t really wanted to kiss him.

He didn’t look angry. He nodded sympathetically. “It’s all right. He won’t bother you again. If he does”—his face turned dark—“just let me know.”

Izzie took his hand and pressed it. “I will. Thank you.” She wanted him to touch her, wanted him to kiss her again. But it seemed that the usual rules of how a gentleman was supposed to treat a young lady had somehow crept back into place, and she wasn’t sure how to overcome them.

The fireworks display had ended, so that you could once again hear the night sounds of the garden.

And other sounds, too. From the front of the gardens, she heard her twin sister’s voice. “Izzie?”

A deeper voice. Her brother, Edward. “Izzie, where are you?”

“Isabella Astley, you had better come out of there right now , or with God as my witness—”

Izzie bit back a smile. The last one was definitely her mother.

“Come,” Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy said. “You’ve been missed.”

He scooped her off the column as if she were as light as a cushion and gently set her on the ground.

She straightened her skirts. “Do I look all right?”

He tilted his head, looking baffled. “Do you look all right? You always look…” He suddenly turned his head, dropping his voice to a whisper as he added, “… beautiful.”

Izzie’s heart gave a little squeeze. Maybe he did like her. Maybe she stood a chance.

Maybe she hadn’t already ruined everything.

“I meant, are there any obvious signs that we were… you know…”

“ Oh .” He circled around her, his gaze checking her from head to foot. “Your hair is a little, um…”

She reached up to pat it, and surely enough, her coiffure was listing to the side. “I’ll say I snagged it on a tree.”

He nodded. “That will serve.”

He offered her his arm, and they headed toward the sound of the voices calling out for her. As they neared the front of the gardens, Vauxhall’s famous lamps began blinking at them through the trees, making it easier to see.

As they emerged into the crossing of two paths, Isabella saw her mother and sister, Lucy.

Her mother stalked over, steam all but shooting from her ears. “There you are! I told you to stay away from the dark walks!”

“I’m sorry, Mama. I got a bit turned around, and—”

Her mother cast her eyes heavenward. “A bit turned around, my foot. You’ve been missing for half an hour!”

Izzie was opening her mouth to make some excuse when Archibald laid his hand upon her arm, which was linked with his.

“I came upon Lady Isabella toward the back of the gardens. Her hair was badly snared on a branch.” He nodded toward her ruined coiffure. “Even with me there to help, it took some minutes to disentangle her. I am so sorry that you were worried.”

Izzie glanced up at him in surprise. He had covered for her. She doubted her mother would have believed the excuse had she uttered it.

But Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s reputation was much more upstanding. And everyone was feeling warmly toward him right now for his willingness to offer for Cecilia Chenoweth when her reputation had been in shreds.

Surely enough, her mother’s posture eased, and Izzie could almost see the indignation go out of her. She rubbed her brow. “If there is trouble to be found, my Isabella will always manage to find it.”

“I’m sorry, Mama. I was actually quite scared when I realized where I was. You cannot imagine my relief when I saw that Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy was the one who had found me.”

She held his eye as she said this, hoping he would see it was the truth.

“Thank you, sir,” the countess said. “You have performed yet another great service for us.”

The rest of her family had drifted up. Toward the back of the group, she saw the Duke of Trevissick with Cecilia Chenoweth on his arm. They were gazing at each other, lost to the world around them.

Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s arm stiffened beneath hers. She glanced up, and his mournful expression confirmed her suspicions that Ceci had accepted the duke’s proposal over his.

He cleared his throat. “Well, then. I’ll turn you over to your family.”

He started to withdraw his arm, but Izzie instinctively clung to it. She did not like the idea of him being left alone when he was feeling low.

Her mother’s expression was arch. “I think it would be better if you walked out with us.”

Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “All right, then. Thank you.”

They left the gardens together.