Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

" I do not know who you think you are, Lady Isolde," Lord Spofforth shouted, slurring his words. "You have broken my heart! You made me believe that you were the lady I had been searching for, all these years. My Aphrodite, my Artemis, my angel. A good and honest woman, at last! But you have been… bewitched by another, and I shall die alone and destitute because you will not love me!"

Edmund skidded to a halt beside the group of ladies, nudging them aside without a care for propriety in his desperation to see if his awful assumption was correct.

Isolde sat in the center of that defensive circle, her crystalline blue eyes peering up at Edmund with such sorrow, such anguish, such… relief that it knocked the air out of his lungs for a moment. The front of her pretty day dress was stained with the most horrifying spray of scarlet, the color spreading as swiftly as Edmund's panic rose.

Blood… It is blood… Lord Spofforth has injured her. Lord Spofforth has decided that if he cannot have her, no one can. Edmund could not think clearly as he dropped to his knees, grabbing for Isolde's trembling hand.

"What happened?" he demanded to know, unable to soften his voice despite the situation. Indeed, all he wanted to do was march directly at Lord Spofforth and hit him with a punch so hard that he would be unconscious for at least a few hours.

To his surprise, Isolde gripped his hand tightly, as if she needed it to anchor herself. "It is nothing."

"It is not nothing," Edmund growled. "You are bleeding. I must get you to a physician at once."

He tried to pull her up so he could carry her out of there, but she made her body a dead weight, resisting. "I am not bleeding, Edmund," she told him, the sound of his name from her lips, spoken so gently, squeezing the last bit of breath out of his lungs. "Not much anyway—only where the little bits of glass caught me. The rest is port."

"What?" Edmund blinked, staring at the spreading stain on her dress, still fearing the worst.

"He threw a carafe of port at me," Isolde explained, wiping her eyes. "I believe he only meant to hurl the liquid, but the carafe slipped out of his hand and smashed. Is anyone else hurt?"

She raised her gaze to the ladies who surrounded her, their formerly furious expressions transformed into admiration as they fluttered their eyelashes and cast coy smiles down at Edmund.

A lady with flaming red hair wafted her fan in front of her face. "I think a few little pieces struck my ankle, but I dare not check for myself."

The blonde woman beside her nudged her hard in the ribs. "Do not embarrass yourself. He is not going to tend to you; he is evidently here for Isolde and Isolde alone."

"I can tend to any cuts!" a lady with strawberry-blonde hair declared, raising her hand. "If we all retreat to the drawing room, I can be an impromptu physician!"

Against all sense and reason, Edmund reached out and touched the spreading red stain that soaked the front of Isolde's dress, pressing his fingertips gingerly to her stomach. It was improper, it could have caused a scandal, but in that instant, he did not care; he needed to be sure that she was telling the truth, that she was not terribly injured.

He brought his fingertips to his nose first, scenting the rich, spicy notes of port. Then he tasted the thin coating of red liquid, his tongue confirming what Isolde had already told him.

She gazed at him, mouth open in astonishment, as if she meant to say something but could not muster a single word.

"Ladies, please take yourselves into the drawing room, as suggested. Any cuts or injuries must be tended to with haste," Edmund said, snapping out of his panic, the visions whirling through the back of his mind sinking back into the dark.

She is not hurt badly. She is safe… which is more than can be said for Lord Spofforth. Edmund got to his feet and glowered at the drunkard who wobbled and staggered a short distance away, muttering unkind laments under his breath.

"Ladies—inside the manor, now ," Edmund repeated. He did not want there to be any witnesses of the female persuasion for what he was about to do next.

Bizarrely giddy, the ladies swept Isolde up in their merry gaggle and ushered her across the sandstone piazza, up to the terrace, and into Lord and Lady Montrose's pleasant country manor. Some of the older ladies followed, and Edmund was relieved to see that they took care of Julianna, waking her and leading her inside.

"Come now, Your Grace," one man said as Edmund stalked toward Lord Spofforth, fury brimming within him. "Robert has imbibed too much and behaved like a fool. It has happened to the best of us."

Edmund rounded on the man who had spoken. "And if he had deliberately thrown that carafe instead of merely dropping it, my ward could have been severely injured." His stomach roiled, his mind ablaze with the past. "I will not tolerate poor excuses. Isolde— Lady Isolde—did not give that wretch any false hopes. Indeed, she thought him a fine gentleman until he proved otherwise."

He did not offer any further details, for Isolde's sake. But he hoped that Lord Spofforth's behavior would ensure that nothing incendiary found its way into the scandal sheets. After all, the cretin was accustomed to silencing gossipmongers.

Edmund was suddenly aware of Lionel at his side. "Do not do anything that might see your name in the scandal sheets," his friend whispered perceptively. "You are justifiably anger, but it is our duty to be calm in the face of conflict. It is our duty to set an example. Moreover, Lord Spofforth is unlikely to remember much of this tomorrow."

As if to prove Lionel's point, Lord Spofforth squinted at Edmund, his eyes glassy, his face ruddy with liquor.

Biting down his rage, Edmund closed the gap between himself and the inebriate and seized him roughly by the lapels. All the while, Lionel stayed at Edmund's side, as if he did not trust what his friend might do.

"I will permit you to return home to sleep away your stupor," Edmund hissed, close to Lord Spofforth's ear. "But it is the only generosity you will receive from me. If I see Isolde's name in the papers or the scandal sheets, if I hear a soul mention her in an unsavory fashion, I will reveal every secret you have crowed about at the gentlemen's club. No lady of any kind will go near you again. Am I understood?"

Lord Spofforth pulled back, a sudden shine of clarity in his formerly glazed eyes. Fear could be very sobering. "She will… come to no harm of any sort," he muttered, clearing his throat. "I will see to it. Just… do not speak of my secrets; I beg of you. I have… been told that I must be married by the end of this Season… or I shall be disinherited."

"Then, I trust you really will be wise. But make no mistake, this threat is not empty; I will look for her name every morning," Edmund warned, gripping Lord Spofforth's lapels a little tighter. "A single unseemly mention, and the floodgates of your degeneracy will be opened. I do not like to repeat myself, but I want to be sure you have heard me."

Lord Spofforth nodded like a scolded schoolboy who was desperate for the punishment to end. "I have heard you, Your Grace. Her reputation will not receive a single smear." He gulped. "Please, be merciful."

Edmund let him go with a light shove, but the clarity in Lord Spofforth's mind had not reached his legs. The awful man crumpled to the ground, landing with a thud on his backside, peering up in bewilderment like he did not know how he had ended up on the floor.

But Edmund did not doubt that Lord Spofforth would do as he had been told, for Edmund had also heard the rumor that the renowned rake had finally been brought to heel. His father had had enough of his eldest son's antics, and as Lord Spofforth's title was only a courtesy title, he stood to lose an earldom to his younger brother if he did not obey at last.

"Whoever is responsible for this fool, take him home," Edmund snapped, before turning on his heel and striding toward the manor to see how the ladies were faring.

Crossing the terrace, he had just flung open the doors that led into the drawing room when a second, but no less jarring, scream cut through the air. But there was one stark difference; the scream was not one of terror but of panic, accompanied by the hurried rush of footsteps across the parquet floor.

Edmund realized the cause a second too late, his eyes flying wide as he caught a glimpse of a bare, slender ankle, speckled with a few tiny cuts. His gaze shot up to find Isolde staring back at him, equally mortified.

"Forgive me," Edmund mumbled, whirling around and heading straight back onto the terrace as embarrassed heat threatened to overwhelm his face.

Lionel, who had sagely been waiting outside, cracked an uncharacteristically mischievous smile. "I was about to warn you that the ladies might not be in any state to receive well-meaning visitors," he said, "but you had already stepped inside."

"You should have grabbed me and hauled me away," Edmund groaned, knowing without a doubt that Isolde would not let him forget that mistake any time soon. His good deeds for the day would not matter a jot.

The relatively short journey back to London could not have felt longer, the air within the carriage thicker than the center of the city on the hottest, most humid day of the year. It was still daylight outside the windows, for the garden party had tried its best to resume, but everyone had lost their taste for revelries after Lord Spofforth's bad behavior, choosing to return home early.

Edmund kept waiting for Isolde to make a sharp or witty remark at his expense, the anticipation as unbearable as the warmth inside the carriage. He had not looked at her since he had stepped into the drawing room and seen her exposed ankle, and she had not said a word.

Julianna, however, had no such trouble. "I feel simply awful for poor Lord and Lady Montrose. I know they were so looking forward to that garden party."

"You have said that several times already," Isolde mumbled, speaking at last.

The sound of her voice pulled at Edmund's willpower, urging him to look at her, to ask if she was well, but he stared out of the window instead and watched the hedgerows and fields transforming into the stone and civilization of London.

"Yes, well, no one has responded to me," Julianna replied sullenly. "I do not appreciate being made to feel invisible. You know that my favorite part of all gatherings is the discussion in the carriage afterward, Isolde."

Isolde rolled her eyes. "I have had a lot to think about, Mama. I apologize for not responding to you—yes, it is a shame that Lord and Lady Montrose's party had to end so abruptly. Perhaps, you ought to write a stern letter to Lord Spofforth to gain your justice."

"Oh, there will be no need. He will be ashamed enough as it is," Julianna said. "There are always gentlemen who cannot resist some mischief, but I am certain he is sorry. Perhaps, he might call upon you again one day soon to apologize, and maybe he will continue his suit."

Edmund's head whipped around, staring at Julianna as if she had taken leave of her senses. She could not in good conscience think that Lord Spofforth was still a good match for Isolde, could she? No one could be so oblivious.

He noticed that Isolde's expression matched his own—a strange irony that they had finally agreed upon something, especially after that ‘something' had previously been a point of contention.

"I would accept an apology," Isolde said flatly, "but I will not accept any pursuit from that gentleman again. My search continues."

Julianna shrugged. "As you prefer."

But who does she prefer? Edmund returned his gaze to the windowpane, watching the cramped terraced houses and alleyways and streetlamps that passed by on their return to Mayfair.

The moment the carriage came to a halt outside the townhouse, Isolde flung open the door and stepped out of her own accord, not bothering to wait for the footman. Edmund paused to help Julianna down before following his charge up the porch steps and into the entrance hall.

There, almost against his will, he grabbed Isolde by the arm before she could vanish upstairs. Her bare skin was warm against his fingertips, the heat and softness making his heart jolt. He should not have touched her, it was dangerous to touch her so boldly, but he could not let her leave without saying what needed to be said.

She turned in surprise, eyes widening. "If you intend to scold me for not listening to you sooner, then you need not. I am tired, I am in no temper for a lecture, and I should very much like to retire in peace."

"No lecture," Edmund replied, though he had been preparing a mild chiding. "I just wanted to say… I am sorry the garden party was not what you had hoped. And I am sorry your dress was ruined."

She eyed him warily. "And… what?"

"I have nothing further to add," he replied, trying very hard not to think of that glimpse of bare ankle. He knew he should apologize for bursting into the drawing room like that, and he knew he should offer a prayer for her little cuts to heal quickly, but he did not want her to mistake it for an invitation to tease him about what he had seen.

As such, he turned and headed for Vincent's study, certain that she would not follow him. The events of the party had shaken him, and the last thing he needed was for her to see that, in case she chose—inexplicably—to offer kindness.