Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I solde's breath abandoned her lungs as Edmund reached for her hand and weaved it through his arm, leading her to an open span of floor by the windows on the other side of the room. As if they were at a real ball, and he had etched his name upon her dance card.

"Are you to be my tutor?" she asked, recovering her voice.

He mustered a faint smile. "There is no one else."

"With respect, Your Grace, I do not think this is necessary."

Panic struck her out of nowhere, all of the lessons, all of the etiquette, all of the society rules that had been forced down her throat for years suddenly kicking in. And the first rule was very clear: being alone with a gentleman who was not family or a husband was entirely prohibited.

"I did not miss any steps," she continued in earnest. "The dance was not as strict as the usual kind. Call it an improvisation more than a mistake. Truly, you do not need to do this. I should speak with the cook and see how the cakes are faring."

But Edmund kept leading her to the other side of the room, where he stopped and turned to face her, taking both of her hands in his. She glanced down, her heart leaping into her throat, for she had not yet put on her gloves. His warm skin touched hers, his palms rougher than she had expected.

She met his gaze once more. "Vincent scolded me terribly for being alone in the palace gardens with a gentleman, and that happened by accident. What do you think he would say if he could see this?"

"I think he would say that his best friend was instructing his sister in how to dance without error," Edmund replied, undeterred.

His voice hardened as he added, "But why were you in the palace gardens alone with a gentleman? Your brother did not mention that."

Isolde cursed herself for mentioning it, though it did surprise her that Vincent had not informed Edmund of that night's events. Perhaps, he had thought Edmund would not be sympathetic, or worse, that he might feel the need to scold her a second time.

"It was an accident, as I said," she muttered. "Mama was my chaperone, but she managed to get herself distracted by an old friend, and I did not realize she was not behind me until it was already too late. It could not have been more than a matter of minutes, though, until I did realize."

And I shall not tell you the rest, for you will accuse me of being silly and romantic again. Nor would she tell him that her masked stranger was the reason she had not yet decided what to do about Noah. If there was still a chance that her champion might be found, she had to pursue it until all hope had vanished.

Of course, the ‘how' of finding her shadowy champion continued to evade her.

"Who was he?" Edmund pressed, taking a step back and bowing to her.

Evidently, he was quite serious about them dancing together. A bewildering realization, for here was the gentleman who crowed about propriety and scorned her for the smallest misstep, determined to dance with her alone.

"Oh, he is of little importance," she replied. "I did not like him very much, and I do not believe that he and I wanted the same things, so I would prefer to forget all about it."

Edmund's eyes pinched, and she could see him fighting off the urge to ask further questions. "You are supposed to curtsy," he said thickly.

Rolling her eyes, she dipped into her most graceful, sweeping curtsy. "Really, Your Grace, this is not necessary. I feel more foolish than if I were to dance by myself."

"Edmund," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Call me "Edmund." The formality is grating when I am already living in your family's townhouse," he replied, shocking her yet again.

Between his behavior at the dinner party, his fleeting smile in her direction in Amelia's family drawing room, not running a mile when he heard that Isolde's mother was away, and leading her into a most inappropriate dance, she was beginning to wonder if Edmund had been replaced with someone else. He assuredly was not the Edmund who Vincent had left in charge of her.

"Are you quite well?" She gaped at him. "Did you hit your head in your sleep, or is this some… trickery?"

Edmund put one arm across his waist and the other behind his back and turned in a slow, elegant circle, the movement highlighting his athletic physique: the broad shoulders, the height of him, the powerful arms, the sharp lines of his abdomen and the slight curve of his back.

"Trickery? Whatever do you mean?" he asked, returning to his original position.

Puffing out a strained breath, she echoed the movement. "You have not been acting at all like yourself, and it is starting to concern me gravely. So, I was just wondering what you have done with the real Edmund? Where have you put his sour face and clipped remarks? Where have you put his unshakeable sense of duty and propriety?"

"Do you want to enchant and inspire awe or not?" he replied more gruffly, more like the Edmund she was used to.

"I would like to make it through the Season with my reputation intact," she urged, shaking her head. "I mean, for goodness' sake, why did you bring us close to the windows where anyone might look in and see? Do you want me to be embroiled in a scandal? Are you trying to sabotage me?"

He flinched at that, his gaze darkening. And as he hopped from foot to foot, she could not help feeling that there was a thrum of annoyance in his leaps.

"The drapes are closed," he pointed out, as she performed the same hops to the left and right, landing gracefully back where she started.

"My point remains—what are you trying to achieve here, Edmund?" His name came easily to her tongue, though not without conjuring a flush in her face. Speaking his name made her remember Beatrice's grin the night before, when she had accidentally said it in public.

All of a sudden, he was right in front of her, grasping her hand and lifting it between them. He began to walk slowly in her circle, and though she knew she should break away from him, instinct and her ladylike education compelled her to turn with him.

"I am not trying to achieve anything other than your improvement on the dance floor," he replied, his voice thick. "But I will say this, while I have your unwavering attention; you are right to be cautious about choosing the gentleman you will marry."

He stopped and moved his hand around, curving his fingertips around her hand as he began to turn in the opposite direction. Stumbling over the abrupt change, Isolde ended up much closer to him than she had intended. Indeed, there was barely a finger's length between them.

"I do not need you to validate my caution," she mumbled, breathlessly aware of his broad chest and the muted scent of lavender that drifted from him, mingling with the comforting aroma of woodsmoke. A heady, somewhat familiar perfume, though she could not place it.

He halted, catching hold of her other hand, clasping both between them. His chest rose and fell rapidly as if he, too, were breathless, though they had only been dancing for a minute or two. He could not have been closer without embracing her.

She waited for the panic to strike her again, but in its place was a pleasant sort of shiver, partway between excitement and nerves. And with that feeling bristling in her veins, she looked up into Edmund's eyes, daring him to make the next move in a dance she no longer knew.

"You are not listening," he rasped, his grip loosening on her hands. "You never listen. I am trying to tell you that you deserve a man who is worthy of you, and being worthy of you is no simple matter. I doubt there are even five gentlemen in all of England who would be able to claim that title."

Her breath caught in her throat as he lifted his hands to her face, cradling it gently as if he wanted to just hold her head there for a moment, to make sure she was hearing him. The trouble was, though the words made sense, she did not understand what it was he was trying to say to her.

"Might you point me in their direction?" she whispered, her hand gingerly coming to rest on his lapel.

He flinched as if she had punched him instead, a ripple of turmoil moving across his handsome face. His mouth made the faint shapes of words, but no sound came out, like he was rehearsing what he wanted to say first. And as he did so, she could not draw her attention away from his lips, wondering if they had always been so… appealing.

His head dipped, that sweet mouth so close to her own that one quiet question would make their lips meet in a grazing kiss.

He paused there for a moment, his forehead touching hers, his thumb brushing her cheek gently, an expression of pain furrowing his brow and creasing his eyes. But what was hurting him? Assuredly, Isolde did not know, though if it was anything like the fierce burn in her veins, then she understood the unexpected ache entirely.

"Edmund?" she whispered.

He might have responded, had the squeak of door hinges not jolted them apart as if an entire wasp's nest had erupted between them. Wide-eyed, the color draining from his face, Edmund staggered further back.

"Isolde? Are you in the breakfast room?" Isolde's mother called out from the hallway, the front door banging shut.

"In here!" Isolde shouted back without thinking.

Edmund darted across the room and out of the garden doors before Isolde could say a word, leaving her standing there, wondering if she had just imagined the entire thing. After all, there was no possible way that her sworn enemy had been about to kiss her, and she had not been appalled by the notion… was there?

A few seconds later, Isolde's mother blustered in. "I shall only be a moment, darling. Would you believe that I forgot my bonnet? I was in such a fluster this morning with the haddock business! And, of course, neither of your sisters thought to remind me. They are waiting in the carriage so I must hurry." She paused, frowning at her daughter. "Isolde?"

Isolde blinked. "Hmm?"

"Are you quite well? You look feverish." Her mother approached, resting a hand on Isolde's brow. "Not so warm, but perhaps you ought to take to your chambers and rest for a while. The housekeeper can turn away any visitors."

Isolde nodded slowly. "Yes, I think that would be a good idea, Mama. I do feel rather strange."

"Do you want me to stay?"

Isolde smiled. "No, you cannot disappoint Prudie, or you may end up with a whole salmon in your bed when you wake tomorrow morning."

"Goodness, what a thing to say." Her mother shuddered. "Do not mention anything like that to her; I do not want her getting ideas."

"I shall keep it to myself, I promise."

Her mother cupped Isolde's cheek, exactly where Edmund had held her not a moment ago. "Go and rest, sweetling. You have a ball to attend the day after tomorrow, and I cannot have you declining to attend because you are unwell. After all, that lovely Viscount is going to be there, and I should hate for some other lady to swoop in while you are absent."

"I will, Mama," Isolde promised, though she was not thinking of the Viscount at that moment. All she could think about was the whisper of Edmund's breath on her lips, the scent of soap and woodsmoke, the touch of his rough palms against her skin, and the impossible idea of what might have been about to happen if her mother had not forgotten her bonnet.

He would not have kissed me, would he? Maybe, she really was unwell, or he was, for that was the only rational explanation she could muster.