Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

" I nearly kissed her, Lionel," Edmund confessed, expelling the words in a rush like he had been holding them in his lungs as a breath. "I do not know what happened to me. It was like… I cannot even begin to explain it, but it must have been a sort of… temporary madness."

Lionel sat across from him in a quiet public house by the river—not their usual haunt, but Edmund had thought a change of scenery might be nice. A change of scenery where no one of the Ton might accidentally overhear and spread scandalous gossip about the woman he was supposed to be watching over.

"I suspect being alone with her played some part," Lionel said coolly, pushing his glass of liquor back and forth across the table. "You, of all people, should have known better. Why did you not excuse yourself the moment you realized she was unaccompanied?"

Edmund chewed his lip, feeling utterly disoriented, as if his world had been turned on its head. He valued his own sense of duty and honor; it was the cornerstone of his existence, being the kind of Duke that his mother and father would have been proud of. In one foolish, tempting, otherworldly moment, he had almost undone himself.

"The funny thing is, that was my first thought," he explained. "Isolde told me that her mother and sisters had ventured out, and my mind began to clang, urging me to leave her be. Instead, I suggested she ought to improve her dancing, though… there is nothing amiss with her dancing. She is very accomplished."

Lionel raised an eyebrow. "And you offered to be her partner?"

"I do not even like to dance, Lionel," Edmund mumbled, resting his forehead on his hand, staring at the stains and gnarls in the table's surface as if he might find answers there. "I wanted to leave, knew I should leave, but I could not. And I am certain I would have kissed her if her mother had not returned when she did."

Lionel frowned, drumming his fingertips against the wood. "How would she have responded if you had?"

"What?" Edmund's gaze shot back up to his friend. "What sort of question is that? You ought to be reprimanding me, telling me what a reckless rogue I have been, scolding me for almost making a terrible mistake, insisting I keep my distance from her from now on."

"It would only have been a mistake if she had not reciprocated the… affection," Lionel said, as casual as if he were telling Edmund about the kind of eggs available for breakfast.

Edmund leaned in, his voice low. "It is a mistake for any unwed gentleman to kiss an unwed lady, but it is doubly so for me." He lowered his voice further, just in case there was anyone listening in. "She is Lady Isolde. She is my dearest friend's sister. She is the… crowning hope for my dearest friend's family, and I nearly thwarted that. We were right by the windows, for pity's sake—anyone could have seen!"

He had not taken Isolde's own worries seriously at the time, but after he had escaped the townhouse to walk and clear his head, he had realized just how idiotic he had been. There were always people wandering past the townhouses of Mayfair, peering in at windows to satisfy their nosiness, and they had been right there, not only dancing, but standing too close, their intentions—Edmund's, at least—as clear as day for anyone to behold.

"You lost yourself in the fire of the moment," Lionel said evenly. "It can happen to anyone. It does not mean you are suddenly dishonorable or wretched."

Edmund squirmed in his chair, wishing he was in his own townhouse where he would have the room to pace and fret. "Then explain why I have not been able to stop thinking about it—about her ?"

"You like her," Lionel replied simply.

Edmund scoffed, as he had done when the picnicking ladies in Hyde Park had alluded to the same thing. It was ridiculous. It was utterly ridiculous. Of all the women in the world, she was the very last he would think of in a romantic fashion.

But there had, perhaps, been warning signs: the stolen looks, the ‘accidental' touches, the way he sought her out in a crowd, the way he had intervened so forcefully during the morning visits of potential suitors, the fact he had behaved so out of character at the dinner party, and had felt a tightness in his chest upon seeing Isolde so enamored with Noah. Had it been leading to something like a kiss, without him realizing? Had he missed earlier opportunities to nip certain impulses in the bud?

"I do not hear you protesting," Lionel prompted with a faint smile.

"Well, that is because I would not deign to give that suggestion any speech at all," Edmund retorted, his mind buzzing with a hive of confusion and unease. "There has to be another reason. It cannot be affection."

Lionel leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass of liquor before taking a pointed sip. "I would not assume to know what you are thinking, Edmund, but I do not see that there is anything wrong with seeing Lady Isolde in a romantic light. She is known to be very beautiful, I have heard that she is quite charming, she is of good standing, and she is already familiar to you. It would, perchance, be more unusual if you did not develop some sort of affection for her."

"Then consider me unusual, because I will not allow it of myself," Edmund insisted, his leg jiggling as if his body could not bear the pressure of his wayward mind's unyielding thoughts of her.

Distraction had not worked. He must have walked across half of London trying to tire himself out, so his brain would not permit him to remember how wonderful, how right it had felt to hold her in his arms. How soft her skin had been when he had cradled her face, how she had tilted her head up as if she wanted to be kissed by him.

Would she have hit me, pushed me, yelled at me? He had asked himself that question a thousand times since it happened, too.

"With respect, Edmund, whyever not?" Lionel's tone held a rasp of frustration, as if he had grown weary of the conversation.

Then again, it was always difficult to tell what Lionel was thinking, for he rarely gave much away on his face or in his voice. It was what made him such a good listener, for one could talk for hours and he would not interject unless invited to.

"You know why," Edmund replied, turning his gaze toward the window, where the river flowed slowly by, glinting in the afternoon sunlight. "It would not matter if she was a stranger I had met in the gardens of a ball, who had pierced my heart with longing; the outcome would be the same. I will not, cannot, and shall not marry. I have told you this before, Lionel."

Lionel shrugged. "And I have always assumed that you would change your mind if the right lady happened to come along. You are a clever man, Edmund; I thought you would eventually realize that you do not need to punish yourself for things that were not your fault in the first place. Things that have nothing to do with having a wife and being content in life."

With a sigh, Edmund squinted at the glittering water, wondering if he had not explained himself well enough to the friends who knew of his stance—Lionel and Vincent—or if they would simply never understand because they could not.

They had not lost what he had lost. They had not had to carry the burden of being the sole survivor of an entire family. They had not had everything one moment, and nothing the next. They were likely incapable of putting themselves in his position, feeling what he felt.

"It has more to do with that than you think," he managed to say. "I have no desire for legacy. My cousin will make a fine Duke when I die, or my cousin's sons if he has already passed, and they will fill that manor with life and people again. That is what I want. That is why I cannot?—"

A face appeared at the window he had been staring out of, eager knuckles rapping on the glass. A face he would not have expected to see in that part of London at any time, least of all then.

His heart jumped in alarm, his stomach sinking as he realized there was another figure framed in the window too. Someone who would not look at him, despite her mother's frantic attempt to gain Edmund's attention.

Isolde—the very woman he had been trying to forget, haunting him in places he had been certain they would never cross paths.

"Did you tell them you would be here?" Lionel whispered, a subtle hint of cool amusement in his eyes. "Or are you, perhaps, more destined than you thought?"

Edmund shot his friend a dark look, downed what was left in his glass, and got up to head outside and greet Julianna and her daughter. Indeed, though it seemed like a cruel jest from the heavens, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, for if he was to keep any inkling of affection at arm's length, there was no better time to begin practicing than the present.

"Good afternoon to you," Edmund said, bowing his head to Isolde and her mother as he stepped out of the rustic riverside inn.

A rather shabby establishment, in Isolde's opinion, but if that was Edmund's preference, she would not question it. She would not even mention it, for that might show she cared what he got up to when he was not standing guard over her marriage prospects.

And I do not care what he does when he is not acting like my shadow. I do not care a jot, she told herself, determined to make herself believe it.

"Good afternoon, Edmund," Isolde's mother crowed, wearing a gleeful expression. "What a fortunate thing that I caught sight of you, or I might have missed you entirely."

Edmund smiled tightly. "Indeed, I would not have expected to see you here. Did you lose your way? Do you require an escort to return to more… savory parts of London?"

"Oh, what a fine and caring gentleman you are!" Isolde's mother said, delivering a rather sharp jab of the elbow to Isolde's ribs. "But no, we are not lost. We have been at the modiste, and when we emerged, three gowns heavier, it was such a beautiful afternoon that I suggested we should wander along the river. What a bit of luck that we should find you here too."

What a bit of careful orchestration, Isolde wanted to mutter, but held her tongue. All morning and all through their hours of selection and alterations at the modiste, her mother had not stopped chattering about Edmund and how pleasant he was, and how Isolde really ought to consider him, and how happy Vincent would be if she did.

It had taken every lesson in being ladylike that Isolde had ever learned not to eventually snap at her mother. Instead, she had ignored it, praying her mother would eventually exhaust herself. It had been working until that moment, and Isolde sensed that the impromptu meeting would only reinvigorate her mother's misplaced matchmaking endeavors.

" Three gowns?" Edmund raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Are they… nice?"

Isolde could not resist any longer, her gaze drawn to him by the strange question. Since when had Edmund cared about her wardrobe? Why, she was more shocked that he had not taken the opportunity to scold Isolde and her mother for being atrocious spendthrifts.

He did not look away, his sapphire-blue eyes locked with hers. And in that look, it was like they were both holding a piece of string, the tension tightening, becoming unbearable the longer they held it.

Warmth tingled in Isolde's cheeks, rushing down her neck like a fever, her skin remembering the closeness of him. Her forehead grew hot, exactly where he had rested his brow against hers, her face intimately recalling where he had held her, and as she pressed her lips together, it was as if they were back in the drawing room, and she was waiting for him to take that terrifying step of kissing her.

Breathless, she finally dropped her gaze, wondering what on earth was wrong with her. She could not find her brother's dearest friend, her sworn enemy, appealing. It was impossible.

"Extraordinary!" Isolde's mother replied. "Truly, the most exquisite gowns I have ever seen, though I rather think the beauty of them has more to do with the wearer. I have yet to see a gown that does not look exceptional on my daughter."

Edmund's voice sounded somewhat thick as he replied, "What colors have you purchased?"

Colors? Is he quite serious? Isolde snuck a glance at him, perplexed by the curious expression on his face.

"One is dark blue, one is a rather daring red, and the other is a gorgeous muslin in a very unusual color—How did I describe it, darling?" Isolde's mother looked at her daughter expectantly.

"The shade of a lady's blush in summer," Isolde mumbled in reply. "I would call it a dusky rose, as that is how the modiste described it. Rather less poetic, but certainly easier to imagine."

Edmund nodded. "They sound very charming."

"Oh, they are," Isolde's mother said eagerly. "I only wish we could show you them now, but they will not be ready to collect until tomorrow. Today was for the final alterations. But the fabric moves so well, Edmund—I cannot wait to see her dance in them. She will be the belle of every ball; I have no doubt about it. Although, we shall have to purchase some additional adornments and?—"

"Mama," Isolde interrupted firmly, "I do not think His Grace is interested in hearing about gowns and adornments. He is just being polite, and we have taken up quite enough of his time." She pointed her chin toward the inn window. "Your friend must be awaiting your swift return."

And I cannot be here, with you looking at me like that. Isolde's heart thudded out of time, her mind returning again and again to the drawing room.

She had often daydreamed about her first kiss, imagining a romantic scene on a sunny but windswept day, held passionately in the arms of her husband. His face had never been clear to her, no matter how fervently she dipped into her reservoir of beloved romance stories, but since her debut, every daydream ‘husband' had worn a mask of roses and thorns. Now, after the dance in her family townhouse, the mask had come off in her imaginings, the gentleman of her first kiss dreams wearing the face of Edmund instead.

She did not know how to stop it, but spending time in his company certainly would not help matters.

"If you will excuse us. We will leave you to your afternoon," Isolde said, grabbing her mother's arm and tugging her away with all the force she could muster.

Vincent, when are you coming home?

Isolde prayed it would be sooner rather than later.