Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

" A re you well, Lady Isolde?" Colin asked, as Isolde turned in a distracted circle around him, her head moving opposite to her body, her gaze unwillingly drawn to the cream and gold entrance of the ballroom.

Edmund had made himself scarce at the beginning of the dance, but she could not help feeling like he was still in the room somewhere; a prickle down the back of her neck, like she was being watched.

"Pardon? Yes… goodness, I am so very sorry," she replied, concentrating on her dancing partner. "I thought I saw one of my friends looking rather distressed, but I think I was mistaken."

I will not let you ruin this night, Edmund, as you have ruined so many others, she vowed, putting more enthusiasm into her steps and hops, flashing her most winning smile at Colin.

Unlike Edmund, the Marquess of Fenton seemed to be a true gentleman: shy, polite, intelligent, and bursting with compliments for her. Why should she waste another moment thinking about Edmund and how much she loathed him, when she was supposed to be having the night of her life? A society lady never had the chance to debut twice, so she needed to make the most of it, regardless of what unsavory characters might have been invited.

"Would you like to go to her?" Colin asked, his tone worried.

Isolde shook her head. "There is no need, Lord Fenton. I really was mistaken. That lady was wearing a silver mask, and my friend arrived with a golden one." She paused to cast him another warm smile. "That is the trouble with masks, I suppose—one never quite knows who they are looking at."

"That may be true for most," Colin replied, pressing his palm to hers as they turned three slow circles around one another, their touching hands the center point. "But I know that I am looking at the rarest jewel of the Season. It cannot be denied. No gentleman here would argue."

Isolde smiled at the praise—not too much, not too little. "You really are too kind, Lord Fenton. Truly, my cheeks shall never be cool again for all the blushing you are inspiring."

"I wish that I could see that blush," Colin said in earnest, a sigh in his voice. "Indeed, if I may be so bold—and please, strike me with your glove or reticule if I am being too bold—would you possibly consider wandering with me in the gardens after this dance? I hear they are exceptional."

Isolde's stomach fluttered with excitement; she was never one to refuse a wander in fine gardens, and she had been longing to explore those at the palace. Every time she wandered by the gates when she was in London, she thought the same thing, how nice it would be to stroll in such exquisite gardens. Having a handsome gentleman beside her would only make it more delightful.

"I should like that very much," she said. "Once I find my mother, of course."

"Of course," Colin replied, gazing at her once again as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

The extraordinary sprawl of manicured gardens was precisely as Isolde had imagined, transformed into a fairy realm by the flicker of torchlight and the silvery moon that shone above, as full and round and perfect as a freshly minted coin. Crushed-shell pathways gleamed white, guiding any guests who might find themselves wandering in the night air.

"I wish I could see it in the daylight too," Isolde sighed, inhaling the fragrant aroma that drifted from the slumbering blooms and bushes.

"Say nothing to anyone," Colin whispered, covering her hand with hers as she held onto the crook of his elbow, "but I happen to know the head gardener. A stroll in the afternoon would not be out of the question if that was your heart's desire. This week, perhaps?"

Isolde nodded eagerly, caught up in the mystery and romance of promenading with a gentleman in such a dreamy place. It did not matter too much that Colin had yet to make her heart pound or her mind race with visions of a potential future, nor that he had barely made her stomach flutter. She was content to enjoy amenable company in a beautiful setting, and to take her time to see if there was any delayed spark between them. Perhaps, it would ignite later on. Perhaps, it would not. There was no rush to make any decisions; it was only her first outing into society, after all.

"That would be marvelous," she told him, relishing the sound of her shoes crunching against the crushed shells, the sleepy coo of doves coming from a nearby apple tree, and the absolute serenity that enveloped her.

She glanced back over her shoulder, wanting to remark upon the beauty of the gardens to her mother.

A frown creased her brow, panic rising like a saucepan of milk left on the stove, boiling over. She was certain her mother had been right behind them. Indeed, Julianna Wilds, the Dowager Countess of Grayling, had been just as excited as her daughter to venture out into the immaculate gardens.

Letting go of Colin's arm, she spoke her fears aloud. "Lord Fenton, I cannot see my mother anymore."

"I am sure she is somewhere nearby," Colin replied, weaving her arm through his once more. "She is not the sort of lady who would allow her daughter to wander unchaperoned. Fear not."

Frowning, but knowing that Colin was right, Isolde allowed herself to relax again. Soon enough, she settled back into the peace of the gardens, following Colin's lead as if they were back on the dance floor. Although, she did listen out more intently for the telltale crunch of her mother's shoes on the pathways, but as the time wore on, that comforting sound never materialized.

"She must be lost," Isolde said, pulling away from Colin, intending to make her way back through the gardens until she found her mother.

But Colin's hand closed around her wrist, tugging her into him rather vigorously. "Do not worry about your mother. She is up there somewhere, conversing with my mother."

"What do you mean? How can you possibly know that?" Isolde tried to shove him backward, but he would not budge.

"I asked her to intervene on my behalf," Colin replied, holding her so tightly that she could not breathe, as if he meant to crush her against his chest. "I thought it might be of benefit to the two of us if we were entirely alone for a short while. Indeed, I cannot very well kiss the most beautiful lady in society in front of everyone, now, can I? I should hate for us to cause a scandal."

Isolde released the rebellious girl who, for the most part, remained hidden inside her, buried deep. She glowered at Colin and slammed her palms into his chest, noting his wince with some satisfaction. He still wore his bird mask, but the mask beneath had slipped; he was not as nice nor as gentlemanly as he would have had her believe.

She told him as much. "I do not appreciate tricks and deceits, Lord Fenton," she hissed. "Invite me into beautiful gardens under false pretenses at your peril. You do not know my true nature, and I doubt you would find her as gracious as I am being right now. So, with the greatest disrespect, please unhand me."

"But I have not had my kiss," Colin purred, eyes glinting. "I will not be going anywhere until I have savored what those other gentlemen in there can only dream about. So, with the greatest respect, hold still so I can kiss you, and truly stake my claim."

Her hand flew up and smacked against his mouth as he tried to dip his head to kiss her. She pushed with all her might, his neck arcing back, but his arms around her waist held her firmly.

"Unhand me," she seethed, furious with herself for trusting in the sweet words of such a man.

A crunch of heavy footfalls on the pathway preceded a gruff, gravelly voice that growled, "You heard the lady. Take your hands off her." The footsteps drew nearer. "As for staking your claim, think again. And never again touch what is not yours. I do not tolerate anyone touching what is mine."

Isolde did not know the voice, did not know what he meant by his words, and though she feared the insinuation, she feared Colin more in that moment.

"Yours?" Colin scoffed, thrashing his head to escape Isolde's clawing hand.

A shadow emerged from a gap in the torchlit hedge, a short distance away. A tall figure in a greatcoat, apparently oblivious to the balmy warmth of the evening, the tails of the garment flapping in the light breeze. He wore a top hat and in a flare of amber light from the flickering flame, she caught the glint of an elegant mask beneath the rim: bronze roses and thorns coiling and weaving across the upper part of his face, his eyes dark and menacing through the almond-shaped holes.

A rough hand seized Colin's arm and flung it away with considerable strength, while another rough hand grabbed Isolde by the wrist and pulled her from danger's grip, hauling her toward the mysterious figure instead. He tugged her so fiercely that she hit his chest with a thump, but she made no attempt to run from him or to free herself from his grip.

His powerful arm snaked around her waist, strong and secure, and though he did not squeeze her or constrict her or hold her there with any distinct force, she felt quite breathless in his unexpected embrace. Her cheeks, too, were flushed with such heat, as though she had sprinted through the gardens back to the palace already.

It is the night air, that is all, she told herself, fully aware that it had more to do with the hard muscle underneath her palm, and the way her unknown champion had almost curved himself around her to keep her safe; his broad shoulders rounded.

"You spoke of your mother," the man said in that same rumbling growl. "If you do not want her to find out that she raised a scoundrel, I suggest you begin running."

Colin's mouth opened and closed like a beached fish, but he finally found his voice. "How long have you been following us? Are you some manner of degenerate?"

"I know a sly weasel when I see one," the rescuer replied. "I thought it best to keep an eye on you. And I will be keeping an eye on you, Lord Fenton, so remember to watch your back. You never know where I might be next, and I might feel less generous on that day."

Colin did not need to be told a third time. Whirling around, he took off up the shadowed pathway, sprinting as if Isolde's masked savior were chasing him, leaving the scene of his crime without so much as an apology to the woman he had tried to kiss without permission.

But I shall have an apology, she vowed, glaring after the cretin.

"Thank you," she said, turning toward the tall, unseasonably dressed gentleman who had likely saved her reputation, though there could be no denying that the night was truly ruined now. And, surprisingly, not at Edmund's hand.

The man released her slowly, and she had to resist the urge to cling on a while longer, embarrassed that she would even have such a notion. But he did not respond to her thanks, simply bowing his head. Perhaps, he might have said something eventually, if the sound of ladies' voices had not drifted on the breeze to their ears at that moment.

Passing by the torchlight, he turned and left her with one lingering, gleaming glance before he disappeared through the gap in the hedges, melting back into the shadows from whence he came.

Stung as she was by her rescuer's silence, Isolde wasted no time breaking into a run of her own, eager to find her mother and return to her brother as quickly as possible. In truth, she had had quite enough of the palace gardens, and society in general, for one evening.

Her debut, it seemed, had no choice but to be cut short.

"And you never heard his name?" Prudence hugged the pillow she had snatched out from under Isolde's head to wake her up, desperate to hear all of the events of the night before. At three-and-ten, the youngest of the Wilds sisters had a greater thirst for gossip than even the most seasoned of society's scandalmongers.

Isolde shook her head, glancing at Teresa, who perched daintily on the end of the bed, pretending to read a book. But she had not turned the page in at least twenty minutes, not while Isolde had told the thrilling tale of a mysterious stranger who had emerged from the shadows to save her from the clutches of the dastardly Marquess of Fenton.

It was rare that Teresa's attention could be dragged away from her books, so Isolde had made the story somewhat more dramatic in order to hold Teresa's interest.

"Was he really so handsome?" Prudence urged.

"The most handsome gentleman I have ever seen," Isolde fibbed, for all she had seen of the man were his gleaming eyes and a fleeting glimpse of full, enticing lips.

Of course, she could have spoken at great length about the strength of his arms and the hard muscle of his chest and the broadness of his shoulders, but she did not think that was appropriate for such young ears. She was not even certain it was appropriate for her mind, though it had not stopped her from dreaming of the stranger ever since her hurried return to Mayfair the previous evening.

"Tell us everything again," Prudence said, leaning back against the post of the four-poster bed in Isolde's chambers.

Isolde chuckled. "Again? Surely, it would bore you now that you know everything."

"I would not mind hearing it again," Teresa said quietly, closing her book altogether. "Particularly the part where he spoke for the first time."

Isolde shrugged. "Very well."

Secretly pleased to have the full concentration of both of her sisters, she began the story again from the start, where she had danced with Colin, and how that had led to what might have been the most exciting moment of her eight-and-ten years.

"His touch lingered," she concluded with a sigh, bending the truth a little, "as if he did not wish to let me go, but with the gaggle of ladies approaching, I fear he had no choice or we would have been?—"

"Scandalized!" a grim voice rumbled from the bedchamber doorway.

All three sisters whipped around, gasping at the sight of their brother. How long has he been standing there? Isolde flushed with embarrassment, wishing she had not been quite so creative with the truth.

"How could you be so careless?" Vincent snapped as he stalked further into the room, arms crossed. "Do you realize what could have happened if you had been seen? I should have known better than to think you were entirely reformed. You will always cause trouble, Isolde. Always. I do not know why I thought any differently."

Isolde blinked, hurt and furious all at once. "Mama was with me in the gardens. I cannot be blamed if she forgot her duty as chaperone."

"Yes, well, evidently she cannot be trusted either," Vincent muttered. "This is poor timing, Isolde. I am supposed to be venturing to Bath soon. How am I to do that now?"

Isolde glared at him. "You get into your carriage and instruct the driver to take you to Bath. It is rather simple, I should think."

"Do not test me, Isolde." Vincent grimaced, sweeping a stressed hand through his hair. "As you have proven that you cannot be left to your own devices without risking our entire family's reputation, more supervision will be required. Yes, a lot more supervision."

He walked back out of the room without further explanation, and as Isolde watched him go, a lump of dread hardened in her chest, reflected on the faces of her sisters. Whatever he meant by "supervision," he had left her in no doubt that it could not be good.