Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

W hat now? Edmund asked himself, spurred on by a feeling that could only be madness.

He had no viable explanation for pulling Isolde away from Noah, just as he had no idea why he was leading her to the opposite side of the room. He just… kept walking, tugging her along with him, as if they were on important business. And the more he struggled for some sort of reason that she would accept, the more rationale slipped away from him.

"What are you doing, Edmund?" Isolde hissed, as he pulled to a halt beside the French doors that led out onto a pretty marble terrace.

The cool breeze did nothing to clear his head, but at least did something to lessen the heat in his face.

He contemplated ushering her out into the gardens, but doing such a thing would undoubtedly cause a scandal. At least in the ballroom, Isolde was still technically chaperoned, her mother being within sight, though utterly distracted by a group of likeminded older women.

"Edmund?" Isolde's sharp voice snapped him out of his confusion.

"What?"

"What?" she parroted, brow furrowing. "Why did you take me away from Lord Mentrow? He was just about to ask me to dance. I do not think you understand the enormity of what you have just done."

Edmund cleared his throat. "Your mother was not there to grant permission for a dance. His name was not on your dance card."

"How do you know?" she shot back, her chest rising and falling frantically. "You were not there to escort me. You were not there when I arrived. I did not think you would be here at all, in truth, so how could you possibly know whose name is on my dance card or not?"

The bristle of anger in her voice surprised him, for it was not the usual, sarcastic anger that he had grown accustomed to over the years. It was… more poignant than that, striking him right in the chest. A different vibration of fury that carried the thrum of pain with it.

Why does she sound like I have hurt her?

He frowned. "Why would you think I would not be in attendance? I promised your brother."

"Because… because you were not where you were supposed to be!" she replied fervently, her cheeks pinkening, her eyes blazing. "If you cared so much about the duty my brother gave you, you would have been waiting in the entrance hall."

Her voice caught in her throat, that subtle falter hitting him in the chest for a second time.

"It is more appropriate this way," he said firmly, though he knew there was nothing appropriate about the manner in which he had just removed Isolde from Noah's company.

Even now, he had no explanation, other than the fact that he had seen her listening intently to something Noah had been saying, and had been so overcome with a feeling he could not describe that he had marched on over. A feeling akin to irritation, that had prickled across his skin and would have driven him to restless agitation if he had not acted when he did.

"Appropriate?" Isolde scoffed. "I am beginning to wonder if you know the meaning of the word."

Edmund folded his arms behind his back, his hands itching to take hold of hers, to soothe her ire into the same softness she showed everyone but him. She was right to be angry with him, after all; he had acted poorly, but he would not admit it, for that would mean trying to explain why he had behaved like that.

"Lord Mentrow was just telling me that his sister is in trouble, and I suspect the only way to get her out of trouble is for him to marry well," Isolde continued, prompting a rock of alarm to drop into his stomach. "He is pleasant, he is charming, he is amusing, he cares deeply for his family, and I could do much worse than a nice Viscount who, I believe, would make an excellent companion."

The rock in Edmund's belly began to roil, as visions of a wedding day popped into his head: Isolde walking down the aisle to the Viscount of Mentrow, with that radiant smile on her face, looking forward to a future with him.

It should not have bothered Edmund. He should have been celebrating it, knowing he would have good news to impart to Vincent, but that was not the feeling that pulled to the fore of his mind.

"Yet you have just tried to intervene," she ranted on, in a low, discreet voice, "and I cannot help but wonder what your complaint is, this time. Yes, you were right about Lord Spofforth, and I do not deny you were right about many others, but what is wrong with Lord Mentrow?"

Edmund stared at her, his mind completely devoid of suitable answers. He had no complaint against Noah. The Viscount was as excellent a match as any young lady could want. Unlike other gentlemen who had come to call upon Isolde, Edmund did not believe that Noah was a fortune hunter or a deceiver or someone with sly motives; he obviously cared for Isolde, and helping out his sister at the same time was likely just an additional boon. Indeed, Noah telling Isolde about his sister's predicament only proved that he was an honest, reasonable, honorable man.

"I thought so," Isolde muttered. "Is it the power you enjoy?"

Edmund narrowed his eyes at her. "That is an insult, Isolde, and you know it."

"Yet, I find it can be the only explanation for your actions," she replied, glancing around, probably to make sure that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. "Unless you can think of another that would satisfy me?"

His throat tightened as he gazed into her fierce blue eyes, hearing the soft whisper of her ragged breaths, admiring the flush of pink in her alabaster cheeks, and the slight parting of her plump lips. He was glad he had folded his arms behind his back, or he might not have been able to stop himself from cradling her face, brushing his thumb across her rosy cheek, watching her anger turn to starry-eyed longing.

I could never satisfy you, he realized with a jolt. You want love of the highest order. You want the romance of your favorite books. You want what you have always dreamed of, and I cannot even offer an engagement.

"It appears I saved you from making a mistake," he said gruffly. "You should not trust a gentleman who cannot give you what you want. The Viscount has made himself clear—he is seeking a marriage of convenience to spare his sister. I cannot tell you what to do, but I would be wary of that."

She squared up, her eyes flinching as if he had wounded her a second time. "No, Edmund, you cannot tell me what to do." She paused, as if uncertain of whether or not she should say what was on her mind. "And I regret letting you dictate what I should wear, too."

A breathy gasp slipped involuntarily from his throat, his eyes widening at her bold words. How could she know that the gown had come from him? He had not put his name on the note, and, to his recollection, there was nothing in what he had had inscribed that could lead her suspicions back to him.

I should not have let Madame Versailles write a note at all. He cursed himself for letting the dressmaker persuade him, and he cursed himself all the more for indulging in a little poeticism.

To the brightest star of the Season, I give you the night sky. I will look for you among the constellations. Madame Versailles had told him to dictate what he thought of the recipient, and that was what had come out, as if the dressmaker had ensorcelled him somehow. Now, it had come back to bite him.

He was about to protest, about to come up with the first reasonable explanation that came to him, but Isolde was already walking away. And not back to Noah but, seemingly, out of the ball altogether.

Choking back silly disappointment that defied all reason and sense, Isolde marched out of the ballroom, desperately in need of peace and quiet to gather her thoughts. She could not be seen to be in a distressed state in front of so many people, where gossipmongers and scandal sheet informants were rife, especially not after spending time in Edmund's company.

Of all the infuriating, aggravating, bewildering, mercurial gentlemen I have ever met, you are the very worst, Edmund.

She was convinced, now, that he was the one who had sent the gown. There had been no ‘express rider' or coincidental encounter on the townhouse porch. He had brought the box and the gown, then he had changed his mind, telling a small lie right to her face so she would not know where the garment hailed from.

"Why write such a note?" she murmured, clasping a hand to her chest in a vain attempt to steady her breathing. "Were you mocking me? Taunting me? Tricking me, as I once tricked you?"

She did not want to believe that he had waited all this time to take revenge on a childhood jape of hers, but what if that was exactly what he was doing? What if he was not the mature, dependable, mostly honorable gentleman that everyone thought he was? What if, beneath that fa?ade, he was just petty and juvenile?

She walked without knowing where she was going, eager to clear her mind of the maelstrom of confusion that swirled there. She knew she should have returned to Noah to continue where they had been interrupted, but she was in no mood to dance and make polite conversation, even with a gentleman she thought to be pleasant.

I can apologize later, once I am myself again.

Her hurried feet carried her through the labyrinth of the Duke and Duchess of Farnaby's grand townhouse—a left turn here, a right turn there, losing herself without caring—until the music of the orchestra had faded to a muffled melody, the chatter of guests no more than a faint drone.

At that moment, she spied a half-open door on her left, and moved toward it, praying for sanctuary.

Hesitantly, she opened the door wider and peered around, her heart leaping with gratitude as she realized she had found the library. A few candles flickered in the gloom, but not a sound echoed back. There was no one else there; she had found her peace and quiet.

"Anyone here?" she asked anyway, to be certain.

Silence called back an invitation.

She proceeded into the vast room, where bookcases towered like peaceable giants, and the dusty, delightful aroma of leather and paper and ink greeted her senses. Teresa might have been the known devourer of books, but Isolde had never found anywhere quite as relaxing as a library. And, right now, the company of books was precisely what she needed.

Picking up a candle, she padded over to the front row of bookcases and raised the pool of amber light up. To her delight, there was an entire shelf of her favorites, right there for her comfort.

She traced her fingertips down the spine of a collection of stories that she knew so very well, one of them containing her namesake—the tragic tale of Tristan and Isolde. A forbidden love between a Cornish knight and an Irish princess that had always been her favorite, likely because she could better imagine herself within the story, sharing her name with the heroine.

As she was about to pull the book out, a rush of air swept past her shoulder, another hand covering hers, pressing the book back into the shelf.

Isolde gasped in fright, whirling around to see the face of her intruder. As she did, a strange part of her wondered if it might be her champion of bronze roses and thorns, come to declare himself at last. He lived in shadow, after all, so what better place for him to reappear than in the candlelight gloom of a library, where all dreams could come to life?

"Do not run from me," the man growled, his hand still pressed against the bookcase. "If you run, I cannot keep you safe."

Her heart leaped into her throat, her desperate whisper shivering through the air: "Is it you?"