Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

T he illusion vanished as Isolde lifted the candle up to see the man's face, her daydream of finally meeting her masked savior dashed as familiar features emerged. It was not her rescuer, but the man she had been trying to get away from.

"Are you quite mad?" she gasped, her heart thundering as she pressed herself flat against the bookcases.

Edmund had not moved, his tall figure towering over her, his broad chest so close that she wanted to reach out and feel the beat of his own heart, his shoulders curved as if subconsciously trying to shield her, while his hand remained to the side of her head, his other hand half-raised like he had been about to cup her face.

But what did he think he was protecting her from, when his presence was the only danger at that moment?

"I needed a reprieve from you, Edmund," she croaked, heat rising up her neck and into her face. "Why did you follow me?"

He leaned in, his brow almost touching hers. "Because you should not be alone. It is not safe for a lady to be alone."

"I should not be alone with you !" she urged, as breathless as she had been in the drawing room on that fateful day, not so long ago. "You should leave, Edmund, and you should make sure that no one sees you."

His throat bobbed, his brow creasing as if she had caused him pain. "Why do you keep calling me by my name?"

"What?"

"My name. You keep using it. You used to call me ‘Your Grace,' with all the sarcasm you could muster," he rumbled. "When did that change?"

"I… do not know. I did not even realize I was doing it," she replied, fighting the urge to touch his face, to slide her hand into his hair and pull him closer. It is what ‘Isolde' would have done to Tristan. Then again, that had not ended particularly well for the pair.

"I suppose it is… because my mother has been doing it," she added, fooling no one. It had changed after he had almost kissed her; she was certain of that.

Edmund took a half-step closer, the pressure of his proximity squeezing the air out of Isolde's lungs, turning her stomach to a flock of violently fluttering butterflies, her limbs trembling with a nervous ripple that she could not control.

"How did you know the gown came from me?" he asked quietly, his other hand coming up.

But he did not cradle her face as she had expected—instead, he pressed his other palm to the bookcase. Not hemming her in, for she could easily duck under his powerful arms, but like he did not trust his hands if they were not anchored to the bookcase.

"I… had my suspicions," she panted, glancing at the library door for fear of someone else walking in. But it was closed, making her wonder how she had not heard it. "But it…was your face. The… shock when I mentioned the dress. I suppose you thought you were hilarious, making me think it had come from a mysterious suitor?"

He touched his brow to hers and his eyes closed, that expression of pain tensing his face once more. "It was not a jest, Isolde." His breath hitched. "I have forgiven you for the strawberry tart incident."

"Then… why?" Isolde felt the spines of the books behind her digging into her own.

"I do not know," he replied. "After seeing you on the riverbank, I felt compelled to do something. To… apologize."

She pushed him lightly on the chest, hoping the nudge would open his eyes again. For if he stayed like that, with his eyes closed, his expression pained, his closeness so intense, she did not know what she would do.

"To apologize for what?" she said, dismayed and intrigued in equal measure.

His eyes fluttered open. "For behaving against my creed. For putting you in a perilous situation. For losing my mind for a moment. For not leaving that room when I should have done. For almost doing something that I would not have been able to undo."

"Say it," she urged, certain that she should be leaving the room immediately. "Say what you almost did, or how am I supposed to know what you are apologizing for?"

He turned his gaze away slightly, teeth grazing his lower lip. "I cannot."

"I did not take you for a coward, Edmund," she rasped, her hand finally falling to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath.

He was nervous.

His eyes flared in a way that seemed familiar. "I am no coward, which is precisely why I will not play these games with you. I am trying to protect you. I am trying to do my duty as your brother's friend, but you are making it so very, very difficult. As always."

They held each other's gaze with a ferocity that swelled by the second, transforming into something hot and feverish in Isolde's veins. Her hand curled involuntarily, gripping his lapel, her breath ragged as she refused to be the one to look away first. If he thought she was difficult, then she had no choice but to prove how difficult she could be.

"Do you like the gown you bought?" she said in a breathy whisper. "Is it everything you thought it would be?"

She heard him swallow, but he did not answer, ignoring the bait.

" Am I the brightest star of the Season?" she pressed, her throat tight. "Is that why you did not come to the townhouse to escort me to the ball, so you could have the satisfaction of looking for me among the constellations?"

"Stop it," he growled.

"Why give me the night sky as an apology, when you cannot even say what you are apologizing for?"

"I said, stop it." His eyes burned, his chest rising and falling with each sawing breath he took.

But she could not, the words tumbling from her lips without her permission. "Why did you follow me in here, Edmund?"

"To protect you," he rasped, taking the candle from her hand and setting it on a narrow ledge beside them.

"From what?"

"From…" His gaze flitted to her lips. "From myself."

She was about to ask what he meant, and how that could be at all possible, when his mouth grazed hers. A soft, searing brush that ignited a spark in her belly that fizzed up into her chest, loosening a gasp from her tight throat.

At first, she was too shocked to kiss him back, her entire being overwhelmed by the wildfire that coursed in her veins. She had imagined her first kiss often enough, in the safety of her daydreaming where no one could scold her or obliterate her reputation, but her romantic ponderings were nothing like the reality; they were not even close. It was magic made real, her whole body tingling, her senses heightened, her soul soaring.

As he caught her mouth with his once more in a guiding graze, her lips finally caught up with the daydream. Gripping his lapel tighter, she closed her eyes and kissed him back, sinking into the moment without hesitation. She could no longer think of anything beyond the press of his lips and the touch of his hands as they cradled her face, his fingers sliding into her hair.

If this was what he had wanted to apologize for, at great expense, then he could keep his apology. She did not need it. How could anyone regret something so extraordinary?

One of Edmund's arms encircled her waist, as if to protect her from the press of the books. The kiss deepened, slow and tortuous in the best possible way, like a promise made without knowing if it would be kept or broken. As she kissed him back with equal fervor, she looped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

The Continent must have changed him after all, she mused, deliriously. Before he went away, she would not have dreamed of kissing him. She would not have dreamed of willingly being in the same room as him, yet here they were, closer than they should have been, and her relishing every second.

He pressed her harder into the bookcase with the ferocity of his kiss, the air crackling around them. But he must have pressed her too eagerly, the bump of her back against the stacks releasing a book from high above.

It fell to the floor with a thud and, with that jarring sound, the spell broke.

Edmund halted, his lips absently finishing the kiss with a peck before he stepped away. In the candlelight, he looked pale and alarmed, staring at her as if he did not recognize her.

"As I said," he murmured, smoothing his palm down the lapel she had been grabbing, "I must protect you from myself. Evidently, you are in greater danger than I thought."

Isolde's heartbeat wavered, her wide eyes narrowing. " That is what you have to say?"

"It is what must be said," he replied firmly, all warmth and ardor gone from his voice. "I should not have done that. I should not have pursued you into a room alone, and I should not have taken you away from the Viscount of Mentrow. You should return to him now. Take your chance while he is amenable."

He might as well have struck her with one of the heavy, leatherbound books that filled the shelves. In the span of a few seconds, she had gone from feeling like she could fly to feeling herself tumble unceremoniously back to the ground, and the landing was painful.

"What, did you just want to be the one to steal my first kiss before you pushed me off to marry the Viscount?" she rasped, hating the weak tremble in her voice. He did not have the right to hurt her like this.

He grimaced. "There was no premeditation, Isolde. Perhaps, there should have been, so I could have stopped myself." He took another couple of steps away from her. " I am to blame for this and, I assure you, it will not happen again."

"I do not understand," she urged, trying to reach for his hands.

He put them behind his back, shaking his head. "Do you remember when I told you that you deserve a gentleman who is worthy of you?"

"Of course I do," she replied, her voice thick. "It was shortly before you almost kissed me. That has a tendency to stick in a lady's mind."

He met her wounded gaze. "And I said that being worthy of you is no simple matter. I said I doubt there are even five gentlemen in all of England who would be able to claim that title." He paused. "I am not one of them, but the Viscount might be. So, go to him and pretend this never happened."

"You think it is that easy?" she shot back, shaking.

"It has to be," he replied, beginning to move away, toward the library door. "I am not even fit to be considered, Isolde, because I never plan to marry. You, however, are the sort of woman that any man would be lucky to call his wife. You want marriage, you want romance, you want your dream to be a reality, and that is why you must go. Now."

She slumped against the bookcases, breathless and bewildered. What baffled her the most was that she had never seriously thought about Edmund as a possible husband, but now that he had said he would never marry, she felt a pang in her chest as if she had lost something. Was it just the sting of betrayal, of wasting her first kiss on someone who was not her husband? She did not know. It was too raw.

Edmund reached the door and opened it quietly, poking his head out to ensure that the coast was clear. That done, he looked back at her. "I will write to Vincent and inform him that my duties have come to an end. From now on, I will not be your guardian, I will not escort you to events, and I will leave you to find the happiness you deserve."

With that, he left.

Surrounded by all of her favorite stories of romance, Isolde's dream of having that for herself had never felt further away. Indeed, perhaps it was fitting that her name was Isolde for, at that moment, her hopes for love and marriage did seem rather like a tragedy.