Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

I solde perched delicately on the edge of the settee in the townhouse drawing room, conscious of her posture, her words, making sure she sipped her tea daintily and did not partake in more than one small cake. Being a refined lady, or so she had learned, was more exhausting than anyone had told her it would be.

"And do you enjoy Cornwall, Mr. Grimshaw?" she asked the fourth of the morning's suitors—the eldest son of the Viscount of Chelmsley. A handsome fellow but lacking in conversational ease.

Mr. Grimshaw nodded. "There are very pleasant walks. I walk a great deal. Do you walk?"

Do I walk? Isolde resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"I simply adore long walks," she replied instead, searching his face for any sign of the masked stranger who had inhabited her daydreams since her debut. Could it be him? Was that why he was being so reticent? Did he fear she might recognize his voice?

Across the drawing room, by the window, where he had been keeping a stern vigil throughout the morning's visitations, Edmund cleared his throat loudly. "And Lady Isolde is in need of her constitutional. Thank you for your visit, Mr. Grimshaw. You may leave now."

The Viscount's son blinked in surprise. "You wish me to leave?"

"I did not say that," Isolde replied, mortified by Edmund's interruption.

No gentleman in want of a wife wanted to hear that a young lady was about to take her morning constitutional, considering the implication. Among polite society, it did not merely mean a brisk stroll, and Edmund knew that all too well.

"You have not even finished your tea, Mr. Grimshaw," she insisted, flashing her brightest smile. "Please, do tell me more about these splendid walks that you enjoy in Cornwall."

She did not actually want to hear about them, nor was she particularly interested in Mr. Grimshaw, but she was not going to let Edmund decide when her gentlemen callers were to be dismissed.

"But His Grace has asked me to leave," Mr. Grimshaw said, standing awkwardly.

Isolde rose to her feet, bursting with sudden desperation. "Were you at the ball the other night? At Kensington Palace?"

She certainly could not allow Mr. Grimshaw to depart before she had, without doubt, figured out if he was her mysterious savior or not.

"Me? Heavens, no." Mr. Grimshaw glanced at Edmund, as if he did not know if he should continue to speak or scurry off without another word. "I do not favor public gatherings. I am only here because my mother insisted."

Isolde's own mother, Julianna, took that moment to chime in. "Oh, do give your mother my fondest wishes, will you not? I have not seen her in an age." She smiled between the two gentlemen in the room. "And, please, do not be too dismayed. His Grace is simply ensuring that there is no awkwardness when my daughter's next caller arrives."

"Of course." Mr. Grimshaw bowed far too low, clearly rattled by Edmund's imposing, scowling presence. "Apologies for the intrusion, Your Grace."

"You are forgiven," Edmund replied, to Isolde's abject infuriation.

How was she meant to behave in a ladylike fashion with Edmund standing there, chasing off all of her prospects, acting as if he had any say in who she spoke to at all? But, naturally, she could not berate him in front of Mr. Grimshaw, for though she did not want the man to pursue her anymore, he might spread news of her being discourteous or unrefined.

"Thank you for your visit, Mr. Grimshaw," she called after the Viscount's son as he hurried from the room. Had he had a tail, it would have been tucked firmly between his legs.

The instant she heard the front door open and close, she rounded on Edmund.

"I am sorry, Your Grace, I did not realize that you had woken up as me this morning," she seethed. "Shall I lend you a gown so you can sit in my place and entertain any other callers who happen to come by? I could stand there in the window and glare at everyone. That would be fun, would it not?"

He had behaved the same way with every caller thus far, scaring them off or outright demanding their departure, giving her little opportunity to get to know a single one. And Isolde was tired of it, wishing he would shove off back to his own townhouse and leave them be, as he had done the previous day. After breakfast, to her lingering annoyance.

Jullianna reached over and grabbed Isolde's hand. "Be genteel, darling. Edmund is just being cautious on your behalf. Why, who would know a gentleman's intentions better than another gentleman? You ought to be thanking him for thinning out the herd, so to speak."

" Thanking him?" Isolde gaped at her mother. "That settles it—the world has gone mad, or I am stuck in a terrible nightmare. I would rather swim in the Thames than thank that… that… insufferable creature."

Edmund fixed Isolde with a cold stare. "Are you quite finished?"

"Finished with your interjections, yes," she shot back.

Sweeping a hand through his dark brown curls, Edmund approached the low table that sat between the two settees. Casually, he poured himself a cup of tea and took a raspberry madeleine from the array of cakes, taking his time, understanding full well how much it annoyed Isolde.

"Did you like Mr. Grimshaw?" he asked, taking a pointed sip of his tea.

Isolde narrowed her eyes at him. "What?"

"Is he the hero you have always dreamed of? Could you envision him as your husband?"

"Well… no, but?—"

"Then I spared you both the trouble of pretending otherwise," Edmund interrupted. "And your dear mother is right—you ought to be thanking me for that."

Incensed, and ready to hurl the entire tray of cakes and fancies at him, Isolde might have shed her fa?ade of ladylike propriety altogether had there not been an abrupt knock on the drawing room door.

The butler, Mr. Richards, entered apprehensively. "There is a Lord Warrington at the door, to call upon Lady Isolde."

"Then show him in," Edmund commanded, before Isolde or her mother could.

But as they waited for the next suitor to appear, Edmund did not hesitate to land one last stinging remark. "Let us see if this one is the gentleman of your dreams, Lady Isolde, though I truly doubt that anyone could reach such lofty heights of expectation. There is a reason that all of those romantic novels are branded as fiction."

It took every shred of willpower that Isolde possessed to force her anger into submission, figuring that if she ruined the next visit with her fury it would only give Edmund satisfaction. He would have to look elsewhere for that, no matter how hard he tried to taunt her.

I will not be prevented from finding the man of my dreams because of you. He is in London somewhere. And if the masked man was half the gentleman that she hoped he was, he would want to see her again, to ensure that she had not suffered any after-effects from Colin's actions.

"Lady Isolde, what a rare pleasure this is," Lord Warrington began well, his light blue eyes unwavering in their warm attention toward her. He bowed to Julianna and Edmund in turn, but his gaze immediately shot back to Isolde. "I do not know how it is possible, but you look more radiant now than you did at your debut. I confess, I mistook you for an angel, somehow lost in Kensington Palace."

Isolde beamed at the compliment. "But how could you possibly know what I looked like beneath my mask?"

"Another confession—I have admired you, from afar, since you enchanted everyone at the theater last year," Lord Warrington replied with a roguish, pleasing smile. "Have you any intention of honoring us all with your presence this year? I have a particularly good view of the stage from my private box."

Isolde sat up straighter, already enjoying the man's charm more than she had done with her previous callers. He was undoubtedly tall enough to be her mysterious champion, his shoulders broad, his manner confident, and there was a roughness to his voice that sparked hope that she had found him .

"I intend to visit the theater often this Season," she replied shyly, remembering those strong arms curving around her, and the faint memory of a scent: woodsmoke and something soapy, like rosemary or lavender. "The opera, too, though you must not ask me to decide which I prefer. It would be like asking me which sister I love more—an impossible question."

"I am exactly the same," Lord Warrington urged, moving closer to the settee opposite. "You have two sisters, do you not?"

Isolde nodded. "And a brother, who is presently in Bath."

"I do not need to know such intimate details. What a gentleman does in the privacy of his own chambers to cleanse himself is his own business." Lord Warrington flashed a debonair grin, conjuring a giddy laugh from Isolde's throat.

He had been the first of five suitors to attempt a joke, which charmed her all the more. To her mind, humor was as important as station, fortune, appearance, and a keen desire to dance.

"Please, sit and make yourself comfortable," Isolde insisted, casting a conspiratorial glance at her mother, who seemed equally captivated by Lord Warrington. "Would you care for some tea? A cake, perhaps?"

"Oh, I do not much like tea," Lord Warrington replied. "I know, admitting such a thing ought to have me exiled from the country, but I would not begin our first proper encounter with a lie. Your company, your conversation, and perhaps a scone shall be enough refreshment for me."

Shocked as she was that she had met a gentleman who did not like tea, she felt rather refreshed by his honesty. She was about to tell him as much, when Edmund's voice pierced through the warm atmosphere like a shard of ice.

"Sitting will not be necessary," he said abruptly. "Lady Isolde is tired. She has seen enough. You may leave with or without your scone."

Lord Warrington faltered in a strange half-crouch, his backside hovering a short distance from the settee cushions, his expression confused as he looked from Isolde to Edmund and back again.

"Nonsense," Isolde insisted with forced cheer. "Do sit, Lord Warrington."

Lord Warrington sat down slowly, his eyebrows knitted together in consternation. "Is it a jape of some kind?"

"I have no notion of why he said that," Isolde replied.

"It was no jape," Edmund cut in. "And do not sit when I have instructed you not to. Lord Warrington, with respect, it is time for you to go."

Isolde flashed Edmund a dark look. "With respect, Lord Warrington, I do not want you to leave just yet. I have barely made your acquaintance."

"Well, that is what I thought," Lord Warrington replied, "but if His Grace wishes me to depart, then?—"

"You ought to do as you are told," Edmund said. "The first sign of a fine gentleman is how well he takes instruction. You are failing, Lord Warrington."

Isolde looked to her mother in desperation, as Lord Warrington shuffled to the very edge of the settee, apparently still uncertain as to what he should do. But Isolde could see the desire to get out of there as quickly as possible forming upon the suitor's perplexed face.

"Cream and jam?" Julianna said in a bright voice.

Lord Warrington tilted his head to one side, frowning. "Pardon?"

"For your scone," Julianna replied.

"Then, I am to stay?" Lord Warrington asked.

"Of course you are," Isolde said, flashing another warning look at Edmund.

Julianna continued to smile as if someone had winched her mouth into that tight, unnatural position. "If it is my daughter's wish, I do not see why not."

"And is that your wish, Lady Isolde?" Lord Warrington asked with hope in his voice.

Isolde schooled her expression back to ladylike shyness, fluttering her eyelashes at the most promising suitor of the morning. "It is?—"

"Not the wish of the household," Edmund interrupted, igniting a sudden burst of fury in Isolde that threatened to crack her entire fa?ade of politeness into smithereens. "I have been placed in charge of Lady Isolde in her brother's absence. In truth, Lord Warrington, he would not like you."

Lord Warrington blinked at that, rising suddenly to his feet. "Now listen here, Your Grace, I have known Vincent for a year or two and he has never expressed any such opinion of me. I rather get the feeling that you are jealous, Your Grace. Has she rejected your suit? Is that the trouble here?"

At that, Edmund laughed. A wild, raucous laugh that hardly had a drop of true amusement in it. A cold thing, mocking and deeply unkind, prompting Isolde's face to heat with a strange combination of abject rage and writhing embarrassment. She should have laughed back at the insinuation that anything but enmity could exist between her and Edmund, but she only managed a dry chuckle.

"Outlandish notion," Edmund said, his laughter ending sharply. "And for that accusation, I really must insist on you leaving at once."

To Isolde's surprise, it was her mother who got up. "Come, Lord Warrington. I think, perhaps, we should arrange for you to return another day. You will, will you not?"

Lord Warrington allowed himself to be escorted out by Isolde's mother, muttering as he went, "I would be happy to return when Vincent comes back, but I shall not set foot in this house again if His Grace is present."

"Of course, Lord Warrington," Julianna said in a soothing voice, closing the drawing room door behind her, but not before casting a look at Isolde that said: Whatever this quarrel is, fix it at once. As if it was somehow Isolde's fault that Edmund was behaving as he always did—like a rude boy that had never grown up.