Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

L ady Isolde is capable of choosing well; I am sure. Isolde turned Edmund's undoubtedly sarcastic words over and over in her mind. Her mouth moved bitterly to mutter out the sentiment as she walked around the side of Lord and Lady Montrose's manor. Toward the music that drifted across the serene estate, two hours' ride from London. Toward revelry and joy and distraction and discovering if Lord Spofforth was the man she had been dreaming of.

She was so busy simmering over Edmund's snide remark that she did not notice the small group who were loitering around the corner of the manor until she had all but knocked into them.

"Goodness, I am so very sorry!" she gasped, as a hand shot out to steady her, though she had already regained her balance. "I did not see you there."

Following the hand up to a familiar face, she gasped again, her irritation with Edmund draining away, replaced with a nervous delight.

"I should have known you were approaching by the sound of heavenly bells that were chiming in my head, heralding the appearance of an angel," Lord Spofforth said with a warm smile.

There were two other gentlemen and a lady, perhaps a couple of years older than Isolde, in the group. They, too, smiled at her with a friendly ease, though Isolde kept glancing at the young lady, wondering which of the two gentlemen she was married to. After all, if she was unwed, she should not have been alone with the opposite sex.

I should not be alone with them, either. Isolde glanced back over her shoulder, wondering where Edmund and her mother were. She had darted off after her mother had mentioned the awful notion of being a good match with Edmund, but she had expected them to be no more than a couple of minutes behind her.

"If anyone else were to say that," one of the gentlemen remarked to Lord Spofforth, snorting, "it would sound hackneyed or disingenuous, but it slips so sweetly from those lips of yours, Robert."

Robert? It was the first time she had heard Lord Spofforth's name. She let it swirl around in her mind for a moment, like good brandy in a glass, trying to pair it with the man in the palace gardens.

"You must be Lady Isolde," the woman of the group said, extending a hand. "We have heard so much about you."

Isolde accepted the proffered hand, shaking it lightly. "All pleasant things, I trust?"

"Oh, undoubtedly pleasant," one of the gentlemen said, flashing a wink at Robert. "It is rare that a lady is equal to the stories Robert tells about her, but you assuredly are."

Isolde froze, squinting at the man who had spoken while an unsettled feeling ricocheted across her chest, tiny vibrations of doubt. Robert still had his hand on her arm, his fingers curled a little too tightly. She tried to remember what her masked shadow's hands had felt like when he held her, but she could not tell if the grip had been the same. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

"Pay no mind to that fool," Robert said softly, grimacing somewhat. "They have teased me since boyhood and show no signs of ceasing. This is my cousin, Norman, and the one with the unkind tongue is my oldest friend, Oliver. And the young lady is Rebecca—Oliver's sister."

Isolde allowed herself to relax, knowing all too well what sort of banter existed between childhood friends. When she was younger, she would eavesdrop on the conversations that Vincent and Edmund had when they thought no one was listening. Every time, she wondered if Edmund had somehow transformed into someone else entirely, for he laughed and jested and behaved quite ordinary when it was just the two friends together.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," she said politely.

Robert peered at her for a moment, a different sort of smile playing upon his lips as his eyes shone with a feeling Isolde could not recognize. It almost looked like hunger, but that could not be right, for the garden party would have had a fine array of things to eat.

"Have you no chaperone, Lady Isolde?" Robert asked a few seconds later.

"I do," she replied in a rush, "but I do not know where they have gone. They were right behind me."

Robert offered his arm. "Then, let me help you find them. We can chaperone you until then."

I do not think that is how it works, Isolde wanted to say, but surrounded by the eager insistence of Robert's friends, she found herself taking his arm and letting him lead her toward the babble and music of the party proper.

They came around to a wide terrace of red-hued stone that stepped down into a beautiful sandstone piazza that had been turned into a dance floor. Low boxwood hedges bordered off exquisitely patterned flowerbeds, all in full bloom, in every vivid color imaginable. On the other side of the piazza, high walls and a quaint wooden gate marked the walled gardens, the exterior guarded by fruiting apple trees, whose boughs bent under the weight of their delicious burden.

An orchestra played in the center of one of the hedged-off sections of garden, and though the hour was still rather early, there were already dancers on the floor. Isolde's heart leaped at the sight of them, for there was nothing she loved so much as dancing. It was one of the things she had looked forward to the most, as part of her debut—the freedom to dance as she pleased, with whomever she pleased.

Robert leaned in, his breath tickling her neck as he whispered, "Lady Isolde, my dear Aphrodite, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"

She pulled away, the tingle of her skin more like a brush with a nettle leaf than the feverish flush of infatuation. "I really must find my mother and my… other chaperone first."

"Nonsense," Robert insisted, rather more forcefully than she had anticipated. "Taking to the dance floor is the swiftest way to be found. They will not be able to miss you, for all they will need to do is follow where everyone else is looking."

Isolde chuckled stiffly, not certain if she really felt uncomfortable or if Edmund's warning about Robert had manipulated her view of him. There was every possibility that Robert meant well and had good intentions, and she was letting Edmund's attempt at thwarting her Season come to fruition.

He is extroverted, that is all, she told herself.

"I suppose we could dance," she said shyly, turning to address the young lady in Robert's group. "Are you married, Rebecca?"

"Happily so," Rebecca replied.

Isolde took a steadying breath and put on her brightest smile. "Well then, I have no further complaints, as long as Rebecca agrees to act as my chaperone until my own can be found."

"Rebecca?" Robert said with a gleam in his eyes, as he covered Isolde's hand with his.

The young woman shrugged. "I cannot profess to be a watchful chaperone, but I will play the part."

With that, Robert led Isolde down the staggered steps to the piazza. But rather than rush, he seemed determined to walk slowly down those wide steps, like he was trying to parade the fact that Isolde was on his arm.

Whispers rippled through the gathered guests and fans fluttered in front of curious faces to hide gossiping mouths, the sudden and all-consuming attention making Isolde even more on edge. She kept her head down, chin almost to her chest, wishing she had not run on ahead of her mother and, to a lesser degree, Edmund.

I want love, Robert, but I would rather be a spinster than be someone's trophy. As they reached the edge of the dance floor to wait for the last dance to finish, Isolde was beginning to wonder if Edmund was partially right—not that Robert was a rogue and a rake, but that he simply was not the man for her.

"Do you remember that I asked you if you were in the palace gardens on the night of the debut ball?" she asked, deciding that there was no greater time than the present to begin her interrogation.

Robert smiled down at her, his eyes still shining with that unusual feeling that she could not quite place. "Of course I do. You were my goddess wandering in an ethereal realm. You were Artemis and I was humble Actaeon, stumbling upon the forbidden sight of your beauty."

Isolde remembered Teresa telling her the tragic tale of Actaeon, transformed into a stag after unwittingly catching a glimpse of the goddess Artemis bathing with her nymphs. In her embarrassment and anger, the chaste goddess splashed Actaeon with water, turning him into that frightened stag. A punishment for seeing what he should not that ended with him being hunted and killed by his own hounds, who could not recognize their master.

But Robert did not seem like the Actaeon of that tale. He was looking deliberately, his eyes searching her and assessing her figure in a manner that left Isolde wanting to splash the coldest, most stag-cursed water she could find on him.

"I… got lost that night," she continued regardless, needing to know. "Rather, my mother and I got lost."

How do I ask this without inadvertently scandalizing myself?

She paused. "What mask were you wearing that night?"

She could not believe she had not thought of that simple question sooner, for her champion's mask had been very distinct.

"As if you do not remember," Robert purred, just as the music ended, and the partners of the last dance swapped places with the new ones.

Before she knew it, Isolde was dancing with Robert: a lively, energetic country dance that reminded her far too much of her dance with Colin. Every step and hop and leap and whirl jarred in her mind, the touch of Robert's hand on hers like being transported back to that ruined night. It did not help that as they stepped close together and turned in a circle together, their hands joined above their heads, Robert's other hand decided to skim the curve of her waist. He immediately insisted it was an accidental touch and returned his other hand to her shoulder, but his smirk suggested otherwise.

"What mask were you wearing that night?" Isolde repeated, wishing the dance would end.

Robert's hand became more daring, slowly slipping down from her shoulder toward her waist again. "A fox, my dear. And you, my sweet vixen."

A fox? She was about to shove him away, not caring if it was rude to abandon a partner in the middle of a dance, when a gruff voice that was not her own spoke her angry thoughts aloud.

"Remove your hand if you wish to keep it," the voice growled. "If you wish to make a lady into fodder for the scandal sheets, choose another. Lady Isolde will not be besmirched by the likes of you, not while I draw breath."

Robert's eyes flew wide in alarm, his wandering hand immediately tucked in behind his back, while his other hand released Isolde's. Meanwhile, she could not breathe, her heart leaping into her dry throat, a flame of hope burning brightly in her mind—had her champion come to save her again?

The voice was not quite as gruff and throaty, but it was not entirely dissimilar either. However, the fear upon Robert's face was identical to Colin's on that fateful night.

Robert turned a nasty glare on Isolde as he stepped back. "You might have said you were spoken for and saved me the trouble of trying to woo you." He sniffed at the man standing behind Isolde, though she had not yet turned to see his face. "Enjoy my dance, Your Grace."

Your Grace? My champion is a duke? Isolde's heart thundered, her hands shaking slightly as she finally turned around to look at him.

Her flame of hope sputtered out, her excitement deflating as swiftly as it had puffed up. But before she could say a single word of protest to Edmund, standing there with his usual scowl upon his face, he took hold of her hand and pressed his palm to hers. With no enthusiasm whatsoever, he came closer to her, guiding them into a series of turns that left her surprisingly breathless.

"They are whispering about me now," Isolde mumbled, as Edmund spun her out and back to him again, their arms crossing over each other to begin the ending promenade.

"They would have said worse if I had not stepped in," Edmund replied tersely.

She peered up at him, her cheeks flaming. "Yes, perhaps they would." She cleared her clogged throat, struggling between her customary irritation toward him and the embarrassment of having the entire party's eyes upon her once more. "Thank you."

"What?" He almost missed a step.

"You heard me," she said quietly. "Lord Spofforth was not who I thought he was, and I am glad of it."

Edmund frowned. "You are?"

"I am meant to separate the good prospects from the bad," she reminded him. "I could have dealt with him myself, but at least you will have something to tell my brother, to reassure him that you did your duty."

His frown deepened. "You were not dealing with him by yourself. That is why I intervened."

"Had you had some patience, I would have shown you otherwise. Now, you have broken your promise." She sighed, no longer in the mood to bicker. "But, no matter. What is done is done, and now I am free to find the man who has captured my ‘silly' heart. Well, maybe not my heart, but certainly my attention."

Edmund stared at her strangely as they parted to undertake the final bow and curtsey, while the beautiful music faded to a close and the warm wind rustled the apple trees, sounding rather like the whispers that surrounded the unlikely pair.

Did you think I would give up because Lord Spofforth was an idiot? She smiled back at him, knowing how it irked him. Of course, she was grateful for Edmund's intervention, but she did not want him to think that her gratitude would continue.

She sketched a graceful curtsy, and as she rose up, the golden sunlight seemed to bathe Edmund in its summer glow. He emerged from his courteous bow, tall and proud and elegant, one arm across his waist, the other behind his back. And, for a moment, she thought him quite handsome.

But not at all the man of my dreams… Evidently, she had mistaken Edmund's gruff voice for that of her mystery gentleman. An easy enough mistake to make with memories of her debut evening playing through her mind, blurring the past and the present. Robert had mimicked Colin, Edmund had mimicked her hero of roses and shadows. Indeed, it was a relief to her as much as it was a disappointment that her hero had not been her rescuer this time.

"You have a suitor who interests you?" Edmund asked, offering his arm to take her back to her mother.

"It is no business of yours, but there is someone who has… made a lasting impression," she replied with a secret smile.

Edmund pulled her forward, rougher with her than before, as he whispered through gritted teeth, "Well, just remember, he will have to go through me first."

A gasp caught in Isolde's throat, shocked as she bumped into his side. Even more shocked as he held her there, much too close to be deemed proper. But she did not wrench herself away; she could not, too drawn in by the closeness of him, the power of him, the strength and protection in his voice.

He paused, gazing down at her in a way that made her stomach feel strange. "I had word from your brother this morning—he does not return for at least another week, and rest assured, I will not be letting you out of my sight again."