Chapter Ten

"Lord Henley," Isolde tried again, as firmly as she could manage, "this is entirely improper."

The man smiled down at her, the candlelit ballroom giving him an odd, devilish look. He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, pulling her flush against him. To her horror, an answering flutter of something strange and shockingly pleasant spread through her torso. Goosebumps broke out over her skin, barely covered by her flimsy ball dress. Her breath caught in her throat, and when the viscount's smile widened, she knew that he'd heard.

"Perhaps so," the viscount acknowledged, "but if I may say so, Lady Isolde, you do not seem uncomfortable."

A flush tinged her cheeks.

Curse my fair complexion. If I had lovely olive skin, like James, nobody would ever see me blush.

"You may not say so," she answered, trying to sound stern. It did not help that her voice still fluttered in her throat, like a trapped butterfly. She sounded weak. She sounded wanting.

The music reached a fever pitch, and the viscount swung her around so fast her thin dancing slippers left the floor altogether. She clung to him, more out of necessity than anything, feeling the strong swell of muscles under his jacket.

What was this place? Feeling unbearably dizzy, Isolde's head whipped around, trying to spot a familiar landmark or face. Where was James? Where were her parents? Was Viola even here?

A curious blur of activity whirled around them, and Isolde could make out no details. It was the strangest sensation. The only real thing in the room appeared to be the man himself, and she had the oddest feeling that if she released him, if the dance ended, if he let her go, she would fall forever.

"Well, then," the viscount said, head bending down towards her, "I shall say nothing at all."

He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her. Isolde could not move. Breathing was a thing of the past. She could only think of the viscount's face, so close to hers that her eyes were blurring, and his lips…

"My lord…" she began feebly, but he only grinned again.

"Please, my dear. Call me Clayton."

Isolde shot upright with a strangled yelp, tangled in her own bedsheets. She was breathing hard, an unpleasant sheen of sweat over her temples and trailing down her neck. The pillows behind her were pressed quite flat, and the sun was up, streaming through the curtains.

It was a dream. Of course it was a dream. Nothing but a woman's wild dreams could conjure up something so ridiculous.

Viscount Henley and me, Isolde thought, swinging back the covers. What a notion.

The man had been passably kind to her, and there had been a moment at Lady Wrenwood's garden party when she'd thought…

Stop it. Stop it at once. He's not a man to be trusted, even if he were not a fiendish rake. Which he is. Not just a rake, but a Rake. With a capital R.

On that invigorating thought, Isolde did her best to put the dream to the back of her mind and concentrated on dressing for the day.

It wasn't as if she were going to see the irritating Viscount anytime soon.

Or, as his dream-self had so seductively requested she call him, Clayton.

***

Lady Maria Bell was the one who had come up with the idea of setting up a circulating library. A great many of her friends – Isolde included – had contributed books to get it all started. Now, with their regular subscribers, Lady Bell was able to buy all sorts of new books herself. It was said to be one of the largest – and most fashionable – libraries in London.

For now, of course.

By the time Isolde's carriage pulled up outside the neat little salon, the tension was already draining from her body.

The salon was rented by Lord Bell, a cheerful gentleman who entirely supported his wife's literary passions and concentrated on filling his part of the library with non-fiction and Improving books. Thankfully, he did not believe in the modern idea that novels would render ladies unable to distinguish between real life and fantasy.

Maria greeted her at the door.

"Dearest Izzy! It has been an eternity since we last met. I was under the impression that the commencement of the new Season would deter you from our gathering."

"I've come to bring back that delightful novel you recommended," Isolde responded, holding up her copy of Pride and Prejudice. "I finished it in one sitting last night – I stayed up until the early hours to get to the end!"

"Excellent! What did you think of it?"

"I loved it," Isolde confessed. "I shall borrow it again, I think. I could not have told you from the start that Elizabeth Bennet would marry Mr. Darcy, it was quite a shock. Not by the end, of course. And Mr. Wickham…"

"Hold, hold," Maria said, holding up a hand and laughing. "Have you forgotten about the literary evening here at the salon? It's barely four days away. We'll be discussing your beloved Pride and Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility too. We might as well."

"Of course, of course," Isolde said, laughing. "I shall save it for then."

"I look forward to it," Maria answered, dropping a wink. "Now, in you go, and find some new treasures to read!"

Isolde moved past her friend with a smile, stepping into the salon.

The salon was beautiful, carefully arranged to be comfortable, respectable, and pleasant.

Made up of two large, circular rooms, the walls first room was papered with bookshelves, top to bottom, with sliding ladders reaching up to the highest shelves. Lower bookcases formed a sort of maze, filling up the rest of the space. Sofas, chaise longues, and padded window seats allowed readers to sit and enjoy their books. There was tea to be had, too, and a long, curved mahogany counter – a present from Lord Bell, if Isolde remembered correctly – served as the area where subscribers checked their books in and out.

The second room, smaller than the first, was full of atlases, biographies, books of philosophy, mathematics, geometry, history, and so on. Lord Bell's favourite room.

For her part, Isolde enjoyed the first room. That was where the novels and poetry could be found.

Depositing Pride and Prejudice at the counter, Isolde delved into the bookshelf-maze.

Perfect, she thought absently, running her fingers along the book spines. This is my place.

She had always felt safe among books, and the circulating library – Maria's library – was nothing short of perfect. Her favourite place. No men to bother her – well, there were men, but not the rakish kind – and no noise. Just peace and quiet.

Peace and quiet and books.

In a place like this, one could forget almost entirely that a man such as Viscount Henley even existed.

On cue, Isolde turned a corner and walked face-first into Viscount Henley's chest.

"Oof," she gasped, staggering backwards. A pair of strong hands came out to steady her, brushing briefly against her shoulders. She pulled back reflexively, and the touch disappeared.

"Lady Isolde," the viscount drawled. "What a surprise to see you here."

I could say the same.

"I didn't take you as a bookish gentleman," Isolde heard herself say. She drew back a little further, putting more distance between them. Yes, distance was the key. If she could keep space between them, everything would be fine. That was what they had lacked in Isolde's dream – distance.

She shouldn't have thought of the dream. Images flashed up behind her eyes, of Viscount Henley and herself locked in a scandalously close embrace, her own breath catching in her throat.

Silly, really.

"I'm looking for a book," he responded, knocking her out of her daze.

She cleared her throat, folding her hands demurely before herself. "Well, I assumed as much."

He gave a tight grin. "I'm looking for a book written by… eh, A Lady."

"Well, once again, you are in the right place."

The grin widened, becoming a little more sincere. Isolde felt an answering tug on the corners of her mouth.

No. Stop it. The Ice Queen does not smirk.

"I'm afraid the author is anonymous, and this is her… second novel, I believe. I do not know the title, but," he dug in a pocket, and came up with a familiar volume, "she wrote this one already."

Isolde snatched at the book before she could stop herself. "Sense and Sensibility! Why, I had no idea you enjoyed this book?"

"It's not for me," he answered, taking back the book and flipping through the pages. "My stepmother visited yesterday and asked me to procure it for my sister. The new novel, I mean. I had never heard of this…this Lady, but I read Sense and Sensibility after my stepmother left, and I must admit it was a remarkable read. I read it in its entirety, finishing it this morning."

This time, Isolde couldn't entirely fight back a smile.

"Well, I'm glad. She is one of my favourite authors. And I can help you find her latest novel – Pride and Prejudice, it is called."

The viscount was listening to her, an odd look in his eyes. Intent, like a fox watching a hare.

No, nothing so predatory. Something intense, though, something that sent shivers through Isolde's chest. She cleared her throat, smoothing out her bodice to distract herself.

"Thank you, Lady Isolde. That is kind. Amelia will be grateful, and so will I."

"It is nothing," she replied tersely, averting his gaze. "Pray, follow me, and I shall guide you to its location. You are indeed fortunate– I just returned the book in question myself."

Twenty minutes later, Isolde and Viscount Henley sat side by side on a padded window seat, a tea tray set on a low table in front of them.

He held Pride and Prejudice in his hands, turning over the pages slowly. There were a small stack of other books beside him, mostly recommendations from Isolde.

"I was surprised to see you so keen to read Mysteries of Udolpho," Isolde said, mostly to break the silence rather than anything else. "I did not know you liked Mrs. Radcliffe's works."

"How could I not? They're thrillingly shocking. I might take out a subscription to this library myself, as well as for Amelia. I would like to procure a subscription for my stepmother, too, but he'd never…"

The sentence ended as sharply as if the viscount had bit his tongue. He did not look at Isolde, and she carefully avoided his eye.

It was common knowledge that the Earl of Wrenwood was a vile man, and a bad husband. People studiously avoided talking about his second wife, and the life she may or may not have led. And, by extension, his children.

The viscount included.

"I'm surprised they don't already have a subscription," Isolde remarked, picking up her cup of tea. "It's a little controversial, but ladies who enjoy reading…"

"My father disapproves," he said tightly, not meeting her eye. "If my father disapproves of something – well. I'm not sure if you can understand, Lady Isolde. Your father seems like a decent man."

She bit her lip. "Yes, he is a good man. I think… I think perhaps I don't appreciate my parents as much as I should."

Another faux pas. She should betray nothing about herself, certainly not any sort of ingratitude towards her parents. But then, Viscount Henley's expression right now was pinched and grim. Angry, even. Whatever feelings he had towards his father, the notorious Earl of Wrenwood, they were not good. Not filial in the slightest.

She cleared her throat, smoothing out her skirts. A nervous gesture, but it was too late to hide it now.

"Well, I hope your sister enjoys her subscription, and Pride and Prejudice. It's a remarkable novel."

"I can imagine. Sense and Sensibility was remarkable. I hope this author writes many more novels. I should have bought Amelia a copy of the book to keep, but Father is so… he doesn't like books cluttering up the house. A borrowed book might be less objectionable."

Isolde had not met the Earl of Wrenwood in person, but she was beginning to feel she might not like him at all. He sounded insufferable.

"Once again, your literary tastes shock me."

He leaned back on his elbows, a rather blasé pose to take in a refined salon like this, but Isolde found that she did not mind. Her feet, which did not quite touch the floor, crossed at the ankles.

"I like shocking you, Lady Isolde," the viscount said, a smile hovering around his lips again. "But I fear only a blind fool would not see the merits in our mysterious Lady Author."

"You should attend Lady Maria Bell's literary salon," Isolde found herself saying, to her own horror. "We're discussing this Lady at our next meeting. It is open to just about anyone, so long as a current member vouches for them."

The viscount glanced sharply at her. For a heartbeat, there was silence, and Isolde bit back a scream.

What am I doing? What am I saying? Why am I inviting him anywhere? What if he misbehaves? Maria will be frankly furious.

"Are you saying you will vouch for me?" he said, at long last.

Too late to back out now. Isolde shrugged – a deeply ladylike motion, but it wasn't as if she intended to impress the wretched man – and gave a casual "If you like, of course,".

He eyed her for another long moment. To her horror, her skin prickled, as if someone was drawing a feather over her arms.

"That's very kind of you," the viscount said after a pause, "but I don't wish to intrude where I don't belong. I'm sure your salon friends would not like to see me."

It was an easy way out. Isolde could demur modestly, and he would insist on staying away, and the matter would be ended. Her foolish invite would be forgotten. Heaven only knew what the gossip columns would say to that.

Instead, Isolde said something else entirely.

"The literary salon is open to whoever has opinions to share and a love of books," she said. "Maria was tired of being excluded from salons due to her gender, and she was determined that nobody else would be so excluded. If you wish to come, and learn more about our Anonymous Lady, you are more than welcome to do so. Even rakes are allowed to like novels, you know."

Another smile. Isolde's treacherous heart skipped a beat.

"Very well, then," he said, rising to his feet, gathering the books together. "I shall attend your salon. Tomorrow night, did you say? I shall be there."

Isolde stayed where she was for a moment or two, having entirely forgotten the book she came here to get. About ten minutes after the viscount's departure, she heard the clack-clack of ladies' boot heels on the stone floor. Maria appeared around a curve in the bookshelves, looking mildly concerned and very curious.

"Was the Viscount Henley I saw just now?" Maria ventured. "He signed up for two subscriptions, you know, and took out at least six books. He asked for another copy of Pride and Prejudice, but of course we only have the one for now. I shall order more directly, I think. He said he would buy his own copy."

Isolde blinked. "Two subscriptions? For his sister and stepmother?"

"No, for his sister and himself. I was pleasantly surprised to see a man like him enjoying novels. One doesn't think of rakes as liking such things, do you?"

"No," Isolde managed weakly. "I suppose not."

Maria narrowed her eyes and came sweeping towards her. She plumped herself down beside Isolde and shifted to face her.

"You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"Well, I haven't."

"Pity. A haunted circulating library would indeed make a most intriguing tale, would it not? Pray, do tell, did the viscount utter something that perturbed you? Did he dare to engage in any flirtation?"

Isolde barked out a laugh. "Certainly not. Why would he?"

Maria pressed her lips together. "My dear, with the greatest respect, you really do not know much about men. And… and men like the viscount tend to look on ladies as challenges. Your desire never to marry, coupled with your beauty, intellect, and dowry present a remarkably high challenge."

She stiffened. "What are you saying, Maria?"

"I am saying that you should be careful around the viscount. He is a dangerous man, and I cannot agree with this new friendship of yours."

Isolde drew in a deep breath. "Well, I can safely say that the viscount and I are not friends. You have nothing to fear on that head."

Maria said nothing. Isolde had a feeling her friend did not believe her.

Well, there'll be no better time to tell her, she thought, resigned.

"However, having said that, Maria, I feel I must warn you of something."

"Oh?"

"I… I may have… may have invited the viscount to our literary salon."

Silence.

"Maria? Are you angry?"

Maria let out a long, slow breath. "Not friends, indeed."