Chapter Thirteen

Isolde kept glancing at the clock on the wall. Visiting hours were still in full swing, which meant she had a good while yet before she could think about dressing for the evening.

Beatrice glanced up at her over her sewing, and bit back a sigh.

"Izzy, my dear, I know you are excited about that salon later tonight, but I do wish you'd concentrate. These are visiting hours, and you just spent the last twenty minutes staring into space and attending to nothing. Poor Mrs. Heff was quite put out, I think."

Isolde felt a pang of guilt at that. Mrs. Heff was a neighbour of theirs, a pleasant and friendly woman whose daughter was making her come-out this year. But really, how could a person think about guests and idle chit-chat at a time like this?

She had spent most of last night awake, staring into space and wondering what had come over her. Why, oh why had she invited him? It couldn't possibly end well.

Sighing to herself, she leaned back against the sofa, letting her book fall from her hands.

Beatrice was still watching her through narrowed eyes.

"Something is bothering you," she stated. Isolde shifted, not quite able to meet her mother's stare.

"I'm fine," she muttered. "Only…"

Before Isolde could say anything further, there was a rap on the door and the butler appeared.

"Lord Raisin, your Grace, my Lady," he announced ponderously, and stepped aside.

Isolde closed her mouth with an audible clack, glancing over at her mother.

It was the first time Lord Raisin had called since the wet day in Kew Gardens. Or, as Isolde had taken to calling it in her head, the Ice Queen event.

She was just wondering if she could claim a sudden megrim and flee when the man himself came bursting in, all smiles.

"Lord Raisin, what a pleasant surprise!" Beatrice announced, standing with a smile. "We thought you'd quite abandoned us."

"Never, your Grace. Lady Isolde, you are looking well."

No doubt the compliment was meant to be an apology of sorts. Isolde smiled coldly, and he beamed, obviously assuming that his apology had been accepted. She couldn't think of anything to say that would convince him otherwise.

Well, nothing polite to say.

"Sit down, Lord Raisin, please. I shall ring for tea."

"Oh, that's not necessary, thank you," he said, sinking down beside Isolde. He sat on the edge of her book, and propriety forbade her from yanking it free. "I'm only here for a moment. Have you been to Vauxhall Gardens, Lady Isolde?"

"Yes, I have."

"Oh," Lord Raisin looked disappointed. She wanted to ask him how he thought a twenty-three-year-old lady such as herself could have gotten to such an advanced age – living in London, no less – without seeing Vauxhall Gardens at least once.

"We should love to see it again, naturally," Beatrice put in, shooting Isolde a disapproving stare.

It worked. Lord Raisin seemed mollified, inclining his head.

"Well, I should like to invite you all to come with me to Vauxhall Gardens on Friday. What do you say?"

He twisted to look at Isolde, smiling expectantly. She could feel her mother's eyes boring into her.

"I should love it, Lord Raisin," Isolde managed at last. Really, there was nothing else to say, but Lord Raisin smiled knowingly, as if she'd agreed to marry him after all.

"Excellent! I shall make the arrangements."

***

Bells' Circulating Library was shut up for the day, but light beamed out of every window, even creeping out under the door. Despite her worry about wretched Viscount Henley, Isolde felt herself begin to relax. Climbing down from the carriage, she hurried across the dark street with her maid in tow and rapped on the door to the library. It was always locked, with only select members permitted inside for the literary salon. Strictly invitation only. Isolde had broken the rules to invite Clayton, a fact which still baffled her.

She was let in, and found Maria waiting eagerly for her.

"Your Viscount Henley is here already," she whispered. "He was early. He's brought his stepmother, which is a surprise, but the woman is an absolute delight. Can you believe that she's brought The Vampyre? I don't know whether to be scandalized or thrilled, truly! My Bride of Lammermoor pales into insignificance besides that."

Isolde had no chance to say anything. Maria dragged her into the main room, which was lit up with countless candles, a fire burning in the hearth. Chairs had been arranged artfully, most of them occupied. She spotted the Viscount at once. He and his stepmother – a beautiful, middle-aged woman that Isolde vaguely recognized – sat together on a two-seater sofa, sipping tea.

His stepmother was engaged in a vigorous debate with a pale-faced, yellow-haired debutante by the name of Miss Smith, who was clutching what seemed to be a copy of Pamela.

Poor Miss Smith seemed to be terrified. She shrank back, pressing her book to her chest as if the feminine virtues of the titular Pamela would somehow protect her from the enthusiastic Countess of Wrenwood and her leering Vampyre.

It did not seem to be working.

And then the viscount's gaze locked with Isolde's, and she could have sworn that somebody stole all the breath from the room. He rose to his feet, and before she could do or say a thing, her legs had carried her across the room and deposited her in front of him.

"You came."

It was a rather silly thing to say, but the words were out and it was too late to take them back.

The viscount let out a long breath. "Of course I did. You invited me."

She cleared her throat, composing herself as best she could. "Did you bring a book? I ought to have mentioned that we all bring books, our favourites, or our most recently read volumes, and discuss them. We'll talk about modern stories, of course, but it's always good to hear new recommendations."

"I thought as much. I'm afraid my choice is a little less interesting. I simply brought Pride and Prejudice," he added with a sigh, taking out the tome in question.

Isolde had to bite back a smile. "Me too. Our anonymous Lady Author is something of a fascination of mine at the moment. I see that your stepmother – Lady Wrenwood, is it not? – has brought a more controversial choice."

They both turned to see Lady Wrenwood with her book open, reading aloud a passage. Miss Smith appeared to be on the brink of tears.

"I was as surprised as you," the viscount admitted. "I have no idea how she managed to get that book past my father's scrutiny."

Their conversation was interrupted by Maria, clapping her hands for attention in the middle of the room. She smiled around at everyone.

"Welcome, welcome! Regulars and newcomers, welcome all! Take a seat, we shall begin soon enough – I hope you are ready, as always, for vigorous debates and enlightening discourses. Have we all a seat? Is there plenty of tea?"

"Oh, I'd better sit down," Isolde murmured, glancing around herself. She saw that almost all of the seats were taken, excepting a few hard chairs on the edge of the gathering, across the room from where the viscount sat.

For some reason, that made her heart sink.

I am disappointed. Why am I disappointed?

"I suppose I shall sit over there," Isolde said, half to herself.

She jumped when Lady Wrenwood bounced abruptly to her feet. She hadn't even been aware that the woman was listening.

"You should sit by Clayton," Lady Wrenwood said cheerfully. "Seeing as you have both brought the same book."

Before Isolde could say a word, either to agree or demur, the woman went sailing across the room, plumped herself into one of the hard chairs, and immediately began talking to her neighbour about the Vampyre.

Slowly, Isolde sank into the vacated half of the sofa. The viscount sat beside her.

The sofa was technically meant for two, but it was something of a squeeze. Her shoulders kept brushing his, and she could feel the warmth emanating from him.

"I hope your first literary salon is going to be memorable," Isolde said, keeping her voice low.

He glanced down at her, and she found herself caught in his gaze.

"I'm sure it will be," he murmured. "I doubt I'll forget this evening in a hurry."

***

"That," Eliza said happily, "was delightful."

They were in the carriage, rocketing back towards Eliza's home. Auric who was out tonight, on business in one of their more distant estates, was not expected back until tomorrow, giving Eliza an expected day of freedom. Clayton longed to go inside and see his siblings, but there was always the worry that Auric might have come home early, or that a servant might reveal that Clayton was in the house when he ought not to have been.

Safer to stay away.

Eliza gave a sigh of satisfaction, stretching out her legs on the seat opposite in a most unladylike fashion.

"Thank you for inviting me, Clayton. And I must write and thank Lady Bell for admitting me, too. I'm quite starved for good company these days."

"Father is getting worse, isn't he?"

Eliza stiffened, and Clayton wished he'd kept his mouth shut. "I can manage your father, don't worry."

He bit his tongue.

You could manage him once, better than my mother ever could. Your influence is waning, though.

He kept these unhelpful thoughts to himself. Eyes narrowed, Eliza watched him.

"Lady Isolde seems fond of you."

He flinched. "Don't tell me that you're giving credence to those scandal sheets, too."

"Of course not. I don't believe what I read, half the time, but I always believe what I see, and that girl is fascinated by you. What's more, you are fascinated by her."

"I am not! And I'd thank you not to repeat such ideas."

Eliza snorted. "What do you take me for, some foolish gossip? Speaking of gossip, I had better return this book before anyone sees me with it. I borrowed it from our housekeeper – she has the most remarkable store of novels in her room, I must say – and she will be wanting it back."

"Have you read the book?"

"Of course I have. It's thrilling, but I don't need to tell you that your father won't approve. I don't want to give him more opportunity to disapprove of me."

There was something almost sad in that last sentence, and Clayton had to bite his tongue to keep silent.

It was tempting to beg Eliza to come and stay with him, where she'd be safe from Auric. Safe in a way Clayton's mother had never been.

But of course Eliza would never agree. She never had in the past. She could flee Auric, perhaps, and not be obliged to return, but their children belonged to him. Eliza would never leave Amelia and Edward behind, and Clayton would never expect her to.

"I liked her," Eliza added, smothering a yawn. "Lady Isolde, I mean. She was remarkably clever and funny when she was talking about Pride and Prejudice. It's clear she has a very fine understanding of literature. She is a sensitive woman, I think. It must be difficult for her to hear herself be maligned in those gossip columns."

Guilt stabbed at Clayton's chest.

She is a sensitive woman. A clever one, too. I don't deserve her friendship, and certainly not her love. She doesn't love me, I know she doesn't. She's too clever for that. She feels things deeply, and when she discovers how I have opened her to censure, all but ruined her reputation… he shuddered, closing his eyes.

What have I done?

"Clayton? Are you alright?"

His eyes flew open, and he saw Eliza looking at him with mild curiosity. He smiled weakly.

"Of course. I'm fine. Just tired, that's all. Are we nearly home, do you think?"