Chapter Twenty

It took a moment or two for Clayton's eyes to adjust to the gloom after the brightness of the Vauxhall pavilions. The pathway, as far as he could tell, ran parallel to the main walkway, albeit narrower and with high trees and bushes hemming them in. There were no lanterns or braziers here, and only the soft glow of the crescent moon cast any light at all on the pathway, weaving through the entwined branches above their heads.

The path was narrow, and the woodland grew thickly on one side. On the other side, only a thin bush separated them from the rest of the visitors, and chinks of light and laughter made their way through.

He caught a glimpse of Isolde up ahead, her pale dress glowing.

"Isolde, wait!"

He'd spoken louder than he'd intended, but not loud enough to carry over to the people on the other side.

Even so, Isolde stopped dead.

Too late to back out now, he thought, and began to jog forward. She didn't turn around, and he stopped with about five feet of space between them.

"Isolde…" he began, but she shook her head.

"What do you want, Lord Henley?"

"My name is Clayton."

She flinched at that. "I know what your name is. Why have you followed me here? It's not proper for us to be alone here."

"It's not proper for you to be here alone, either."

She turned, slowly, and he saw that she had been trying to regain her composure. Hands folded in front of her waist, she met his eye evenly.

"What do you want, Clayton?"

The sound of his name from her lips sent a shiver down his spine. Clayton swallowed hard, trying to focus on what he needed to say.

It was not going to be a pleasant conversation. The truth seldom was.

"You seemed a little distressed earlier."

She drew in a breath. "If this is about us not accepting Lady Wrenwood's invitation…"

He held out a hand. "No, no, it's not that. I am a man of mature years, and I am quite capable of accepting a simple refusal."

"So, the invitation did come from you, then?"

He had to bite back a smile. "I thought that was quite clear."

"Yes, it was, which was probably why Lord Raisin was so quick to refuse."

There was a brief silence after that. Isolde's eyes glittered in the gloom, and Clayton found a lump rising to his throat.

"And that was the issue I took with your refusal. It wasn't yours. You're the sort of lady who has no trouble at all speaking up for herself, and so it's a little galling to see a man speaking up for you."

She gave an unladylike snort. "If it vexes you, consider of how I might be affected."

"He seemed to have upset you when you were dancing. Are… are you quite well?"

She glanced sharply up at him, and he just knew she was dying to ask how long he had been looking at her. Nothing escaped Isolde's notice.

Well, almost nothing.

"I told him, continuing on a prior conversation, that I would never allow the man I married to dictate what company I kept or how I spent my time. He took exception to that, as you can imagine. I knew this before, naturally, but Lord Raisin has… has a rather antiquated view of what a wife's duties ought to be. I suggested we agree to differ, but he spent the entirety of the dance trying to convince me that women are only truly happy when they submit to their husbands. Perhaps I am a bluestocking and a shrew, but I must respectfully disagree with that notion."

She tilted up her chin, looking him dead in the eyes, daring him to argue.

"You are right," he heard himself say. "In my experience, men who call women shrews are generally just annoyed at being contradicted, or made to look silly. And I'm not sure why bluestocking is considered an insult, or something that makes a woman unsuitable for marriage. What fool would not want an intelligent wife?"

"Ah, but there is the crux of the matter. Men do want intelligent wives, only not more intelligent than themselves."

He lifted an eyebrow. "As I said. Fools."

"Am I to take this as something of a compliment?"

"You can, if you like," he said, shrugging. "I consider it a compliment, but I don't believe my compliments are important enough to give a woman pause for thought. My telling you that you are intelligent and fascinating does not make you intelligent and fascinating, any more than remarking on the sunrise's beauty gives it the beauty itself. A compliment is a remark on a fact. The fact existed before the remark upon it."

There was a brief silence after that. At some point, the five feet of distance between them had narrowed to four, then three, then two, then less than an arm's reach. Clayton was not such which one of them had closed the gap, only that he wanted so badly to reach out and graze his fingertips along the line of Isolde's jaw. Her face was pale in the moonlight and he felt as though he hadn't breathed for minutes. His chest hurt, his heart pounded, and the lump in his throat had lodged itself there with a painful sharpness.

"Do not wed him, Isolde," he implored, his voice quivering with earnestness. "He is… he is unworthy of you. He lacks the regard you deserve. He does not comprehend the depths of your being."

"And who should I marry, then? My family are at pains to make me understand that marriage is my only choice at an ordinary life." She shot back, and her voice was bitter. "I am tired, so very tired, of being pushed this way and that and told what sort of life I ought to be leading. Can you fathom the weight of such an experience? Nay, I daresay you cannot, for you are a gentleman."

"True, but I wasn't always a man of means and independence," he replied.

It would have been easy, so easy, to leave the conversation there, and just blurt out the truth, leaving before she had time to process what he had said.

Instead, Clayton drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to speak.

"You saw the bruise on my stepmother's face today. My father is known to be a harsh man, cruel, a bad father and worse husband. For years, it was just me and my mother. She endured the kind of cruelty Eliza endures, but my mother… she did not have the intellect of Eliza, or the fortitude. She was a kind, sweet woman, who ought to have been treated kindly and with love. Instead, she got my father. I won't burden you with tales of what she suffered, or what I did. My father enjoyed exercising control over us, and until I inherited my own fortune and title, I was a slave to him in all but name. And now I am free, and I enjoy my freedom. But please, know what I mean when I say I can understand what it's like to be trapped."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed. I…"

"Please, don't apologise. You don't owe me an apology. I just… I can't bear to see that man pursuing you, wearing down your resolve day by day. It's not fair. Pray, for your own well-being, do not accept his hand in matrimony."

"That brings us back to our earlier query," Isolde remarked, and her voice quavered slightly. "Whom ought I to consider for matrimony?"

No, screamed a voice in Clayton's head. Not yet!

But he couldn't help himself. He closed the distance between them and found Isolde's hands in his. Had she given him her hands, or had he taken them? Either way, her fingers were cool and soft against his skin, and he could feel her heartbeat pulsing through her wrists.

"I care for you, Isolde," he said, and saying the words out loud felt like a huge weight off his mind. "I care for you more than I ever thought I would. To speak plainly, my heart is deeply yours."

She drew in a short, surprised breath, but did not pull away. She didn't drop her eyes from his face, either.

"You're a rake," she said, after a pause. "You don't mean it."

"I won't deny that I've made some questionable decisions in the past. I'm not a worthy man, not by any stretch of the imagination. I'm not asking anything of you, and I'm not demanding an answer, or even a return of my sentiments. I… I just wanted you to know. Because you mean a great deal to me, and I ask that even if you don't return my sentiments, I hope that you won't end your new friendship with Amelia. She needs women like you to look up to."

"I… I hardly know what to say, Lord…" she swallowed hard. "Clayton. This has taken me by surprise. Am I to understand that you're saying… that you're asking…"

"I have something else to tell you," Clayton forced himself to continue. "Something less pleasant, but the weight of my guilt is gnawing at my very soul. You have to know. You must know. I… I don't know whether I could keep something like this a secret from you, but that's not the point. I told you already that I was an unworthy man, but I don't think you understand just how unworthy I… I truly am."

Something like wariness crept into Isolde's face, chasing away the earlier happiness.

It struck Clayton then that it was happiness he'd seen on her face when he confessed his feelings. It was just typical that he only truly understood what he was losing when it disappeared.

"Isolde, I… I…"

"Well, well, well. What a pretty little meeting this is."

Both of them flinched at the unpleasantly familiar voice. Isolde snatched her hands away, putting a few paces of distance between them. Something came down over her face like a shutter, and she glanced between Clayton and the newcomer.

Lord Raisin stood behind them, looking angry and smug all at once. Isolde's brother, James, was by his side, looking furious and shocked and scared all at once. Behind him, the Duke of Belbrooke was jogging along to catch up with them, quite out of breath.

"This isn't proper, Izzy," James hissed, glancing worriedly at Clayton. "You shouldn't meet with him here."

"It was an accidental meeting," Clayton said at once. "Not a deliberate one. The fault is mine, in fact – I saw Lady Isolde coming this way, and worried about a woman going alone down such a secluded walkway. I was just bringing her back to the main part of the gardens."

Lord Raisin gave a harsh laugh. "Oh, certainly you were. Please, my dear viscount, don't flatter yourself that we believe any of that. Were you not holding her hands just now?"

James stiffened. "Isolde, I certainly hope you weren't. It's… it's not proper."

A flush of something like anger crossed Isolde's face.

"I'd be obliged if you didn't tell me what to do and what not to do, James, considering the amount of time you've been gone. Heaven only knows what you were doing on the Continent, So pray do not return home expecting me to comport myself as a flawless young lady."

The poor duke caught up to them at last.

"What transpires?" he exclaimed, out of breath. "Lord Raisin, might you elucidate the matter? James, how could you permit your sister to wander off? Vauxhall Gardens can prove somewhat perilous after dark."

"It seems that the viscount was pressing his suit on Lady Isolde," Lord Raisin said, never once taking his eyes off Clayton. Isolde flushed.

"Papa, he was not!"

Lord Raisin spared a quick, disdainful glance at Isolde. "Perhaps the dear viscount has omitted a few facts from you, Lady Isolde."

The hairs on the back of Clayton's neck prickled. "Sir, I must insist…"

"You must insist on nothing," Lord Raisin spat. He glanced around, making sure every eye was trained on him, and shot another look at Isolde. "Perhaps once you've heard this, you'll appreciate me a little more, my Lady. I named the viscount here as a worthless rake earlier today, and you will see that he richly deserves that name."

There was a pause, and Lord Raisin met Clayton's eye. In that instant, Clayton knew that he was too late, too late to tell Isolde himself, and all was lost. Lord Raisin's eyes glittered.

"I have a story to tell you all. It's about a wager, you see."