Chapter Eight

Isolde's heart, much to her horror, sped up. Her palms grew sweaty, and she forced herself not to wipe them on her skirts.

They couldn't very well scurry off to the corners of the garden again – the meal would be starting soon. Besides, people had noticed Isolde.

More to the point, they had noticed Isolde and the Viscount.

Swallowing hard, she strode forward, not waiting for Viola to tow her forward. Best to get it over with.

Dozens of eyes followed her, hands coming up to muffle murmurs that she had no desire at all to listen to. The ground levelled out under her feet, and she was on the courtyard again. Conversations had dwindled away, leaving a pocket of silence around Isolde.

And then, horrifyingly, the Viscount noticed.

Don't look at me, Isolde prayed. Pray, disregard me as I shall strive to overlook you, good sir, and we shall navigate our acquaintance with the utmost ease.

She glanced up, despite herself, and their eyes met.

A shiver ran over her skin, despite the warmth of the afternoon, and the lazy sun.

This, she thought bleakly, would be so much easier were he not so handsome.

He dropped his chin, eyes narrowing, and for one awful minute Isolde thought he was about to turn on his heel and storm back inside, leaving her to face a barrage of insinuations and a wall of mortification.

It was even worse than that.

He began to walk towards her.

"He's coming towards us," Viola said, entirely unnecessarily. "What shall we do?"

"What can we do?" Isolde shot back. "I can hardly run."

In truth, she'd considered the possibility, and regretfully rejected it. The carriage wouldn't leave without her whole family in it, and her mother would probably come to fetch her anyway.

"Lady Isolde," the Viscount said loudly, voice carrying, entirely unashamed. "What a pleasure to see you."

Muffled exclamations ran around the courtyard at that. Many people were unashamedly listening in. Isolde forced herself to pretend not to notice.

"Lord Henley," she said, making a neat curtsey. "You know my friend, Lady Viola Appleton?"

"Indeed I do, good day to you both. Lady Isolde, I daresay you had a good laugh, as I did, at that wretched gossip column?"

She blanched.

We weren't going to talk about that! she wanted to scream. Instead, Isolde only gave a serene smile. They called her Ice Queen, did they not? Well, she would show them all just how icy she could be.

"I barely skimmed through it," Isolde answered, lifting a hand carelessly. "One has to keep up to date with these things, but truly, it is so boring. Did nothing else happen during the first ball of the Season, that they must read so much into a lady's stumble and a subsequent dance?"

His eyes crinkled.

He knows, she thought, biting back a sudden smile. He knows I'm mortified. Perhaps he is too, but he is determined to push through it. Let them all know we don't care.

"I could not agree more," he said, the smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sure it's fair to say that nobody gives any credence to such nonsense – at least, nobody with a modicum of sense."

"Mama doesn't let me read the gossip sheets," Viola put in, obviously keen to be part of the conversation, "but I borrow them from Isolde."

That hardly improved Isolde's claim of barely skimming through the gossip sheet. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to meet the Viscount's eyes squarely.

He thinks this is amusing. To him, I daresay it is.

"I do hope you haven't let such nonsensical claims shake you, Lord Henley?" she said, as smoothly as she could manage. "I certainly have not."

The smile widened. "I absolutely believe you, Lady Isolde. If anyone is an unshakeable pillar of Society, it is you."

Well, was that a compliment, or an insult? Or some mixture of both? Isolde missed a beat, trying to think of something clever but vague to say – Elizabeth Bennet would have known what to say – and the opportunity passed.

There came a delicate tinkling of a bell, and they all turned to see Lady Wrenwood standing at the head of the garden tables, ringing a small brass bell.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to eat now," she announced, setting down the bell. "You'll notice that there are name cards at each place, do find yours and take a seat. You shall be served shortly."

"May I escort you to the table, Lady Isolde?" the Viscount asked, suddenly far too close beside her. She forced herself not to shrink away.

"I'm not sure I need escorting, sir. The tables are only over there."

He chuckled. "Come, do you not intend to show Society that you don't care what nonsense is written about you? The best way to do that, I think, is to lift your head and continue talking to whoever you like."

"I would have thought the best way to show that they are wrong – in short, that I am not out to catch you – would be to avoid you," she countered.

He chuckled again, a low, breathy noise that made Isolde's insides flutter. She hated the feeling, and hated how out of control it made her feel.

It's just because he's handsome, and he's flirting with you a little. You aren't used to it.

"Perhaps," he conceded, "but where is the fun in that?"

She shot him a hard look, and his smile widened, revealing sharp white incisors. They had reached the table, and Isolde saw with a jolt that he'd effortlessly led her directly to her place. She saw her own name written on a piece of card in impeccable copperplate.

"Enjoy the rest of the evening, Lady Isolde," he said, sweeping a flourishingly low bow. Despite herself, colour rose to her cheeks.

"And you," she mumbled, distinctly ungraciously. Across the table, Beatrice's eyes were boring into her. Viola had disappeared somewhere. Conversation was muted, and Isolde would have bet her dowry that the majority of it was based upon her.

Then the Viscount thankfully slipped away, and Isolde breathed out, dropping with an unceremoniously thump into her chair before the footman could come forward to seat her.

She didn't have much chance to catch her breath. A haughty young woman with dark hair and a permanent sneer sank into the seat beside her, and a man on her other side.

"Forgive me," he said, voice low, "but we aren't introduced. An oversight on the part of our hostess, I imagine. To save us ignoring each other, perhaps we might glance at each other's name cards, and pretend we are old friends?"

She glanced over at the man, a fairly ordinary looking fellow of about thirty. His name card read Mr. Simon Dudley.

"Mr. Dudley," she said aloud. "It's a pleasure."

"Likewise, Lady Isolde," he said, smiling wryly. "What a coincidence, for us to be seated together. Do you know, I believe we have a mutual friend, now I come to think of it."

"Oh?"

"Yes, one Lord George Raisin. Fine chap, is he not?"

"Yes, very fine," Isolde lied neatly.

Mr. Dudley grinned widely. "I think you and I have a great deal to talk about, Lady Isolde."

Before she could ask him what, exactly, he meant by that, dinner was served.

*********

Clayton swallowed down a bite of anger, drumming his fingers on the wood of the table.

He had not been seated near Lady Isolde, or indeed on the same table. She was across the courtyard, sitting by Simon Dudley, of all people.

"Eliza," he murmured, leaning close to whisper in her ear, "Why on earth did you seat Lady Isolde by Mr. Dudley?"

His stepmother, distracted by giving an order about the soup, glanced briefly at him. "What do you mean? I don't believe I did, they aren't introduced."

"The scoundrel must have exchanged the place cards," Clayton seethed. "Just wait until I lay hands upon him."

The footman disappeared, bearing a vast tureen of steaming soup, and Eliza glanced worriedly at her stepson.

"What on earth are you talking about, Clayton? I hope you don't have a tendre for that Belford girl. The gossip column said that…"

"Oh, don't pay any attention to that gossip. I dragged her onto the dance floor, and I can assure you she only agreed because she was obliged to."

Eliza blinked, baffled. "Well, then, why should you care if she sits beside Simon Dudley? He's a decent man, although I doubt he would be interested in her. His taste runs to debutantes, if I'm not mistaken."

Clayton shook his head. "It's of no consequence."

Eliza eyed him out of the corner of her eye as if she were not convinced, but then another footman appeared with another query, and her attention was diverted. Clayton took the opportunity to get up from the table. He wasn't much hungry in any case.

Crossing the courtyard in several long strides, Clayton could not have said what propelled him to look back. His gaze sought out Lady Isolde without ever intending to.

She was looking at him.

Simon was talking to her, with that insufferable confidence of his, but she wasn't listening. Her head was turned, facing him.

The moment their eyes met, of course, she whisked her gaze away, turning back to Simon Dudley as if he were talking about the most interesting subject in the world.

It annoyed Clayton, itching inside for some reason he could not fathom. Pointedly turning his back, he stepped off the courtyard and into the green little wilderness at the side of the house.

"Clayton! Wait a moment, won't you?"

He stopped at the sound of Lucas voice, shoulders sagging.

"What is it? I need to clear my head."

"Perhaps so," Lucas replied, falling into step beside his friend. "But not, I think, at the beginning of your stepmother's well-arranged garden party."

"Eliza won't mind."

"Consider the appearance of the matter."

"Ha! As if you care about the appearance of the matter."

"Not the point," Lucas insisted. "That's not what I'm here to scold you for."

"I knew there was a lecture in this somewhere." Clayton strode forward, heading to a little walkway of young trees, the foliage a pleasant respite from the sun. Lucas kept up with him easily.

"What do you mean, talking so openly to Lady Isolde?" Lucas continued. His face was pinched with disapproval. "Everybody is talking about it. You made quite a point of it. Those who didn't believe that you were pursuing her before, now think that it could be possible."

Clayton snorted. "That's their own faults, don't you think?"

"And what if Lady Isolde starts to believe you're in love with her?" Lucas persisted. "What then?"

"She won't."

Lucas let out a bark of laughter. "Then you'll lose your ridiculous bet."

"You are entirely too focused on that wager, my friend. Odd, considering that you yourself are not part of it."

Lucas strode forward, whirling to face Clayton and blocking his path.

"If my advice means anything to you at all," he said shortly, brow scrunched up in an angry knot, "then you will leave Lady Isolde alone. You well know my feelings on that wager, and I won't bother to repeat myself."

Clayton sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Lucas, are you…"

"Am I what?"

"Are you in love with Lady Isolde yourself? Because if so…"

Lucas groaned, rolling his eyes. "A man does not have to be in love with a woman to treat her kindly, you fool."

"I wasn't saying that."

"No? Well, I've said my piece. Leave her alone, Clayton. This wager could well come out. You're a fool to make it with a man like Simon Dudley."

"Well, it's not as if he can expose my part in the wager without also exposing his own," Clayton pointed out, sniffing.

"And if he does, you'll be sorry, I guarantee it. What possessed you to make such a beeline for her, in any case?"

Clayton opened his mouth to answer, and found, to his shock, that there was no answer ready.

The simple fact of the matter was that he did not know.

He hadn't spotted Isolde immediately, but when he did, it seemed as if he could look at nothing else. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, that much could not be denied, and had a grace and serenity of manner hadn't noticed before. Who else could walk so tall and unconcerned, when all around her were whispering nastily about her? Coming to his stepmother's party after such an article had been written was remarkably brave.

Clayton hadn't even realised he was striding towards her until it actually happened, and then he could no more have turned away than he could have stood on his head.

"I don't know," Clayton admitted. "She's a remarkably interesting woman, you know. Clever, outspoken, entirely careless of what Society thinks a lady should be. You'd like her."

"No doubt I would," Lucas continued, voice clipped, "but the fact remains that you do not intend to marry her, and if you had any semblance of honour, you would leave her be."

Having said that, Lucas turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Clayton alone.

It was something of a shock, to hear Lucas speaking so sharply. In fact, it even inspired a few kernels of guilt deep in Clayton's heart. He shifted guiltily from foot to foot. He really wasn't doing any harm. Everything would be fine. Lucas always saw the worst in a situation, and…

His internal monologue trailed away at the sound of a snapping twig. He stood still, expecting to see Lucas round the corner towards him, possibly coming back for a second round.

Instead, Lady Isolde rounded the corner, twisted to look behind her.

She stopped dead at the sight of Clayton.

"Viscount Henley," she managed, sounding choked. "I had no idea you were… that is, I saw your friend walking away, but I didn't think… I do beg your pardon."

"No, stay," Clayton found himself saying, horrified even as the words left his mouth. "That is, I shall go back to the party and leave you to your walk. Is… is all well with you?"

She paused, half turned to flee, and bit her lip.

"I… I just needed some air. Well, of course we're already outside, but I mean air without people, you know?"

Clayton sighed. "I do know what you mean. Was your seating partner unpleasant?"

She eyed him warily. "Do you mean Miss Prudence Evergreen, or Mr. Simon Dudley."

"Mr. Dudley. Both, perhaps."

She sighed, rolling her shoulders. "Are they particular friends of yours?"

"I'm not acquainted with Miss Evergreen, but Mr. Dudley is certainly not a friend of mine. He and I have never seen eye to eye, and previous incidents have only increased our dislike for each other," he shook his head, wondering why on earth he'd chosen to say such a thing to Lady Isolde Belford, of all people.

What has Simon said to her?

A shiver rolled down his spine. He didn't believe that Simon would disclose the wager – it would damage himself as much as it would Clayton and Isolde – but there were any number of cruel and unpleasant things he might have said instead.

Isolde did not seem shocked at this revelation. She only nodded, as if it made sense.

"He did not strike me as a friend of yours," she admitted. "I found the seating arrangements… oppressive. And not many people are talking to me, on account of the gossip column."

Something painfully like pity coiled in Clayton's chest. He swallowed it down, reminding himself that sympathy and pity were not the same thing – people appreciated the one, and resented the other.

"They will forget, you know," he said quietly. "It was a cruel article. Those who are laughing at you now know full well that they could be the subject of next week's article. Seasons often start of slowly, gathering scandals and shocking news as they go. The gossip grows like a snowball rolling down a hill."

"Yes, I know," she remarked, smiling bleakly. "This is my fourth Season, remember? I think it is unbelievable for some people to think that I truly do not want to marry."

Before he could stop himself, Clayton took a step closer. There was less than an arm's reach between them now, an inappropriate distance for such a secluded spot. All it would take was for the wrong person to round the corner, and Lady Isolde's reputation would be irreparably destroyed.

No doubt she realized that too, eyes widening and breath hitching in her throat.

She didn't step back, though.

"You are a brave and clever woman," Clayton said, voice low and firm. "I daresay you'll always have people disapproving of your course of action. Don't let them make you unhappy."

She blinked. "I… I won't. Lord Henley, we really should not be here alone."

Clayton drew in a sharp breath. He stepped back, first one pace, then two. The more distance, the better.

"Of course, of course. I beg your pardon, Lady Isolde, I did not intend to make you uncomfortable."

She gave her head a tiny shake. "You did not. I was the one who encroached on your private walk."

He cleared his throat, folding his hands behind his back. Goosebumps had erupted over Clayton's skin, contradicted by sweat beading at his temples and behind his cravat. His stomach was doing somersaults.

In short, it was the oddest feeling Clayton had encountered for a long time, and he knew all too well what it was.

"We cannot reappear together, of course," he said, pleased that his voice did not shake, "so perhaps you should go back the way you came, and I'll circle around the garden and come out near the wall."

"A good plan," Isolde said. There was something odd about her voice, something tight and a little uncertain, but when Clayton glanced at her face, her expression was smooth and impassive as always.

Ice Queen.

"Right. Well. I shall see you soon, I daresay. And don't worry about those wretched gossip writers."

She gave a small, wry smile. "I shall do my best."

She turned and began to walk quickly down the path, disappearing from view.

Clayton was left standing alone, sweat beading on his temples, feeling – there was no other word for it – shaken.

What was it about Lady Isolde that affected him so? When he'd stepped close to her, Clayton had wanted nothing more than to fold her in his arms, hold her tight.

He could not, of course, for a dozen reasons, not least of all the fact that Isolde did not like him in that manner. No doubt she found him amusing, but that was all.

And yet Clayton was shivering, desperate to run after her.

You are a fool, he told himself, shaking his head. Are you about to fall in love with the Ice Queen yourself, and join the graveyard of men who thought they could tempt her to matrimony? It would be a fine reward for taking on that hideous wager. Falling in love yourself, only to be rejected.

No, that couldn't be it. Clayton was too hot, no doubt, and probably hungry, and she was a pretty young woman. That was all there was to it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Vaguely aware that his stepmother would send somebody out to fetch him soon, Clayton turned on his heel and stamped back up the pathway.

The sooner this wretched wager is over, he thought, the better for all concerned, I think.