Isolde’s heart began to race, her skin tingling strangely, like a cold sweat prickling down her neck that had somehow branched across the rest of her. A symptom of her anger, no doubt, rather than his close proximity—closer than he had ever been to her before. It had to be her anger. She would accept no other reason.
“I am capable of deciding for myself who is “worth my effort” and who is not,” she rasped, her throat suddenly tight. “So,Your Grace, stand down from the watch that my brother has tasked you with. I am not so blind as you think, nor am I lovesick or desperate. Indeed, perhaps you ought to concentrate on yourown future instead of taking a mallet to mine. At the very least, find yourself a more productive pastime.”
He took another half step, and his hand came up to push the book she had slightly pulled out, back into its position on the shelf. His fingertips brushed hers for a second, no more, but the touch was like lightning had jumped between his skin and hers. She recoiled sharply, uncertain of what trickery was afoot while her heart raced faster.
“I am capable of putting my books back, too,” she muttered, her breath catching.
He frowned down at her, teeth grazing his lower lip in thought.
A moment later, he shrugged and breezed past her, his arm brushing hers in the same way that his fingertips had, as if he wanted to take up some of the space that she possessed. A habit of his arrogance, she reasoned, for she could think of no other reason why he would want to be so near to her, to touch her however accidentally.
“Then, consider me a silent sentinel from now on,” he said, reaching the door. “Make your own mistakes, stubborn girl. I will not try to help you again. I will not be intervening unless you are in danger.”
With that, he walked out, leaving the door open in a manner he knew would annoy her.
Leaning back against the bookshelf, her hand to her chest, Isolde listened for the sound of Edmund’s footsteps on the stairs and struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Indeed, for someone who claimed to have been helping her see through the men who pretended to care, she wondered why he had not added himself to that list.
For Vincent,Edmund told himself sternly, once more positioned by the window while ingrates and sycophants and unworthy men filed in and out of the drawing room.I promised him I would, so I will. A week is not so long.
Although, the previous day and that current morning felt like an eternity, every hour seeming to tick by with tortuous slowness until it seemed like he had been there for a week already. Holding his tongue had been the hardest part, but if Isolde thought she was above his perception and assistance, so be it. He would let her do as she pleased, sifting through her suitors herself.
And doing a poor job of it…It was Isolde’s second morning of accepting callers and, already, she had kept one gentleman, a Mr. Harris, in the drawing room for an hour when he ought to have been cast out after five minutes for saying he admired her necklace.
No gentleman of merit looked at the jewelry first when there was beauty to be appreciated and studied. Mr. Harris should have observed the color of Isolde’s eyes long before the glint ofdiamonds caught his eye, at least in Edmund’s opinion. Not thathehad ever remarked upon the color and clarity and charm of a lady’s eyes, nor would he.
The second caller had clearly been suffering a bout of ‘brandy sickness,’ as Isolde called it, and the third had not had a single intelligent word to say.
“Do you like to read, Lady Isolde?” the latest caller, Lord Spofforth, asked as he politely sipped his tea.
Edmund’s gaze drifted to the bookshelves, picking out the book that he had pushed back into place the day before. He clenched and unclenched his hand at the memory, uneasy with the idea that he had touched Isolde in any way, shape, or form. Even more uneasy with the fleeting moment afterward where he had wanted to be softer toward her, just for a short while, to make her see sense in the chaos of the marriage mart.
It was all too easy to pick the wrong partner and be stuck with them for the rest of one’s life. As much as they could not abide each other, Edmund did not want that for her. Rather, he did not want to have to hear about it through Vincent, not when it could be avoided if she would just listen to him for once.
“There are few things I adore more,” Isolde replied to Lord Spofforth. “That being said, my sister is the great devourer of books in this household. I doubt I could match her, even if I were to spend every hour of every day with my nose in a book.”
Lord Spofforth smiled at that. “What books do you favor?”
“Oh… I could not say,” Isolde replied shyly. “My tastes are quite ordinary. I enjoy what is popular.”
A glint flashed in Lord Spofforth’s dark eyes as he leaned forward, his smile seeming somewhat menacing to Edmund—but what did he know?
“You “could not say” or you will not say?” Lord Spofforth prompted, rankling Edmund.
Heknew exactly what Lord Spofforth was trying to coax out of her, and it astonished him and frustrated him that neither Isolde nor her mother could see it. Lord Spofforth was a walking alarm bell, clanging mercilessly, yet neither woman could hear it. Indeed, it irked Edmund all the more that Lord Spofforth would be so brazen with the Dowager sitting right there, however obliviously.
He wants you to say that you read things you should not—the ‘popular’ books that young ladies are secretly reading.He knewThe Monkwas causing consistent uproar, though he had not read it himself.
“It is more that I simply cannot choose,” Isolde replied with an affected laugh that made Edmund want to turn his nose up yet again.
That was not the way Isolde laughed; he had heard her often enough with her brother, and it was a full, rich, uninhibited sound that might have been contagious if he did not have therestraint he possessed. Truly, he could not understand why she would put on a laugh that sounded so hollow.
But hecouldunderstand why Lord Spofforth seemed so enamored by it. He, too, was likely seeing sapphires instead of the lighter blue of her eyes.
“Forgive me if I am being too bold, Lady Isolde,” Lord Spofforth said, his smile warm and rehearsed. “But might you consider taking a turn about the private park with me, while the weather is so nice?”
The park in question was an oval of lush green lawns, paved walkways, benches for sitting and conversing, and mature oak trees and horse chestnut trees that offered shade to any lady fearful of gaining a freckle. It lay behind a wrought iron fence, a short walk across the road from Isolde’s family townhouse.
Isolde cast a pleased, sideways glance at her mother, who flashed a discreet wink and gave a slight dip of her head in assent. Not once did Isolde bother to look to Edmund for permission, likely because he would not have granted it, not for an obvious rogue like Lord Spofforth.
