She sketched a graceful curtsy, and as she rose up, the golden sunlight seemed to bathe Edmund in its summer glow. He emerged from his courteous bow, tall and proud and elegant, one arm across his waist, the other behind his back. And, for a moment, she thought him quite handsome.
But not at all the man of my dreams…Evidently, she had mistaken Edmund’s gruff voice for that of her mystery gentleman. An easy enough mistake to make with memories of her debut evening playing through her mind, blurring the past and the present. Robert had mimicked Colin, Edmund had mimicked her hero of roses and shadows. Indeed, it was a relief to her as much as it was a disappointment that her hero had not been her rescuer this time.
“You have a suitor who interests you?” Edmund asked, offering his arm to take her back to her mother.
“It is no business of yours, but thereissomeone who has… made a lasting impression,” she replied with a secret smile.
Edmund pulled her forward, rougher with her than before, as he whispered through gritted teeth, “Well, just remember, he will have to go through me first.”
A gasp caught in Isolde’s throat, shocked as she bumped into his side. Even more shocked as he held her there, much too close to be deemed proper. But she did not wrench herself away; she could not, too drawn in by the closeness of him, the power of him, the strength and protection in his voice.
He paused, gazing down at her in a way that made her stomach feel strange. “I had word from your brother this morning—he does not return for at least another week, and rest assured, I willnotbe letting you out of my sight again.”
CHAPTER NINE
The rest of the garden party continued without further incident, Edmund sipping tea on the terrace by himself, ensuring he always had a clear view of Isolde. At present, she was chattering amiably with a group of young ladies, the barely avoided scandal of earlier apparently all but forgotten. And Lord Spofforth was nowhere to be seen, making himself scarce.
She does not realize what could have happened, and yet she claims to know exactly what she is doing.Edmund simmered as he partook in a lemon tart, blaming Julianna as much as Isolde. Clearly, the lady’s mother had not raised her with enough warnings about the dangers of men. At that very moment, Julianna was enjoying the party with her own friends, not paying Isolde any attention whatsoever.
Edmund did not lay blame at Vincent’s door, however. His dearest friend had been too occupied with the role of Duke, thrown into it at such a young age, that he had not had time to ensure that his sister was being raised with enough wariness of the opposite sex.
“But who is the gentleman?” Edmund mumbled to himself, letting his gaze wander across the other guests for a short while.
He liked to think of himself as a perceptive man, certain that he would be able to spot the individual that Isolde had alluded to, whether it be through a secret look or a prolonged gaze or through a shiftiness in someone’s demeanor.
He observed the quartet of gentlemen by the walled garden, the gentlemen trying to pick apples from the trees, the gentlemen indulging in conversation over glasses of lemonade, the gentlemen who were apart from the main festivities; the solitary gentlemen, the bored gentlemen, the inebriated gentlemen, the shy gentlemen, but there was one glaring problem—at one time or another,allof them cast discreet looks at Isolde.
“Why should I care?” he muttered into the crust of his lemon tart as he took a big bite.
I need patience, not whatever this unease is.He banged on his chest with the palm of his hand, hoping to dislodge the tight feeling that had settled there since Isolde had revealed she had a gentleman in mind.
“Do you need someone to smack you on the back? Did you swallow that pastry the wrong way?” A mild voice made him sit up straighter, the tart very nearly catching in his throat as he hurried to swallow it down.
“Goodness, where did you come from? I almostdidchoke!” Edmund peered up at the familiar face of his friend, Lionel Barnet, the Earl of Westyork.
A quiet, steely sort of fellow who tended to keep to his country estate, Lionel and Edmund had struck up an unlikely friendship several years ago, after a fight had broken out in a gentlemen’s club and they had both leaped in to separate the two brawlers. Thanks to his grand tour of the Continent, it had been at least two years since Edmund had last seen the man, and it was a welcome reunion.
Lionel sat down in the white garden chair beside Edmund, reaching to pour himself a cup of tea before one of the nearby members of staff could do so for him. “Apologies, Edmund. I have only just arrived and when I saw you, I approached without thought.” He pulled the cup and saucer to him. “It is good to have you back on English soil.”
“I would say that it is good tobeback, but I daresay I am still finding my feet,” Edmund replied with uncharacteristic honesty.
When he was with Lionel, for reasons he could not explain, he always felt like he could say anything without risk of judgment. Of course, Vincent was Edmund’s dearest friend, but Vincent preferred not to be serious or to talk of vulnerabilities, tending to turn everything into a jest. Without that part of Vincent’s nature, Edmund doubted he would have made it through the grief of losing so much, but, sometimes, he liked to speak his mind freely.
“A return to duty is always a difficult thing,” Lionel agreed, “but duty is our greatest purpose. Within a month, you will be at ease with your position again, and I have no doubt that your adventures abroad will be of tremendous assistance—a balm of memory, if you like, for the truly hard days. I expect it shall make finding a Duchess much simpler too, for you have stories to tell—there is nothing better to begin a conversation with a suitable lady.”
Edmund tapped the edge of his cup as his gaze found Isolde again. She had not moved from her gaggle of ladies, their laughter ringing out across the beautiful gardens, drawing the collective attention of the gentlemen once more. And though the other ladies were pretty enough, Isoldedidhave a way of standing out. A certain… essence to her that could not be described.
“I have no desire to find a Duchess,” Edmund said. “You know this, Lionel.”
Lionel took a sip of his tea. “I was aware of your aversion, but I suppose I thought that your time away might have altered your opinion. We are men of high station and influence, Edmund—we must set a good example to our peers, and one of our primary duties is to find a wife and have children to continue our ancestral legacy.”
“A gentleman of high station cannot choose his own path?” Edmund arched an eyebrow. “Is that not part of the benefit of being in positions such as ours?”
Lionel lifted his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. “I would not dare to tell you what path you should walk, Edmund. I can only do what is expected of me; I cannot instruct anyone else.” He hesitated. “But would it be such a terrible thing?”
“It would,” Edmund confirmed, closing his eyes and concentrating on his breathing as his mind was overwhelmed with sounds and visions: the shriek of panicked horses, the crack of carriage wheels, the thump and violent rolling of bodies tossed in a tumbling landau, the sharp, solitary cry for help, and deathly silence afterward.
He became aware of Lionel’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of that wretched mix of memories.
