To the brightest star of the Season, I give you the night sky. I will look for you among the constellations.Madame Versailles had told him to dictate what he thought of the recipient, and that was what had come out, as if the dressmaker had ensorcelled him somehow. Now, it had come back to bite him.
He was about to protest, about to come up with the first reasonable explanation that came to him, but Isolde was already walking away. And not back to Noah but, seemingly, out of the ball altogether.
Choking back silly disappointment that defied all reason and sense, Isolde marched out of the ballroom, desperately in needof peace and quiet to gather her thoughts. She could not be seen to be in a distressed state in front of so many people, where gossipmongers and scandal sheet informants were rife, especially not after spending time in Edmund’s company.
Of all the infuriating, aggravating, bewildering, mercurial gentlemen I have ever met, you are the very worst, Edmund.
She was convinced, now, that he was the one who had sent the gown. There had been no ‘express rider’ or coincidental encounter on the townhouse porch. He had brought the box and the gown, then he had changed his mind, telling a small lie right to her face so she would not know where the garment hailed from.
“Why write such a note?” she murmured, clasping a hand to her chest in a vain attempt to steady her breathing. “Were you mocking me? Taunting me? Tricking me, as I once tricked you?”
She did not want to believe that he had waited all this time to take revenge on a childhood jape of hers, but what if that was exactly what he was doing? What if he was not the mature, dependable, mostly honorable gentleman that everyone thought he was? What if, beneath that façade, he was just petty and juvenile?
She walked without knowing where she was going, eager to clear her mind of the maelstrom of confusion that swirled there. She knew she should have returned to Noah to continue where they had been interrupted, but she was in no mood to dance andmake polite conversation, even with a gentleman she thought to be pleasant.
I can apologize later, once I am myself again.
Her hurried feet carried her through the labyrinth of the Duke and Duchess of Farnaby’s grand townhouse—a left turn here, a right turn there, losing herself without caring—until the music of the orchestra had faded to a muffled melody, the chatter of guests no more than a faint drone.
At that moment, she spied a half-open door on her left, and moved toward it, praying for sanctuary.
Hesitantly, she opened the door wider and peered around, her heart leaping with gratitude as she realized she had found the library. A few candles flickered in the gloom, but not a sound echoed back. There was no one else there; she had found her peace and quiet.
“Anyone here?” she asked anyway, to be certain.
Silence called back an invitation.
She proceeded into the vast room, where bookcases towered like peaceable giants, and the dusty, delightful aroma of leather and paper and ink greeted her senses. Teresa might have been the known devourer of books, but Isolde had never found anywhere quite as relaxing as a library. And, right now, the company of books was precisely what she needed.
Picking up a candle, she padded over to the front row of bookcases and raised the pool of amber light up. To her delight, there was an entire shelf of her favorites, right there for her comfort.
She traced her fingertips down the spine of a collection of stories that she knew so very well, one of them containing her namesake—the tragic tale ofTristan and Isolde.A forbidden love between a Cornish knight and an Irish princess that had always been her favorite, likely because she could better imagine herself within the story, sharing her name with the heroine.
As she was about to pull the book out, a rush of air swept past her shoulder, another hand covering hers, pressing the book back into the shelf.
Isolde gasped in fright, whirling around to see the face of her intruder. As she did, a strange part of her wondered if it might be her champion of bronze roses and thorns, come to declare himself at last. He lived in shadow, after all, so what better place for him to reappear than in the candlelight gloom of a library, where all dreams could come to life?
“Do not run from me,” the man growled, his hand still pressed against the bookcase. “If you run, I cannot keep you safe.”
Her heart leaped into her throat, her desperate whisper shivering through the air: “Is it you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The illusion vanished as Isolde lifted the candle up to see the man’s face, her daydream of finally meeting her masked savior dashed as familiar features emerged. It was not her rescuer, but the man she had been trying to get away from.
“Are you quite mad?” she gasped, her heart thundering as she pressed herself flat against the bookcases.
Edmund had not moved, his tall figure towering over her, his broad chest so close that she wanted to reach out and feel the beat of his own heart, his shoulders curved as if subconsciously trying to shield her, while his hand remained to the side of her head, his other hand half-raised like he had been about to cup her face.
But what did he think he was protecting her from, when his presence was the only danger at that moment?
“I needed a reprievefromyou, Edmund,” she croaked, heat rising up her neck and into her face. “Why did you follow me?”
He leaned in, his brow almost touching hers. “Because you should not be alone. It is not safe for a lady to be alone.”
“I should not be alone withyou!” she urged, as breathless as she had been in the drawing room on that fateful day, not so long ago. “You should leave, Edmund, and you should make sure that no one sees you.”
His throat bobbed, his brow creasing as if she had caused him pain. “Why do you keep calling me by my name?”
