“What?”
“My name. You keep using it. You used to call me ‘Your Grace,’ with all the sarcasm you could muster,” he rumbled. “When did that change?”
“I… do not know. I did not even realize I was doing it,” she replied, fighting the urge to touch his face, to slide her hand into his hair and pull him closer. It is what ‘Isolde’ would have done to Tristan. Then again, that had not ended particularly well for the pair.
“I suppose it is… because my mother has been doing it,” she added, fooling no one. It had changed after he had almost kissed her; she was certain of that.
Edmund took a half-step closer, the pressure of his proximity squeezing the air out of Isolde’s lungs, turning her stomach to a flock of violently fluttering butterflies, her limbs trembling with a nervous ripple that she could not control.
“How did you know the gown came from me?” he asked quietly, his other hand coming up.
But he did not cradle her face as she had expected—instead, he pressed his other palm to the bookcase. Not hemming her in, for she could easily duck under his powerful arms, but like he did not trust his hands if they were not anchored to the bookcase.
“I… had my suspicions,” she panted, glancing at the library door for fear of someone else walking in. But it was closed, making her wonder how she had not heard it. “But it…was your face. The… shock when I mentioned the dress. I suppose you thought you were hilarious, making me think it had come from a mysterious suitor?”
He touched his brow to hers and his eyes closed, that expression of pain tensing his face once more. “It was not a jest, Isolde.” His breath hitched. “I have forgiven you for the strawberry tart incident.”
“Then… why?” Isolde felt the spines of the books behind her digging into her own.
“I do not know,” he replied. “After seeing you on the riverbank, I felt compelled to do something. To… apologize.”
She pushed him lightly on the chest, hoping the nudge would open his eyes again. For if he stayed like that, with his eyes closed, his expression pained, his closeness so intense, she did not know what she would do.
“To apologize for what?” she said, dismayed and intrigued in equal measure.
His eyes fluttered open. “For behaving against my creed. For putting you in a perilous situation. For losing my mind for a moment. For not leaving that room when I should have done. For almost doing something that I would not have been able to undo.”
“Say it,” she urged, certain thatsheshould be leaving the room immediately. “Say what you almost did, or how am I supposed to know what you are apologizing for?”
He turned his gaze away slightly, teeth grazing his lower lip. “I cannot.”
“I did not take you for a coward, Edmund,” she rasped, her hand finally falling to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath.
He was nervous.
His eyes flared in a way that seemed familiar. “I am no coward, which is precisely why I will not play these games with you. I amtrying to protect you. I am trying to do my duty as your brother’s friend, but you are making it so very, very difficult. As always.”
They held each other’s gaze with a ferocity that swelled by the second, transforming into something hot and feverish in Isolde’s veins. Her hand curled involuntarily, gripping his lapel, her breath ragged as she refused to be the one to look away first. If he thought she was difficult, then she had no choice but to prove how difficult she could be.
“Do you like the gown you bought?” she said in a breathy whisper. “Is it everything you thought it would be?”
She heard him swallow, but he did not answer, ignoring the bait.
“AmI the brightest star of the Season?” she pressed, her throat tight. “Is that why you did not come to the townhouse to escort me to the ball, so you could have the satisfaction of looking for me among the constellations?”
“Stop it,” he growled.
“Why give me the night sky as an apology, when you cannot even say what you are apologizing for?”
“I said, stop it.” His eyes burned, his chest rising and falling with each sawing breath he took.
But she could not, the words tumbling from her lips without her permission. “Why did you follow me in here, Edmund?”
“To protect you,” he rasped, taking the candle from her hand and setting it on a narrow ledge beside them.
“From what?”
“From…” His gaze flitted to her lips. “From myself.”
