Was that what she imagined he thought of her?
He thought back over the conversation he’d had with her. He’d been nervous. And ashamed that he’d taken his pleasure of her without ensuring she had experienced her own pleasure. Her first time, too. Guilt flayed him. He’d wanted—no, he’d needed to make it up to her. And a marriage proposal was the only way—the only decent way—he knew to do so.
He hadn’t even mentioned how he felt about her. But he’d been so on edge, so tense that, looking back, he realized he’d even implied that she was at fault, that she should have stopped him, that she was responsible for her own deflowering.
He closed his eyes as shame swamped him.You came to me willingly enough.Had he really said that? The age-old defense of men, blaming the woman for acting on the desire he had deliberately aroused. Just as her father had no doubt blamed her sixteen-year-old mother.
What an arse!
He wouldn’t ever think of her as an obligation, and he needed to make that clear to her. He wasn’t giving up on her yet.
Filled with resolve, he crossed the garden to his aunt’s house.
“I wish to speak to Miss Isobel,” he told Treadwell.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but she and Miss Clarissa have just left to go riding.”
“Damn. I don’t suppose you know where, do you? Hyde Park or the heath?”
“I heard Miss Isobel mention Hampstead Heath, my lord.”
“Excellent. And they only left a short time ago?” He might be able to catch up to them.
“Ten minutes or so. However”—Treadwell stepped in front of Leo, blocking his exit—“Lady Scattergood wishes to speak with you. I was about to send the boy over with a note. Her ladyship is in the sitting room. Awaiting your immediate arrival,” he added pointedly when Leo hesitated.
What on earth did she want? Cursing silently at the delay, Leo made his way to the sitting room. He needed to find Isobel and make it right with her.
His aunt greeted him coldly and bade him “Sit” in a manner strongly reminiscent of the way she talked to her dogs. Only more severely. Leo sat.
“Like many older people, I suffer from insomnia,” his aunt informed him.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Aunt Olive.” Though what she thought Leo could do about it was a mystery to him.
“When it strikes, I generally sit at my bedroom window, sip ginger wine and gaze out over the garden.”
“I see.”
“Do you? I certainly saw some interesting things last night. At half past two in the morning.” She raised her lorgnette and eyed him beadily for a long moment. “Lights in the summerhouse.”
“Ah.” Leo suddenly remembered what it was like to be a schoolboy awaiting a caning.
She regarded him sourly, her mouth like a sucked lemon. “I saw young Izzy go in, then I saw you arrive. I saw that ridiculous Harrington gel prowling around trying to peer inside, and I saw her give up and go home again. And after averylong time I saw you leave, and then Izzy. So what was that about, eh?”
Leo told her, the bare bones of it, but hiding nothing. Admitting all responsibility.
“I presume you will make it right with the gel?”
“I proposed to her this morning. She refused me.”
His aunt lifted her lorgnette again. “She did, did she? Hah! The gel’s got spirit. But what sort of a man are you to give up at the first hurdle?”
“I don’t intend—”
“Convince the gel that you mean it, boy! Woo her—or have you modern men forgotten how to do that? Scattergood had to woo me for weeks, and I made him propose several times before I finally accepted him.”
And two weeks later the man was on a ship bound for India, Leo thought.And never returned.
She pursed her lips. “I suppose when you proposed to the gel, you were all starched up and formal.”
