He marched upstairs and was about to strip off his wet clothes when he noticed Matteo watching him dejectedly, and felt a pang of conscience.
“The young ladies told you the party last night was my idea, didn’t they?”
Matteo, who was collecting the clothes Leo had dropped on the floor the previous night, turned with an anxious expression. “Sì, milor’. Were you satisfied with it all?”
His expression was so guileless and so eager that, sour as he felt, Leo couldn’t bring himself to disabuse him. “Your organization, as always, was superb, Matteo. Now, Lord Randall will be coming for a late breakfast. You may order me a bath.” Matteo hurried off smiling.
Leo turned to strip, but glancing out of the window, he saw Isobel in his aunt’s small yard, feeding one of the little dogs, looking as innocent as a milkmaid.
His anger returned in a rush. Giving no thought to his appearance, he stormed back downstairs, crossed the garden and entered his aunt’s house by the back door. There was no sign of either girl.
“Lord Salcott!” the butler exclaimed, faint shock breaking through his usual impassivity.
“I wish to speak to the young ladies,” Leo said brusquely. “Have them attend me in the blue saloon.”
“But, my lord—”
“Did you not hear me?”
“Yes, m’lord, but perhaps I could have a maid bring you a tow—”
“Just fetch those girls.” He stomped into the blue saloon and waited.
***
Lord Salcott wishes to speak to the young ladies,” Lady Scattergood’s butler informed them. “He awaits you in the blue saloon.”
Izzy and Clarissa exchanged glances. “He’s going to read us a lecture about the party,” Clarissa said gloomily. “We knew it was coming. I managed to avoid speaking to him last night. What about you? Did you speak to him at all?”
Izzy nodded, but was unable to keep the smile off her face.
“What?” Clarissa said. “Did something happen that you’re not telling me?”
“Later.” Izzy tidied her hair in the mirror. She hadn’t yet found a suitable moment to tell Clarissa about her meeting with Lord Salcott in the summerhouse last night.
Besides, it still felt so private, so special and wonderful, she wasn’t quite ready yet to share it with anyone, not even her sister. She didn’t blame him for his abrupt departure. He was angry at Milly’s interruption. So was she.
But oh, what a shame it had to end like that. She’d spent half the night dreaming of those kisses and where they might have led.
“And while I’m thinking about it,” she told Clarissa, “you need to speak to those gardeners immediately and tell them that the hedge needs to be at least twelve or fifteen feet tall. Taller if possible. And prickly, very prickly.”
Clarissa looked at her in surprise. “What hedge?”
“The one you’re going to get planted in front of Milly Harrington’s house. That girl spies on us, and I want it stopped.”
Clarissa gave her a bemused glance. “I’ll speak to them, though I can’t promise anything. But what on earth made you think of that now? Lord Salcott is waiting downstairs. Aren’t you worried about what he’s going to say to us?”
Izzy felt her cheeks warm. “No, not really. He can’t do anything too terrible to us now. The party was a brilliant success, and flowers and notes and more invitations have been flooding in this morning. We’re launched now, ’Riss, and he can’t do anything about it.” Not that she thought he would try to stop them. It was too late, and besides, he would hardly kiss her practically senseless in the wee small hours of the morning and then arrive only hours later to tear strips off her.
The girls hurried down the stairs. Izzy was torn between anticipation of seeing him again—the sensations he’d roused in her still lingered and tingled—and the worry that he’d feel obliged to punish them for their disobedience, which she had to concede was not unfair. Though if he did, she would oppose him. Surely the success of last night’s party showed that he was wrong about society’s willingness to accept her. Even if they didn’t know about her irregular birth. Did they need to know?
Entering the blue saloon, they found Lord Salcott standing before the fire, looking grim and handsome, and... damp? His dark hair clung to his forehead in clumps. His breeches molded to his long, hard thighs. Steam rose gently from them.
“Be seated,” he said curtly.
“Would you like me to fetch you a towel?” Izzy asked him.
“No,” he said, as if he had no idea why anyone would offer him such a thing. “Sit down.”
