Page 19 of The Notorious Dashing Viscount
Beatrice shook her head, laying a hand on her husband’sarm.
“She is no longer a child, Richard. Let us not deceive her. I believe Isolde is entitled to a measure of honesty, do you not agree?” She drew in a breath and faced Isolde. “Frankly, yes. If he doesn’t read it himself, somebody will tell him about it.”
Isolde groaned aloud, dropping her head into her hands.
She didn’t like the viscount, of course she didn’t. He was a flirtatious rake, and his good opinion was an insult more than anything else, but if he thought she was chasing him… oh, it was too humiliating for words.
She could almost see the viscount, sitting in state at his breakfast table, raising an eyebrow at the paper.
Would he believe it all? Would he think that she’d thrown herself deliberately at him? That she was trying to catch him?
She imagined him snorting to himself, shaking his head, and tossing the paper aside in order to get started on his breakfast.
“Poor, foolish creature,” he would remark, briskly cracking open a boiled egg. ‘Quite lamentable, truly. I must keep my distance from her. Such an affair cannot be deemed a conquest, not when she is practically laying herself at my feet.”
Isolde angrily reminded herself that she did not care about his good opinion, and it didn’t matter in the slightest what he thought of her.
It still hurt, though.
“Isolde? Isolde, are you listening to me?”
She opened her eyes, glancing across at her mother. “Yes, Mama.”
Beatrice passed a hand over her face. “This business is awkward, make no mistake.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I am well aware that you did not, my dearest. However, Society will perceive it differently. We must contemplate our next course of action. Withdrawing you from the Seasonis simply not an option; the loss of reputation would be insurmountable, and you would find it impossible to regain your standing. Perhaps we might consider...”
“A few weeks shall not cause any harm,” Richard spoke up, and the two began to argue.
Isolde swayed in her chair. She felt ill, dangerously so. Abruptly, she got to her feet and went running out of the room. The argument continued behind, but Isolde didn’t care.
She raced along the hallways, not caring how silly she looked, and burst into the library. There, at long last, the tears came.
Isolde slid down against the door, landing with an undignified thump.
She cried for a moment or two, uninterrupted, before a knock came on the door.
“Izzy?”
“Go away, James.”
“Let me in.”
“No.”
“Let me in, or I’ll go around the house and climb in through the library window.”
She sighed. He probably meant it.
“Fine,” she shuffled aside, and the door creaked open. James stepped in and settled himself on the floor beside her.
For a few minutes, they just sat there, side by side, in silence.
James spoke first.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine how awful this is for you.”
