Page 11 of The Notorious Dashing Viscount
“I don’t intend to marry, Lord Raisin,” Isolde said, as firmly as she could.
If he can speak freely, so can I.
Lord Raisin frowned ever so slightly.
“Well, some ladies do say that, I suppose. But you really must settle down eventually, Lady Isolde. Do you want to be a spinster, ridiculous and alone all your life?”
She bit her lip. “That’s a rather hurtful thing to say, Lord Raisin.”
“But it’s the truth, isn’t it? I wager your dear parents don’t know about your idea. Shall I tell them?”
Isolde’s eyes flew up to Lord Raisin’s face. His expression was placid, but there was a hint of malice in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Is that a threat?”
He gave a throaty chuckle. “Goodness, you ladies and your dramatics! A threat, indeed! No, I only think that one’s family ought to be privy to such an important decision. I daresay they’d have something to say about it.”
“Gentlemen choose to remain bachelors all the time.”
“That’s an entirely different thing, though, is it not?”
Isolde did not think so. She bit her tongue, though – the dance was nearly over. When the musicians played their last strain, she was relieved to step away. Applause broke out around them, and Isolde made a wobbly curtsey, intending to hurryaway before he could say anything else.
Naturally, things did not work out that way.
“Pray, allow me a moment, Lady Isolde, whilst I procure for you some refreshing lemonade,” he said briskly, taking her arm. She was obliged to let him tow her along, back to a smiling Beatrice.
“It’s good to see you dancing, dearest,” she whispered under her breath, when Lord Raisin hurried away towards the refreshment table.
“I don’t like him,” Isolde hissed back. “He’s going to keep me cornered until he can safely ask for a second dance, just like he did last year. I’m going, Mama.”
“Don’t be silly. Look, he’s on his way back already. You’ll stay, Isolde.”
Isolde shook her head, pulling her arm away from her mother. A drift of cool air raked through the room, and she automatically turned her head towards it. A set of wide French doors stood open, letting in the breeze.
If she could get out, she could hide in the shadows somewhere. Yes, it was humiliating, having to cower out on the balcony of the first ball of the Season, but she’d been cornered by the shockingly dull Lord Raisin before, and did not care to repeat the incident.
“Isolde! Listen to me!” Beatrice cried, already losing her daughter in the crowd.
She glanced over her shoulder. Lord Raisin was making his way towards her, with a glass of lemonade in each hand and a determined expression on his face.
It was now or never, then.
Isolde plunged into the crowd, desperate to get away.
A little too desperate, perhaps.
Her dress, which was really designed to be worn with a pair of dainty ankle boots, was a fraction too long for her when pairedwith flat dancing slippers. In fact, Isolde had been kicking away her skirts all night.
She remembered this, belatedly, the instant she stood on her own hem and went lurching forward.
Isolde’s own momentum worked against her. Her arms flailed, but there was nothing within arm’s reach to grab onto, except for other people, and they all moved hastily aside. So she was going down, about to smack face-first into Lady Juliana’s waxed and polished floor, in front of all of Society during the first ball of the Season.
Just perfect.
And then Isolde slammed face-first into a firm, masculine chest, no doubt belonging to some poor fool who hadn’t moved away quickly enough.
Her cheek slid against a silk waistcoat which felt remarkably expensive, and she heard a pained grunt from somewhere above her.
