Page 4 of The Truth About Myths
She caught Isabel's hands and stared into her eyes as if she had an important thing to say and couldn’t fathom where to begin. As if Anne already knew how something momentous would play out. Was it because of her marriage to the Count of Almoster last summer? Though Anne was three years younger than Isabel’s twenty-two, married women regarded themselves as the keepers of a coveted wisdom denied to maidens. No... Anne’s earnest blue eyes held no conceit, just concern. It reminded her of Fernando, Isabel’s deceased brother. He, too, had this foresight aura about him. Her new friend and her favorite brother shared another trait—the rare inclination to do right no matter the personal cost.
Tears clogged her throat, and Isabel forced a smile to dispel the gloom. How she missed Fernando. With a heavy sigh, Isabel pressed Anne’s hands affectionately. “What?”
Anne shook herself and took a step back. “Just be careful.”
"Always.” Isabel smiled reassuringly. “Please stay and hold the front."
Isabel started in the ballroom's direction, pushing the strange interaction from her mind. She knew Dolly meant well. If she had too many hearts in her eyes and nothing in her head, it wasn’t her fault. Poor Dolly. Her father had abandoned the family to live with a courtesan, and the mother had died of a broken heart.
The music got louder, string notes interspersed with laughter and clinking glasses. A volume littering the carpet caught Isabel's attention. When she bent to retrieve it, a gasp escaped her lips. A collection of Sappho's poems. The Greek poetess' work had resurfaced a few years before and caused a furor. Several countries had forbidden it.
Looking at both sides to assure herself she was alone, she opened it, half expecting exotic dancers to tumble out, wiggling their hips and shaking their cymbals.
"With sweet myrrh oil worthy of a queen, you anointed your limbs…"
Cheeks flaming, she ripped her eyes from the lines and searched the front matter. A scrawled dedication read, "My lovely porcelain Doll, meet me tonight."
She turned the book around and located a name—Charles Whitaker. She had never forgotten a rake, and that one she had seen several times in London. The Englishman, not much older than she, belonged to the Prince of Wales' set, partaking in his debauchery. What did he want with Dolly? As if Isabel didn't know. He would either rob her fortune or her virtue.
The book alone could ruin a girl's reputation. Isabel concealed it inside her skirt pocket and hastened through the dimly lit corridors. More than ever, she needed to find Dolly. Heart speeding, Isabel lifted the hem of her gown and maneuvered between the furniture.
A shadow shifted five paces ahead. The door to her mother's garden lay open, a soft breeze blowing through the curtains.
Foreboding rippled through her stomach, lifting the hairs on her arms. Isabel had avoided the garden since she let go of her childhood. What nonsense, she told herself. Her body is only aware of brute urges. Her conscience ruled her. Gingerly, she opened the glass panel.
Cool night air touched her cheeks with invisible hands. Moonlight washed the tiled floor, casting shadows over the pathways. A single cicada sang. Water flowed in a soothing cadence.
It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, her steps faltered. The silvery leaves of an olive tree concealed the dark shape of a man. The stranger lounged on the fountain's rim, his frame so still he could be one of the statues. Isabel tiptoed closer and crouched behind the begonia bush. Could it be Mr. Whitaker? Waiting for an amorous tryst?
Wings flapped, the sound coming from the pond's direction. Isabel inspected the surface, unable to glimpse any feathered creatures. When she gazed back at the fountain, the stranger had disappeared. She bent over the rim, inspecting the rose bushes and the oriental pagoda—all empty.
"Where is he?" she muttered.
A smoky voice sounded behind her. "Who are we looking for?"
Isabel jumped, the top of her head colliding with an object as hard as marble. She lost her balance and flailed her arms, dreading the encounter with the chill water.
Something caught her waist, pulling her backward. With a swoosh, she landed on her posterior, her crinoline taking the brunt of the impact. Isabel blinked at the starry night, her breath stuttering. The petticoat moved underneath her. Gasping, Isabel rolled to the side.
A silhouette materialized on the floor.
It groaned.
Isabel's cheeks burned with mortification. She had felled a stranger. How... how undiplomatic of her. Well, he shouldn't have startled her in the first place. He unfolded himself to a considerable height. A garden torch cast flickering shadows over his full dress attire. He sported the black and white finery with the ease of one who wore it every night, unlike others who only succeeded in looking like overgrown penguins. When her perusal arrived at his face, jewel-blue eyes returned her gaze, the color made riveting by his tanned skin. His hair fell in waves over his ears and collar as if windswept, the style too messy. She preferred the neatness of the pompadour, but at least the dark color ruled out Charles Whitaker.
"Pardon me. It's not my custom to startle fountain sprites." His voice belonged in the opera, not singing the heroic tenor, but graver and more velvety, like the seductive baritone who always tried to steal the heroine.
The stranger bowed and offered his arm. He seemed contrite, and it had been an accident, so Isabel used expression number five, meaning she was mildly aggravated but willing to forgive, and allowed him to help her stand. A little shaken by the stranger's regard, she smoothed her skirts. They were considerably less weighty.
The book! It must have slipped during the fall. Biting her lip, she scanned the tiles.
Lo and behold, the volume lay sprawled near the begonias, less than two feet from her. Her determination flared, and she reached down, her fingers poised to grasp it. Swift as a meddling hawk, the gentleman swooped in. His gloved hand met hers in a burst of electric energy. He came out with the prize, and Isabel clenched empty fists.
While she mentally berated him for his sharp reflexes, he took his time bringing the proof of Dolly's indiscretion to the front of his nose.
Isabel swallowed a groan.
A devilish grin transformed him into an overly handsome satyr.
