Page 7 of Let Me Be Your Hero
“Isabella?” a reedy voice called from within the grove of trees behind them. “Isabella, is that you?”
The voice was familiar.
Familiar, andirritating.
Surely enough, a few seconds later, Tristan Bassingthwaighte came stumbling out of the woods.
Izzie buried her head in Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s neck. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed for Mr. Bassingthwaighte to discover them locked in an intimate embrace. She dimly recalled that this had been her original purpose, what felt like a thousand years ago.
But Izzie’s nerves were raw, and her emotions were alarmingly close to the surface. She didn’t think she could bear to meet anyone’s eye at that moment when she was feeling so vulnerable.
Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy seemed to understand, for he pulled her securely against his chest, cradling her head in one of his marvelously capable hands. She immediately felt comforted.
It appeared that Tristan Bassingthwaighte had not yet spotted them, as they were in the shadow of the archway. “You can stop playing coy, Isabella. You wanted me to chase you, and I did. But now you owe me a favor. And I don’t mean just a kiss.”
Isabella cringed. That was why she’d been running away, all right.
Beside her, Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s brow descended into a ferocious scowl.
“Aha! I recognize those red skirts,” Mr. Bassingthwaighte called. “I’ve found your hiding spot, and now…Oh.”
From over Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s shoulder, she saw him stop short as he noticed that she was not alone.
The poet scowled. “What are you playing at, Isabella?”
She drew herself up, willing her voice to sound haughty and not terrified. “As I told you earlier, my reasons for visiting the dark walks tonight have nothing to do withyou. Now, if you will excuse us.”
Mr. Bassingthwaighte scowled. “Oh, no. You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you are in any way interested in this crude—”
“He’s not crude!” Izzie snapped. “Now, I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone.”
“I won’t,” Mr. Bassingthwaighte said, advancing on her. “Not until I’ve had my turn.”
Histurn? To think, he had the absolute gall to imagine that he was entitled to aturnwhen she had just told him no!
“She’s not a bowl of nuts, and I’m not going to hand her to you when I’ve had my fill,” Archibald snarled. “If she doesn’t want your hands on her, then you’re not going to put them there.Full stop.”
She’s not a bowl of nuts. They weren’t the words of a poet, such as Mr. Bassingthwaighte.
But Izzie found the sentiment behind them more affecting than the most polished sonnet.
Mr. Bassingthwaighte stopped, his face turning pale in the moonlight. Although he was an inch taller than Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy, he looked positively scrawny by comparison. He held his hands up, placatingly. “Come, Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy—let’s not get all worked up over a bit of muslin.”
“A bit of muslin?” Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s voice was quiet. Quiet, anddangerous. “Did you just refer to Lady Isabella asa bit of muslin?”
Izzie sensed that an explosion was about to occur.
Mr. Bassingthwaighte did not seem privy to his impending doom. “You know what I mean.”
Archibald snarled. “You willneverspeak about her that way again. In fact”—he glanced down at Izzie—“do you wish to speak to this man again?”
“Never,” she confirmed.
He returned his menacing glare to Mr. Bassingthwaighte. “You will never speaktoher again. If you are standing in a ballroom and she enters, you will fabricate an excuse to leave. You will do everything within your power to make sure that she never has to clap her eyes upon your worthless carcass ever again.”
Mr. Bassingthwaighte seemed to have finally comprehended the danger he was in. He was trying to put on a brave front, but his eyes were darting around as if looking for a route of escape. In a nasal voice, he asked, “And if I don’t?”
Leaving Izzie sitting on the faux column, Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy took a slow step toward Mr. Bassingthwaighte, then another.
