She had flown down the hallway after her brother, nearly colliding with Lord Milmouth and the rest of the guests coming upstairs. Apologizing, she had pushed past them, trying to catch Gray. He was limping badly, a sure sign of his wrath.
He had slammed into his room and locked the door before she could reach him.
“Gray!” she called.
She needed to speak with him. To explain what had happened before he made a rash decision.
Of all the ways for him to learn of her marriage . . .
Lungs hiccupping, she leaned her forehead against the cold wood. The tears continued to fall.
What was she to do? She refused to abandon Malton Hill and her community.
How could she have behaved so stupidly? Clearly, seven years of regret had taught her nothing. The first chance she got, she had thrown herself into Tavish Balfour’s arms, greedily feasting on his kisses.
That deep grief welled upward at the mere thought of Tavish and everything they had once been. Everything she had lost and forgotten.
As a girl, she remembered hearing of a ghastly flood that had destroyed a Swiss village. Part of the mountain above the town collapsed into a nearby lake, sending a towering wall of water crashing into the village and burying it under hundreds of feet of debris.
If loosed, she feared her grief would swallow her in a similar fashion, burying her so deep, she would be lost forever.
Her chest spasmed, breath coming in stuttering gasps.
No!
Through sheer willpower, she pushed the tide of emotion back down.
She would think about Tavish later . . . about those few transcendent minutes in his arms and the implication of Colonel Archer’s words to him—I’ve never seen youtoucha woman . . . celibate as a monk! . . . she let me kiss her, even knowing . . .
A trembling, anxious energy seized her limbs, crushing her ribcage and shaking her shoulders. Her breathing stuttered, and the world went dark at the edges.
Pressing a hand to Gray’s door, Isla forced air in and out of her lungs, anything to stem the attack of panicking terror.
A few minutes later, she heard the other guests retreating downstairs.
She couldn’t endure Miss Crowley’s questions or Lord Milmouth’s reproachful face.
Swiping at her tears, she silently willed Gray to open his door one last time before retreating to her own bedchamber.
Five hours later, as the first light of dawn washed the sky, Isla waited downstairs in the entrance hall, her trunk packed.
She knew her brother.
He would depart at first light with minimal leave-taking. Anything to avoid witnessing the stench of her scandal being paraded before others.
And, for once, she was unsure if Gray would permit her to accompany him.
Slowly, the sun crested the horizon, washing the world in golden sunlight. Her eyes were scratchy and surely red-rimmed but dry. Unlike the last time her world crumbled, she would not tumble into melancholy and listlessness.
No. This time, she had Malton Hill and a reason to fight.
She had to try to make things right with Gray, to at least attempt a reconciliation. Anything, really, to convince him of the necessity of his help in ending her marriage.
As she expected, the ducal carriage rolled around from the stables and stopped before the front stairs.
There was no sign of Gray, but Isla brooked no chances. She ordered her trunk strapped to the back of the carriage and then accepted the hand of a footman who assisted her inside.
Her behavior was a blatant challenge, and well she knew it. But as Gray hadn’t ordered the servants to refuse her . . .
