Her champagne-addled mind was working at a slower pace than customary, so it took Izzy an extra moment to realize the magnitude inherent in those words.
If I am to be saddled with you for the remainder of my life…
Saddledwith her?
For the rest of hislife?
Panic rose, replacing the malaise. “Pray explain yourself, Lord Anglesey.”
That startlingly blue gaze of his swept over her. “Half the ballroom witnessed you atop me on the floor of Greymoor’s blue salon, attempting to ravish me.”
No.
Her stomach lurched.
She refused to believe she would have been engaged in such scandalous behavior. If only she could recall what had happened.
“Ravish?” she asked weakly. “That seems a rather strong choice of words.”
He cocked his head, considering her with an intense regard she could not decipher. “Do you truly not recall?”
She struggled to sift through the murk of her mind for more memories and found it curiously blank. “I remember…the kiss.”
She recalled his lack of response, the warm smoothness of his unsmiling lips beneath hers. How different it had felt from the times she had kissed Arthur. Before she had found her way to the blue salon, she recalled drinking another glass of champagne in one hurried series of gulps. Arthur had been beaming at Miss Harcourt as if she were a goddess among mortals, and the cutting pain in Izzy’s heart had been almost too much to bear.
Apparently, that final glass had proven one too many.
Or perhaps five too many.
She had certainly lost count over the course of the evening, and she had not partaken in any of the refreshments. It was almost certain she had missed supper.
“The kiss,” he repeated. “Which one?”
There had been more than one?
She winced. “Forgive me, my lord. My behavior was inexcusably forward. I promise I do not make a habit of engaging in such a scandalous lack of propriety.”
“Whether you do or not is immaterial at this point. The damage has been done, and it cannot be undone. Unfortunately for you, Lady Isolde, you will soon be the next Countess of Anglesey.” He paused, flashing her a grim smile that allowed only the hint of his dimple to appear. “And on that account, it is I who must beg your forgiveness. I do not imagine the role will be an altogether pleasant one.”
* * *
The horroron Lady Isolde’s face by the harsh morning light would have been comical were they not trapped in a farce of her making, and were he not about to have to make her his wife.
Zachary knew he ought to take pity on her and leave her to the misery of waking up in a strange place with an aching head and a heaving gut. But given her grand show the night before and the fact that he had been forced to carry her snoring form all the way to his carriage, he was disinclined to offer mercy. Bringing her here to his town house had been the final nail in the coffin of his bachelor days, but since his choice in the matter of future countess had already been thieved, he had reckoned he may as well garner some enjoyment out of this sordid affair. Nettling Beatrice, he had no doubt, would prove infinitely pleasurable.
Not nearly as pleasurable as other acts with her might have been long ago, but Beatrice had thoroughly killed every cockstand associated with her by marrying his eldest brother, Horatio. The only gratification to be wrung from her presence in his home was the sure knowledge that she would be infuriated to learn that, not only had he thoroughly ruined a lady the evening before, but he had brought her here to spend the night.
Let her surmise what she would from that development.
But that was a matter to be savored in approximately—he withdrew his pocket watch and consulted it—one quarter hour when the widowed Lady Anglesey would descend to break her fast.
“I cannot marry you,” Lady Isolde said, staring at him as if he had just announced his intention to take them both to the bowels of hell.
Not terribly far from the mark, as it happened.
He had never been married before, had not wished to find himself in such a state since he had been stupid and green enough to believe himself in love with Beatrice. And he had absolutely no desire to be leg-shackled now.
“I am afraid you should have thought of that before throwing yourself into my arms last night,” he told Lady Isolde wryly.
