She was pale as newly fallen snow, but without the glittering sparkle. Her dark hair had partially come undone, her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and she looked, in a word, dreadful. Her sole improvement over the night before was that she was no longer wearing that terrible flower-bedecked gown he had helped to peel her out of last night.
“I am sorry,” she said, biting her lip as if she were suppressing the urge to retch or weep.
Perhaps both.
“Save your apologies,” he advised. “It is already done. Half London believes I ravished you in the blue salon at Greymoor’s ball last night. The other half will hear of it soon enough. And if not, they shall definitely be made aware that the scandalous new Earl of Anglesey brought Lady Isolde Collingwood to his home, where she spent the night.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Your…home?”
“My home,” he said, observing her frankly. “Are you in need of the chamber pot again, my lady? You are looking positively bilious.”
“My biliousness is a direct result of your announcement, my lord,” she clipped out. “Why have you brought me here? What of my family? Have youkidnappedme?”
This time, he could not suppress his laughter.Christ, what a fanciful chit she was.
“Hardly, my dear. You had fallen asleep on the bloody floor, and I was faced with a choice. It was either attempt to remove you with as much discretion as possible, or allow you to face the humiliation of our fellow guests hearing you drunkenly snore.”
He knew a pang of pity as his words sank in and her pallor grew. Likely, he could have phrased that a bit more prettily. However, it was still the truth. They were here, in this room, in this predicament, directly because of her reckless actions. Now they would both be made to pay for them.
“What of my family? My sister?” she asked weakly, clutching her stomach.
He dutifully fetched the chamber pot, offering it to her once again, before turning his back. With a hardened heart, he steeled himself against further sympathy as she completed a second round of retching.
He waited a moment before facing her. “Your sister has been informed of your presence here, as has Wycombe. They are aware of the circumstances and agreed bringing you here was the wisest decision.”
That was not entirely true. The discussion—when Wycombe and his duchess had arrived long after midnight, fresh from the ball—had not been smooth, and nor had the duchess been initially amenable. But she had checked on her sister, who had already been blissfully snoring away in this guest chamber, and had decided against moving her.
“I do wish you had compromised anyone but my wife’s sister,” Wycombe had drawled in a grim aside.
“I wish I had not compromised anyone at all,” he had returned, refraining from pointing out the obvious, which was that he had hardly compromised anyone.
The tryst he had arranged had never happened, damn it. Instead, he had ended up with a sotted, snoring future bride. Life, Zachary had long ago discovered, was the devil’s own coil.
“Wise,” Lady Isolde was saying now. “This seems anything but.”
He could not agree more, but he had a pressing engagement taking precedence over providing her with a chamber pot to retch in. “Nonetheless, this is the bed we have found ourselves in, my lady, and we must make the best of it. I will leave you to your morning ablutions. Your sister sent your lady’s maid and a fresh gown over early this morning. I will direct her to you now.”
Lady Isolde began to protest. “But my lord—”
“Until later,” he interrupted smoothly. “I will see you when you are feeling more the thing, and we can discuss the happy event then.”
Happy event.
Ha! Bloody hell, he was getting married.
Without waiting for further attempts to waylay him on the part of his prospective wife, Zachary quit the chamber in haste, lest he be obliged to listen to yet another session of her ladyship depositing the lingering vestiges of last night’s champagne in the chamber pot.
CHAPTER4
Unlike every other morning since he had officially become the new Earl of Anglesey, Zachary chose to breakfast at nine, Beatrice’s appointed hour, now that she had returned to London from Barlowe Park in Staffordshire. A touch earlier, in fact. He awaited her in the dining room still bedecked with his brother’s appalling taste in art, plate heaped with a rasher of bacon, eggs, and an assortment of fruit. He was in a damned good mood for a man who was about to be forced into an unwanted marriage.
He knew the moment she approached the threshold, for even eight years after she had told him she was choosing the future earl over a mere third son, he had not forgotten the way she walked. He saw the black-silk-clad figure’s graceful approach from the periphery of his vision and recognized her instantly. Just as he took note of her surprised pause when she realized she would not be enjoying her queenly breakfast alone.
He ignored her, of course. Did not bother to stand even when she entered the room.
The Countess of Anglesey may have fooled him mightily once, when he had been a wet-behind-the-ears lad too stupid to realize she had been using him to sink her claws into his brother, but she was no lady. And he was damned well not going to treat her as if she were one.
“My lord.”
