That reminded him—he needed to inform Beatrice about Lady Isolde.
And the scandal.
Oh, the pleasure.
“Yes, my lord,” she said.
He stood abruptly, irritated by her refusal to refer to him by his title. A title he did not want, it was true. But damn her for refusing to pay him the courtesy.
Damn her for choosing the title over him all those years ago. He was no longer plagued by the same bitterness that had once driven him, but the memory of her actions, and their effect upon him, remained.
“You will call me Anglesey,” he informed her. “You may not like to be reminded of the title you betrayed me for, or the fact that it is now mine and all your machinations are as good as the moldering bones of my brother lying in the dirt, but that does not render it any less true, madam.”
Beatrice’s lips fell open. Once, they were lips he had kissed with abandon. In hidden alcoves, the shadowed corners of a library…as often as he had been able. Now, those lips left him feeling nothing save bitterness. The urge to feel them beneath his had died a long time ago.
Along with his love for her.
And his heart.
“Of…of course,” she stammered.
“Lord Anglesey,” he said. “Try it.”
“Lord Anglesey,” she repeated at last, grimacing as if the words pained her.
He hoped to hell they did. “And now,Lady Anglesey. You may as well practice that one as well, for you shall be saying it often when I am wed.”
She gasped. “You are marrying? When?”
“Soon.” He gave her an indolent shrug. “I suppose you have not yet heard about what happened last night, then? Ah, I shall inform you. I was rather carried away at Greymoor’s ball. I was caught inflagrante delictowith Lady Isolde Collingwood. We caused quite the scandal. I am sure the details will reach you momentarily, so I shan’t bore you with them.”
She went paler still. “You ruined her?”
Not out of any mad desire, but the need to make Beatrice think so was strong, propelling him. He was always beastly when it came to her. This morning was proof the old wound still festered.
“I did,” he confirmed, grinning. “I had expected the servants would have informed you of our new guest, but I suppose their loyalty may be to me after all.”
When he had first crossed the threshold of Barlowe House as the newly inherited earl, the hated edifice had felt distinctly as if it belonged toher. She had spent the last eight years ruling it. But the more time he reluctantly spent here, the more he took note of all the signs of Horatio. Although Zachary had intentionally avoided Barlowe House all this time, he was now saddled with the damn thing. Rather a common theme in his life these days, as it happened.
But then, he supposed every man needed an albatross or two.
In his case, three.
“Guest?” Beatrice repeated, frowning. “You cannot mean to say Lady Isolde is here, beneath this very roof?”
“I can.” His grin deepened, for watching her abject horror unfold was moderately entertaining, after all. “She is. Unfortunately, my darling betrothed is feeling a bit…fatigued this morning. Understandable, given all that transpired last night. When I left her, she was resting.”
He was aware of the less-than-subtle suggestion permeating his words.
Beatrice’s disgust was evident. “You are truly despicable.”
He reached for his coffee, taking one last sip before toasting her again. “Thank you, dear sister. Whatever you do, do not share your poor opinion of me with my bride. I would hate for you to chase her away.”
With that parting shot, he left her to her breakfast.
* * *
Izzy was not feelingmuch improved by the time she emerged from the guest chamber. Her stomach was still uneasy. A tenacious megrim persisted. But the utter shame seizing her at the ignominious display she must have put on the night before was worst of all. She had humiliated herself.
