Her lady’s maid had been predictably sympathetic when she had arrived. “Oh, my poor lady. You are not at fault! None of this would have happened if not for that dreadful Mr. Penhurst.”
Her words had done nothing to assuage Izzy’s guilt, however.
Nor had Murdoch’s tender ministrations. She had taken down Izzy’s woeful hair, brushing out the tangles, before restoring it to a semblance of respectability. Some cursory ablutions, a restorative of Murdoch’s own—Izzy had not been about to drink the wretched concoction Anglesey had offered—and a new gown.
“Is my sister terribly vexed with me?” she had asked Murdoch, wincing at the thought of the earful Ellie would undoubtedly give her.
To say nothing of Mama and Papa.
The Collingwoods were known for their eccentricities. But not one of them before Izzy had caused such a scandal.
“She is concerned for you, I believe,” was all Murdoch would say.
Which meant, of course, that Izzy was doomed. As she walked down a hall bedecked with pictures of former earls and countesses, she was more than aware she was facing a future that was suddenly vastly different than it had been only yesterday morning. A marriage she did not want to a man she scarcely knew. A family who would undoubtedly be furious with her over her actions.
Well, there was her broken heart.
That, at least, remained the same.
Izzy descended the stairs, hoping her sister’s carriage would be waiting for her so that she might at least be spared the embarrassment of further conversation with the Earl of Anglesey until she had some proper rest and time to consider what she had done.
“You!”
The furious female voice took her by surprise, but it was the underlying menace, more than the presence of another woman, that shocked her. She stopped on the last stair as an elegant blonde woman dressed entirely in black approached her, skirts swirling in her dudgeon.
Izzy pressed a hand to her heart, thinking for a moment that this outraged woman must have mistaken her for another. “Me?”
“Yes.” The woman stopped before her, a sneer curling her lips. “You. You are Lady Isolde, are you not?”
“I am,” she said. “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, madam.”
“I am the Countess of Anglesey,” the other woman hissed. “How dare you bring such shame upon not only the title but upon this house?”
The last earl’s widow. Of course. Izzy had never been introduced to her, though she supposed they traveled in some of the same circles.
Her cheeks went hot at the realization this woman knew something of what had happened the night before. “It was not my intention to bring shame, my lady.”
“Nonetheless, you did.” Her tone was disparaging. “If you think marriage to Zachary will be easy for you, you are wrong, my lady.”
Zachary.
It was not lost upon Izzy that the widowed countess had referred to Anglesey by his Christian name. Just what was their relationship? The other woman seemed almost territorial. But this was neither the time nor the place to investigate. Izzy was still feeling dreadful, and she had much to answer for when she faced her sister.
“Lady Anglesey,” she said with as much calm as she could muster in the face of such blatant antagonism. “I am weary, and I find myself desperately longing to return home. Perhaps we might become more acquainted on another, more advantageous, day.”
“I have no intention of knowing you, my dear,” the countess said. “The sins you have committed are inexcusable. If you know what is good for you, you will run away to the country and hide. Or, better yet, travel the Continent. Do not dare to drag this family through the mud and besmirch a noble and respected title. Zachary will never love you.”
Her condescension was enough to make Izzy’s spine go stiff. “I will not be hiding or running, Lady Anglesey, though I thank you for your concern. As forZachary, well, I suppose he is his own man, is he not? He shall decide. Not you. Good day, Countess.”
WherewasAnglesey, anyway? How dare he force her to face the irate widow alone?
“Darling.”
His smooth, deep voice, dripping with charm and self-assurance, interrupted the moment. He was striding toward Izzy and the countess with the easy saunter of a man who knew exactly how handsome he was. His gaze was on Izzy, the smile on his lips only serving to increase his appeal. The dimple had reappeared.
But Izzy could not shake the suspicion that neither the endearment, nor the smile, were for her benefit. The tension simmering between the earl and his brother’s widow was intense, crackling in the air like electricity.
“My lord,” she and the countess greeted him in unison.
