“Go to the devil,” she returned over her shoulder.
“I misspoke.”
Ha!He had not misspoken, and they both knew it.
Four steps now. Six. Eight. Ten. Twelve.
“I do not require your lies or attempts at chivalry. You may take both to Hades,” she declared.
“Lady Isolde, Izzy, please.”
His footfalls were not far behind her now, and unless she was mistaken, he was following her up the steps, curse him.
“I have not given you leave to call me Izzy, my lord,” she retorted, reaching the landing and deciding not to halt her progress by something as ladylike as walking. Instead, she began to run. Her chamber had a lock on it, and he could not force his way inside. She could fall into her bed, bury her head beneath a pillow, and drown out the drone of his voice until he went away.
Then, she would sleep.
And when she woke, she would begin packing her belongings for a long—perhapslifelong—trip to the Continent. Yes, she would travel to where no one knew her name. To where this scandal could not possibly follow her, and she would never be required to swallow her pride and marry the handsome earl who thought her dresses abysmal and her kisses little better.
“We are going to be married,” he was saying now. “It stands to reason that I must call you something. Your family calls you Izzy.”
“You are not my family, Lord Anglesey,” she gritted, breathless. And blast her corset for pinching her sides so thoroughly.
The probability that she would swoon from lack of air before she ever reached her chamber was strong. But she was running anyway.
Running until she was not.
Until the toe of her shoe caught in her hem once more, and this time, there was no stopping her forward motion.
She landed with a distinctive lack of grace on the hall carpets, her misery complete.
The earl was on his knees at her side, rolling her to her back as that sky-blue gaze raked her from head to toe. “Have you injured yourself?”
Concern from him? She had not expected it.
“My pride has been grievously affected. Perhaps a mortal wound.”
A sudden grin transformed his features. “Has anyone ever remarked upon your aversion to remaining on your feet, my lady?”
That infernal dimple was back. Just the one. Her heart thumped.
Her knees went quivery, and she was not even standing.
She shoved all these inconvenient reactions aside. “Has anyone ever remarked upon your incessant rudeness, my lord? Your utter lack of manners?”
“I regret what I said.”
“Youmeantwhat you said,” she countered, for she believed in honesty above all else.
If Arthur had told her two years ago that there was no chance for them to marry and be happy, she would have respected his words. She never would have pinned a single hope upon him. Instead, he had professed his undying love, only to abandon her for the first American heiress who waved her Yankee dollars in his face.
And she now found herself lying on this dratted floor.
“I was angry and I spoke in haste.” The earl held out a hand to her. “Let me help you.”
But she was having none of his sudden urge to play the gallant. She slapped at his hand. “Go away. Have you not done enough damage?”
“Some of the damage done was yours, if you will recall, my lady.”
