Izzy was in a panic.
Marrying Anglesey loomed before her, and beyond that, a lifetime. While she had spent the last few weeks preparing for their nuptials in a haze of duty, knowing she was doing what she must to spare her beloved family any further scandal, her misgivings had finally become too loud to ignore. Tomorrow, they were going to be departing for Staffordshire, where they would be married in a week’s time.
And that was why she was currently ensconced in the earl’s drawing room, awaiting his return. Although she had donned a veil for the occasion of secreting herself through London, she was reasonably certain the butler had not been fooled. He had not asked a single question, merely seen her settled in the room that seemed, as she paced its confines during the wait, rather unlike what she would have expected. It was filled with floral paintings and chintz couches and every available surface was lined with bric-a-brac and flowers and gilt pictures, including several of Lady Anglesey herself.
Indeed, it seemed as if the entire chamber was the handiwork of the widow.
Likely, it was.
The thought brought an unwelcome surge of irritation. Thankfully, Lady Anglesey was either not at home this evening, or she had not been made aware of Izzy’s presence. For the past half hour, Izzy had been expecting the acid-tongued widow to burst over the threshold in a swirl of black silk and demand she leave at once. However, her wait thus far had been uneventful. Boring, it was true. But blessedly undisturbed by the wrath of the woman she had no doubt would become her nemesis were she to go through with the marriage.
She could not go through with the marriage.
Misery made her stomach tighten into a knot. All she had ever wanted was to be Arthur’s wife. To love him, raise their children. She was not fashioned in her father’s mold like Ellie was. Izzy had never been interested in inventions or electricity or anything to do with science. Instead, she had always yearned for love, sacrificing her interest in antiquities when Arthur had asked it of her.
But although Arthur was going to be marrying Miss Harcourt next month and there was no hope of her ever having that long-held dream with him, marrying Anglesey felt, in a small way, like a death. It felt like the end of that dream in the worst possible way.
Although he had shown her every kindness in the last few weeks, Izzy could not shake the feeling that becoming his countess was a mistake. A dreadful one. She scarcely knew him. Her heart was still bruised. And Anglesey had been forced into this entire betrothal because of her reckless actions. If he did not resent her now, she had no doubt he would one day…
“Izzy?”
Her heart gave a start and she inhaled sharply at the interruption, which was expected and yet nonetheless surprising all at once. She had been so caught up in her madly whirring thoughts that she had not realized she was no longer alone. The earl’s familiar, deep voice had her whirling to face him as he strode over the threshold, the door snapping closed at his back.
He was tall and commanding, his golden hair shining in the gaslights, dressed impeccably in evening wear, and something inside her—that weakest part—warmed. There was no denying the effect Anglesey had on her; but she also did not doubt it was the same effect he had upon every lady. He was a beautiful man.
“My lord,” she greeted, pressing a hand to her still-thumping heart. “I did not hear you.”
He closed the distance between them, his long-limbed strides bringing him to her in a scant few seconds. “Is something amiss?”
His blue-eyed gaze searched hers, the worry on his countenance and in his voice undeniable. Concern for her? Why did the prospect warm her even more than his magnetic presence already did? She chased the unsettling feelings.
“Nothing is amiss,” she hastened to reassure him, and then realized what an utter lie that was. “That is, something is amiss. I do not think we should get married.”
His brows rose. “You have ventured to my home,alone, to tell me we should not get married?”
She winced at his emphasis on the wordaloneand tried to steel herself against the pleasant citrus-and-soap-and-musk scent of him. “I was accompanied by a groom, and I brought one of Wycombe’s carriages. You need not make it sound as if I hired a hack or rode in an omnibus.”
“Do your sister and Wycombe know where you have gone?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted.
“You are trouble, aren’t you, darling?” he asked softly, reaching out to brush a stray tendril of hair from her cheek.
She could not lie, the endearment issued in that silken baritone of his blunted the sting of his observation. And anyway, he was not wrong. Shewastrouble. She had certainly caused the two of them endless amounts of it. His touch, whisper-smooth and hot, performed odd feats upon her insides.
Melted them, ever so slightly.
“You do not have to marry me,” she blurted, taking a step in retreat.
His nearness was doing nothing to quell her wildly beating heart, and she was rather dismayed to acknowledge it was no longer her momentary surprise causing her discomfiture, but Anglesey himself.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day when I was determined to see myself married and everyone else was equally hell-bent upon accomplishing the opposite.” A slow half grin kicked up the corner of his mouth. “I am beginning to wonder whether you are all privy to information I am not.”
She blinked. “You have been counseled not to marry me by another?”
“By two others, now. You make three.”
A second, feminine voice came from the threshold to the drawing room, interrupting, “Zachary, please, if you will but listen, I wished to also speak with you about Barlowe Park—oh. Forgive me, my lord.”
