In truth, to say they hadscarcelymoved was generous. They had not responded to hers at all. It ought to have been necessary for a man to excel at the art of kissing before he was deemed a scandalous rakehell. Unless orgies did not involve kissing… She supposed kisses may not be consideredcomme il fautin such circumstances.
“Because I do not kiss innocents,” Anglesey proclaimed, his much-considered lips twisting in a wry curl. “Nor do I kiss women who will not recall their actions on the morrow when they wake to an aching head and a mouth that tastes of sour wine and regrets. Believe me, I have been in that despicable position enough times to understand the necessity of the courtesy I pay you, Lady Isolde.”
“How novel. You are pretending to possess honor.” She frowned at him, wondering if she needed spectacles. His face was deuced blurry just now. She closed first one eye, then the other, trying to concentrate on his arrow-straight nose. “You needn’t, you know. I am all too aware no man has any.”
Except for Papa. He was noble and honorable and caring, in his way. Her brother…well, perhaps Royston had a modicum of honor. Her sister’s new husband Wycombe was a different matter. A nobler man was not to be found in existence. Which made it odd indeed that he was friends with a man who had the reputation of the earl.
Anglesey had moved with leonine grace to stand before her and once more take her elbow in a gentle hold as she swayed. It was the dratted evening shoes, she was certain of it. Their heel was a bit higher than necessary, presenting her arch at a graceful curve, and it had set her off-balance. Her pride had made her don the new footwear, knowing Arthur would be in attendance. She had wanted him to see her and long for her, to admire her as she whisked about the ballroom with every gentleman in attendance.
Instead, she had stood miserably in a corner, arm tickled by a potted plant, watching as Miss Harcourt took command of the entire fête. The dreadful thief of betrotheds had swirled around the gleaming parquet floor beneath the brilliant chandelier, diamonds twinkling as everyone else merely watched her thorough conquering of London society.
Her lip quivered and more hot tears slipped down her cheeks, heightening her humiliation. Her heart was incapable of healing. Nothing remained but ash, and yet oh how painful, to be confronted by the evidence of his thorough betrayal. Where was more champagne when one needed it?
Anglesey’s sky-blue eyes searched her face. “Whatever is causing your doldrums this evening—whomever he may be—he is not worth it.”
Was she that obvious in her misery?
On a sniffle, she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “No man is worthy of my tears.”
Especially not one named Arthur Penhurst.
She ought to have thrown the potted plant at his head.
How incredibly satisfying it would have been to watch the dirt raining around Miss Harcourt. Better yet, in her hair or besmirching the pale gold of her silk gown.
“You are right, my dear. He is not.” Anglesey’s handkerchief had reemerged from his coat, and the damp linen passed over her cheeks in the barest of touches. “Remain here and I shall fetch your sister to offer you aid. I find myself uniquely unprepared for soothing maudlin feminine concerns.”
Maudlin feminine concerns.
What a pretty way to refer to a thoroughly broken heart. But that was not the problem.
“Do not seek out my sister,” she said, for if he did, he would take with him the already trifling chance she had for creating a scandal.
Would Arthur care if she were found in a passionate embrace with the Earl of Anglesey? It was unlikely. Was she going to attempt it anyway? Yes.
Before he could answer, she launched herself at him again. Perhaps not her best plan. Her impractical evening shoe caught in her hem and she stumbled, falling into his chest. The earl was quick but not quick enough.
He caught her in his arms and toppled backward.
The two of them fell together, Izzy landing atop him with so much force, the breath rushed from her lungs. The awkwardness of their movement—Izzy twisting to attempt to remain standing, the earl struggling to keep them from tumbling down—coupled with the silk of her gown made her slide up his body.
Which meant that the decadent cut of her decolletage, which had also been chosen with a keen eye toward making Arthur jealous, was doing her no favors. For as she came to her senses, she discovered the Earl of Anglesey’s face was firmly pressed between her breasts. Her cheek, meanwhile, was crushed firmly to the carpets, causing a stinging abrasion to the sensitive skin.
And her bosom was tickling. Those wicked sinner’s lips were moving over her bare flesh. Speaking.
“Mmdy Mzowde ifyouplems…”
Making no sense.
She could not discern a single word he had uttered.Oh dear.She had not maimed him, had she? Had her bubbies rendered him concussed? It seemed absurd. She ought not to laugh, but she could not seem to quell the uncontrollable rush of levity bursting forth. Her laughter was loud, breathless. She laughed until new tears were streaming from the corners of her eyes.
Laughed as his hands tightened on her waist and he hauled her down his body until they were face-to-face. Until his handsome countenance was directly below hers, those bright eyes sparkling up at her.
“You are utterly mad,” he pronounced.
She would have agreed had she been able to banish the hysterical laughter bubbling forth. She was mad. Arthur had made her so. Or mayhap the champagne had…
But instead of agreeing, she simply sealed her lips over his to stop her giggles.
