Bloody, goddamned hell.
The portent bloomed into a pall.
He was not sure which was worse, that Lady Isolde was still lying firmly atop him, the massive skirts of her appallingly garish gown over them like the sail of a doomed ship, or that Letitia had begun to cause a commotion.
Lady Isolde’s laughter at last faded. “Yes, it is me. Or, at least, I thought it was me.” She looked down at Zachary, a mystified expression on her countenance. “Forgive me, Anglesey. I had no intention of—hiccup—ruining your evening. Very likely, this was a—hiccup—terrible idea. Just as terrible as falling in love.”
“On that, we can agree,” he growled at her. “Now do kindly get off me before the scandal we have caused grows any worse.”
Already, the sound of startled exclamations could be heard coming from the hall, rising above the far-flung strains of the orchestra. It was only a matter of time before this debacle progressed from the problem stage to irreversible, life-altering error.
Zachary had spent the last eight years a happy bachelor, and he had no intention of altering his state.
Belatedly, Lady Isolde began wrestling with her skirts, and he could not be certain if she was weeping or laughing, but regardless, this new sound was about as pleasant as the color of her gown. Sobbing it was, he supposed. What a piteous mess. He would have sympathized with her if she were not currently on the brink of ruining the rest of his damned life.
“Off,” he repeated, grasping her waist and hauling her person from his.
He disliked manhandling females, but there was no other recourse. The stubborn chit was either too drunk or too awash in misery to realize she needed to stand and attempt to gather her dignity.
She rolled to the carpet, landing on her back. The hem of her gown had lifted to reveal evening shoes tied at the ankles, embroidered stockings, and the frilled ends of her drawers. She remained where she was, gazing up at the ceiling with a dazed expression he did not doubt was unfeigned. How many bottles of champagne had the woman drained before stumbling her way to this salon? And whythissalon, when she had her choice of so many other damned rooms?
Why the place where he had chosen to hide himself?
“You are a despicable scoundrel,” Letitia accused.
Fortune was ever a fickle bitch.
“Up,” he ordered Lady Isolde curtly as he rose to his feet himself, his previous sympathy having turned into irritation.
But Lady Isolde was adrift in her own world now, continuing her…
Had she fallen asleep?
He peered down at her, giving her elegant evening shoes a nudge. “My lady?”
She emitted a slight snore.
And that was when he understood, with the certainty a prisoner must face when he enters gaol for the first time, that everything was about to change.
“I knew you were a rakehell, but this is…unprecedented,” Letitia was saying, twin patches of angry color on her cheeks.
He turned his attention to her fully, for Lady Isolde was decidedly beyond the point of reason. A stunning redhead, Letitia was dressed in a creamy silk affair that put her curves on advantageous display. He knew from experience that she saved her ostentatiousness for the bed chamber. And the salon. Though, sadly, he would no longer have the opportunity to experience the latter.
“It is not at all what it seems,” he tried, raking a hand through his hair and straightening his coat. He did enjoy Letitia’s company, aside from her insatiable needs as a lover. She was intelligent and witty and she made him laugh, which was a talent a dwindling number of people possessed. If he could explain to her, perhaps all was not lost. “Lady Isolde is…ill. She swooned, and unfortunately, she landed atop me. I was merely seeking to give her aid.”
“I know what I saw,” Letitia countered, her eyes glittering with fury. “She waskissingyou.”
Would it help or hinder his cause to point out that Lady Isolde’s kisses had been one-sided?
As if to mock him, another small snore rose from the carpets.
He held Letitia’s gaze, hoping she would understand and knowing she would not. “Lady Isolde hit her head when she fell, and I fear she is still quite confused.”
As excuses went, it was pathetically weak. He ought to have summoned a better story. But he was decidedly unaccustomed to a drunken lady falling atop him and plying him with kisses while the woman he had been attempting to engage in a hasty shag appeared mere moments later.
And bringing an audience.
Fuck.
