More revelers had gathered beyond Letitia, attempting to peer around her. He saw the Countess of Milton’s wide eyes. Spied Lord Smithfield’s dark-eyed gaze roving the room over Letitia’s head whilst Lady Smithfield gasped in horror.
“Good heavens,” someone said from the hall to a chorus of shocked inhalations. “Anglesey has ravished Lady Isolde Collingwood.”
By morning, word of what had happened in this salon would have traveled across every inch of London. And in the way of gossip, it would be thoroughly, utterly wrong. But he would still have to pay the price, and so would Lady Isolde.
Biting out a more vicious curse, he stalked across the room.
“If you will not close the door,” he snapped at Letitia, losing his patience, “then I will.”
He reached the threshold. Exercising restraint, he settled his hands on her upper arms, where her skin was warm and smooth, flesh he had caressed dozens of times before. As gently as possible, he thrust her into the hall along with the gathering crowd.
Grimly, he snapped the portal closed in all their curious, malicious faces.
As Lady Isolde snored from the floor, a plan formulated itself in his mind. A bold plan. A bloody stupid one. But he was beyond the point of observing niceties after what had happened this evening. He had no choice left; Lady Isolde’s actions had already made certain she was ruined and he was the one responsible. If he was to be cast into the flames, he may as well make the most of it, however.
Zachary’s evil side hastily conjured visions of what Beatrice’s face would look like if he did. And therein was his answer. Decision made, he stalked to Lady Isolde’s side.
CHAPTER3
Agony.
Sheer.
Awful.
Skull-splitting.
Agony.
That was what Izzy woke to, along with blinding white searing her eye sockets and the impression she was not alone. To say nothing of the sickly sensation in her belly, one she recognized from a terrible illness she had suffered a few years ago and had blessedly not suffered since.
“I’m dying,” she moaned, clutching a pillow over her head to drown out the terrible brightness of the light and willing the nausea to go to the devil where it most assuredly belonged.
And what was the source of the terrible illumination haunting her chamber this morning, anyway?
She had no notion where it could be originating from. She always directed her curtains to be kept firmly closed, for she was a sensitive sleeper and required her room to be kept dark as a tomb. Even the slightest hint of sun streaming between the drapery at dawn was cause to disrupt her slumber. And since Arthur’s defection, she had been sleeping precious little, nothing more than a scant three or four hours an evening. Those hours were to be guarded with one’s life.
Wherewas Murdoch? Why had her trusted lady’s maid failed to make certain the curtains remained closed this early in the morning? She had just been fretting over Izzy’s lack of sleep the day before, suggesting they add a layer of curtains to the windows and thereby further protect Izzy’s illusion of darkness.
Nothing made sense. Not her ailments, not the incessant throbbing in her head, not the state of the light, not one whit of it.
She attempted to peer from beneath the pillow, swollen, aching eyes opening just a fraction. But it was too much. She snapped them closed. Izzy’s stomach roiled, threatening. Her head ached. Her entire body felt as if it had been trampled by an omnibus. Why, she felt as if she were spinning. Or the chamber was spinning. No, perhaps it was merely her head that was doing so.
Whatwasthis dreadful malaise? She must have somehow become terribly ill. She was hot, perspiration making the bedclothes stick to her, hair pins prodding her scalp, the roots of her hair positively aching, and…
Hair pins?
Something was not right. These should have been removed.
By God, was she still wearing her shoes? A quick stretch of her toes confirmed that she was. Izzy became aware of the misery radiating from that portion of her body in a fresh wave of pain. Her feet were pinched and cramped, and unless she was mistaken, blisters had formed on the backs of her heels and had subsequently rubbed open. Her flesh was burning.
Blinking blearily, she emerged from the pillow, trying to determine what had happened. She had a brief glimpse of mullioned windows before the light was too bright and her eyelids slammed closed. She threw her forearm over her face, blunting some of the ferocity.
Her sluggish mind worked at a feverish pace, forcing her to remember what had happened the evening before. Suddenly, everything hit her in a flash, rather like lightning streaking across the sky in a summer thunderstorm.
There had been a ball. Arthur had been there, along with the dreadful Miss Harcourt. She had been dripping in diamonds and despicably beautiful. Arthur had been swooning all over her, trotting at her side like a loyal puppy, eyes only for Miss Harcourt.
And Izzy? Why, she had found the champagne. Rather a lot of it. She recalled hiding in a corner where no one noticed her, a potted plant—a fern, perhaps—tickling her elbow. And then…blackness.
