They were both at the sideboard now. Edward was pouring himself another drink and then replaced the crystal stopper in the neck of the decanter. Isla snatched it out again and matched his measure.
“You wanted to see horses?” Edward said, scoffing. “And you didn’t recognize the master of the house whose stables you were in? Did not recognize the Duke of Wexford? Really?”
Isla did not like the implication that she was lying. She thudded her glass down with too much force and too little sober control. The drink sloshed over her hand, causing her to snatch itaway. Something caught her finger as she did though she barely noticed.
“I am not in the habit of lying. About anything. I don’t know what you’re accusing me of …”
“Of trying to ensnare a wealthy husband!” Edward roared.
Isla had not realized how close their argument had brought them. She stood inches from him. They were shouting in each other’s faces. She glared up at him, stomach roiling from too much whisky too quickly and too tight of a dress. It felt like it was forcing every drop of blood to her head and refusing any to her feet. She did the unthinkable.
She slapped him. Fury was tearing through her like a fire through dry bracken. Edward’s eyes bulged, his mouth fell open. Isla wanted to laugh, his expression of astonished anger was comical. Then she saw the smear of blood across his cheek. She looked at her hand and saw the dark pulsing line that marred her right index finger, trickling down across the palm of her hand to her wrist.
Edward’s eyes tracked down to her hand, and saw the blood. Then they both looked at the glass, from which a pool of whisky was spreading.
“I seem to have cut myself,” Isla said, faintly.
Her head spun. She swayed, fought to steady herself. Failed. Then her face was pressed against Edward’s chest, his arms about her waist, supporting her. She responded but only to refuse to allow him to bear her weight.
Her hands behaved instinctively, grabbing at the nearest support which was Edward’s slim waist. For a moment she clung to him and he to her. She breathed him in, feeling her head calming and the fire within her change from anger to … something else.
She pushed against him as soon as she realized how much she wanted to stand there in his arms. To be held. She wanted the house to disappear. The guests to evaporate. Time to cease. She wanted the burden that had weighed on her since the fateful night that she had knocked herself out in the stables downstairs to go. To be borne by Edward.
Her hands found his bare chest, palms pushing against him, fingers feeling his physique. It made her push harder which pushed her off balance. Edward tried to catch her, she caught the lapel of his dressing gown which fell open completely. The backs of Isla’s legs caught a chair and she sat down heavily, pulling the gown with her. Edward stumbled forward, hands catching him on the arm of the chair.
He loomed over her, face inches from hers, Lips inches from hers. Their eyes were locked. Time stretched. A knock at the door broke the moment.
“Edward, are you in there?” came a soft, feminine voice.
Isla recognized it. She had heard it at the dinner table. Edward’s head whipped around.
The woman he was meant for comes to see if his betrothal to me might not be a huge mistake. Perhaps I should go and let her in?
Edward put a finger to her lips, turning back to her with fierce eyes. She bit the finger, pressing down hard. He did not make a sound. They heard footsteps receding.
“She is gone. You can let go,” Edward said, a slight tightness of voice the only sound of pain.
She did and Edward stepped back. “There is water in the bath to wash that cut. And linen to staunch the bleeding. A single drop will ruin that dress.”
Isla rose, keeping her hand carefully away from the dress. She went behind the screen with Edward and after bathing the cut hepatted it with a folded piece of linen before tenderly pressing it against the cut.
“I am sorry for the glass,” Isla said.
“I have many.”
“And for drinking so much of your whisky.”
“That is harder to replace.”
There was the ghost of a smile on his lips but it melted away as swiftly as spring snow in the morning sun. He looked at her seriously and she looked back.
“I knew nothing about you until I woke up in one of your guest rooms,” Isla said.
Edward did not answer.
Chapter 8
The chapel smelled of old stone, dust and roses cut to sweeten what could not be improved. Edward stood in the chancel while a verger argued with a florist about lilies. Lady Eleanor joined the fray, entering the church by a side door. Candles waited like a small fleet, when they were lit the place would glitter, but for now it was a ship not yet under sail.
