Curse my fair complexion. If I had lovely olive skin, like James, nobody would ever see me blush.
“You may not say so,” she answered, trying to sound stern. It did not help that her voice still fluttered in her throat, like a trapped butterfly. She sounded weak. She sounded wanting.
The music reached a fever pitch, and the viscount swung her around so fast her thin dancing slippers left the floor altogether. She clung to him, more out of necessity than anything, feeling the strong swell of muscles under his jacket.
What was this place? Feeling unbearably dizzy, Isolde’s head whipped around, trying to spot a familiar landmark or face. Where was James? Where were her parents? Was Viola even here?
A curious blur of activity whirled around them, and Isolde could make out no details. It was the strangest sensation. The only real thing in the room appeared to be the man himself, andshe had the oddest feeling that if she released him, if the dance ended, if he let her go, she would fall forever.
“Well, then,” the viscount said, head bending down towards her, “I shall say nothing at all.”
He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her. Isolde could not move. Breathing was a thing of the past. She could only think of the viscount’s face, so close to hers that her eyes were blurring, and his lips…
“My lord…” she began feebly, but he only grinned again.
“Please, my dear. Call me Clayton.”
Isolde shot upright with a strangled yelp, tangled in her own bedsheets. She was breathing hard, an unpleasant sheen of sweat over her temples and trailing down her neck. The pillows behind her were pressed quite flat, and the sun was up, streaming through the curtains.
It was a dream. Of course it was a dream. Nothing but a woman’s wild dreams could conjure up something so ridiculous.
Viscount Henley and me, Isolde thought, swinging back the covers. What a notion.
The man had been passably kind to her, and there had been a moment at Lady Wrenwood’s garden party when she’d thought…
Stop it. Stop it at once. He’s not a man to be trusted, even if he were not a fiendish rake. Which he is. Not just a rake, but a Rake. With a capital R.
On that invigorating thought, Isolde did her best to put the dream to the back of her mind and concentrated on dressing for the day.
It wasn’t as if she were going to see the irritating Viscount anytime soon.
Or, as his dream-self had so seductively requested she call him, Clayton.
***
Lady Maria Bell was the one who had come up with the idea of setting up a circulating library. A great many of her friends – Isolde included – had contributed books to get it all started. Now, with their regular subscribers, Lady Bell was able to buy all sorts of new books herself. It was said to be one of the largest – and most fashionable – libraries in London.
For now, of course.
By the time Isolde’s carriage pulled up outside the neat little salon, the tension was already draining from her body.
The salon was rented by Lord Bell, a cheerful gentleman who entirely supported his wife’s literary passions and concentrated on filling his part of the library with non-fiction and Improving books. Thankfully, he did not believe in the modern idea that novels would render ladies unable to distinguish between real life and fantasy.
Maria greeted her at the door.
“Dearest Izzy! It has been an eternity since we last met. I was under the impression that the commencement of the new Season would deter you from our gathering.”
“I’ve come to bring back that delightful novel you recommended,” Isolde responded, holding up her copy of Pride and Prejudice. “I finished it in one sitting last night – I stayed up until the early hours to get to the end!”
“Excellent! What did you think of it?”
“I loved it,” Isolde confessed. “I shall borrow it again, I think. I could not have told you from the start that Elizabeth Bennet would marry Mr. Darcy, it was quite a shock. Not by the end, of course. And Mr. Wickham…”
“Hold, hold,” Maria said, holding up a hand and laughing. “Have you forgotten about the literary evening here at the salon? It’s barely four days away. We’ll be discussing your beloved Prideand Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility too. We might as well.”
“Of course, of course,” Isolde said, laughing. “I shall save it for then.”
“I look forward to it,” Maria answered, dropping a wink. “Now, in you go, and find some new treasures to read!”
