This, Isolde thought with clarity, is going to be in the scandal sheets tomorrow.
It was that thought, rather than anything else, that was the final straw.
“No, thank you, Lord Raisin,” she answered, voice clipped, not bothering to speak in a hushed tone. “As you can see, I haven’t finished my ice, or my tea. If you don’t wish to join us, I think perhaps you should leave. You are shedding water all over the floor, and someone is bound to slip.”
Lord Raisin blinked. “I’m surprised to find you here, Lady Isolde. In this company.”
The viscount stiffened at such an obvious insult. Amelia, who kept glancing from face to face in search of clues as to what was going on, wilted a little.
“That is entirely inappropriate,” Isolde snarled, taken aback at the words coming out of her own mouth. “I think this has gone far enough, Lord Raisin. Good day to you.”
She pointedly turned back to her tea. Opposite, the viscount slid back into his seat. He seemed to be hiding a smile.
“Well,” Lord Raisin said, after an uncomfortable pause. “If you aren’t ready to leave, I suppose I shall go.”
“Yes, I think that’s for the best,” Viola piped up.
“I’ll see you on Friday, then,” Lord Raisin continued, ignoring Viola. “For Vauxhall. I’ll pick you at six, shall I?”
He pointedly waited for Isolde to reply. She sighed.
“Yes, at six, Lord Raisin.”
Her ice had begun to melt, losing its shape – it had been shaped as a bunch of grapes – and turning into a miserable little puddle at the bottom of her dish. The proximity to the ice had cooled her tea, too.
Just my luck.
Lord Raisin gave a last, irritated sigh, and stamped out. They watched him splash across the road and climb into a carriage waiting for him. Gradually, noise and chatter returned to the tearoom, but Isolde’s humiliation did not subside. People were still staring at Isolde and the viscount with unabashed curiosity. It didn’t bother him, but it certainly bothered her.
She’d lost her appetite.
“I… I think we ought to go,” she said quietly, glancing at Viola. “I really should get home.”
The viscount nodded. He rose to his feet as Isolde and Viola got up, and when she paused at the door, glancing back across the tearoom, he was still on his feet, watching her go.
Chapter Seventeen
Clayton lowered himself back into his seat, staring at the door as if he thought Isolde might come back in.
She didn’t, of course.
Amelia, with the elasticity of youth, had forgotten about the uncomfortable meeting already, and was eating her half-forgotten ice quite happily.
Biting back a sigh, Clayton rubbed his temples. He was getting a headache.
“I like Lady Isolde,” Amelia volunteered, after a moment or two.
So do I, he thought, but contented himself with an encouraging smile.
“I think you should marry her as soon as possible.”
It took a moment or two for the words to sink in, but once they did, Clayton flinched, jerking upright.
“What did you say, Amelia?”
“I said,” Amelia answered, quite unperturbed, “that you should marry Lady Isolde as soon as you can. I bet lots of gentlemen want to marry her.”
He cleared his throat. “Amelia, I’m not sure what sort of gossip you’ve been listening to, or where you’ve gotten this idea, but…”
