“Why not?”
Why not? Why not? Because I took on a hellish wager against her, which would ruin her reputation and make her a laughingstock and destroy her trust in men forever. In anyone, for that matter.
Because I am an awful man, a true rake, who doesn’t deserve a woman like Lady Isolde. I don’t even deserve a glance from her.
He couldn’t say any of this, however. Not when he was Eliza’s lifeline, her last line of defence against her husband. Not now. She needed to trust him.
“It’s complicated,” he said tightly. “I have it on good authority she’s soon to be engaged to Lord Raisin.”
Eliza glanced over at the dance floor. “Are you certain of that? She appears to harbour a strong aversion towards the gentleman.”
He followed her gaze, just in time to see Isolde wrench herarm away from Lord Raisin. A few taut words were exchanged, and then she turned on her heel and went striding into the crowd. The man made as if to follow but got trapped in the influx of new dancers stepping onto the dance floor. By the time he got free, Isolde was gone.
Clayton had seen where she went, though. She strode across the paved courtyard, passing the pavilions without a second glance, towards a line of dark trees. There were small lanterns indicating narrow walkways there, off the beaten track and artfully shadowed. They were not really the sort of place a woman should walk alone, certainly not a lady, but Isolde dived into them without a second thought, and disappeared from view.
Clayton was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, pushing back his chair. It scraped on the stone.
“I… excuse me,” he managed weakly. Eliza eyed him curiously, no doubt already guessing what he planned to do. “I’ll be back presently. Feel free to order food and drinks – as I mentioned, I shall cover all expenses this evening.”
Not waiting for a reply, Clayton left the pavilion and took off after Lady Isolde. Soon, the trees and undergrowth swallowed him up, too.
Chapter Twenty
It took a moment or two for Clayton’s eyes to adjust to the gloom after the brightness of the Vauxhall pavilions. The pathway, as far as he could tell, ran parallel to the main walkway, albeit narrower and with high trees and bushes hemming them in. There were no lanterns or braziers here, and only the soft glow of the crescent moon cast any light at all on the pathway, weaving through the entwined branches above their heads.
The path was narrow, and the woodland grew thickly on one side. On the other side, only a thin bush separated them from the rest of the visitors, and chinks of light and laughter made their way through.
He caught a glimpse of Isolde up ahead, her pale dress glowing.
“Isolde, wait!”
He’d spoken louder than he’d intended, but not loud enough to carry over to the people on the other side.
Even so, Isolde stopped dead.
Too late to back out now, he thought, and began to jog forward. She didn’t turn around, and he stopped with about five feet of space between them.
“Isolde…” he began, but she shook her head.
“What do you want, Lord Henley?”
“My name is Clayton.”
She flinched at that. “I know what your name is. Why have you followed me here? It’s not proper for us to be alone here.”
“It’s not proper for you to be here alone, either.”
She turned, slowly, and he saw that she had been trying to regain her composure. Hands folded in front of her waist, she met his eye evenly.
“What do you want, Clayton?”
The sound of his name from her lips sent a shiver down his spine. Clayton swallowed hard, trying to focus on what he needed to say.
It was not going to be a pleasant conversation. The truth seldom was.
“You seemed a little distressed earlier.”
She drew in a breath. “If this is about us not accepting Lady Wrenwood’s invitation…”
