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Isabel reared back, freeing her hand from his grasp. “Are you propositioning me to become your mistress?”
“Yes… I-I thought it clear. I am a married man, but this shouldn’t impact our relationship. You are a spinster now. You are free to do as you please.”
Isabel scoffed and fought her way out of the alcove. Stanhope grabbed her by the arm and slammed her back against the wall. Dull pain originated in the back of her head and back. Isabel tried to wiggle out of his hold.
“Do not walk away without thinking it through. Without giving us a chance,” he growled.
“You took our chance away when you walked away from our betrothal while I was the most vulnerable,” Isabel sneered into his face.
“I know you are angry, but if you think about it a little, you will understand. We can still be happy.”
Isabel found it difficult to breathe in the tiny alcove with Stanhope towering over her. Her face heated, and her breaths came out in short gulps. “Please unhand me.”
“There’s still passion between us. I know you feel it too.” Stanhope’s face descended toward her, and the next moment, his lips were on hers.
Isabel tried to twist away, but he took her face between his hands, opening his mouth over hers, and kissed her savagely. His mouth, wet and demanding, was moving over her lips, his tongue seeking entrance. Isabel whimpered in protest and shoved at his chest, but Stanhope didn’t budge.
The next thing happened in a flash. Isabel barely registered herself move.
She had grown up with four brothers, and they had taught her a lot. Isabel knew how to climb trees, swim in the lake, and, most importantly, how to fend off an attack.
Isabel raised her leg and stepped on Stanhope’s instep with the heel of her slipper. Stanhope yelped as he let her go, a grimace of pain and surprise on his face. Isabel didn’t wait for him to retaliate or apologize. She took off in the opposite direction.
“Isabel, wait!” Stanhope called behind her, but she didn’t even slow down.
Isabel picked up her skirts and hurried away from him. What a pompous cad! To kiss her—forcibly—when his wife was in the next room. His marriage might not be a happy one, but Isabel intended to be happily unattached to slimy lords.
There was a crash behind her as if someone hit the wall or a floor. Perhaps Stanhope had stumbled and fell. That would certainly teach him not to accost unsuspecting ladies in alcoves. Voices followed her, and Isabel hurried her steps. She was not about to be witnessed with Stanhope. That way lay an unpardonable scandal.
She was so adamant about getting away that she didn’t pay attention to what she was running toward. Her mind was in complete disarray. And that was the reason that she only realized at the last moment that she was approaching the ballroom doors.
It wouldn’t do to show up in the ballroom winded and out of breath. Her hair must be terribly disordered, too. Isabel made a sharp left turn into an adjoining corridor and… collided with the tall, broad form of a man.
The man didn’t anticipate a tackle, so they both fell over in an undignified heap. Their limbs tangled as Isabel’s skirts weighed them both down. Isabel sputtered, fighting to get off the floor.
“Miss, please stop moving. You are crushing my… the most valuable parts of male anatomy,” the man beneath Isabel stated in the driest of tones.
“I am trying to get off you! I would appreciate a little help,” Isabel answered irritably.
“Your hair is in my face, I can’t even—” The man didn’t finish his sentence, and whatever he was about to say would forever stay a mystery because, at that moment, the doors to the ballroom opened, and light footsteps alerted them that someone had stepped into the hall.
“For shame!” The voice of a withered old lady sounded like a whip to Isabel’s ears. “During the ball and right in the hall!”
Isabel whimpered as she tried to get up. The gentleman beneath her took her by the waist and easily set her aside. Isabel scrubbed the hair away from her face, her neck growing more heated with every moment. Her legs were uncovered to her knees, and she hastily covered them with her skirts.
The Dowager Marchioness of Somerville was still sputtering offendedly with her companion, Lady Crosby. Evie appeared at their side, followed by her husband, the Viscount St. Clare.
Perfect. All she needed was more people to witness her disgrace.
St. Clare took in the tableau with raised brows, then whistled low.
“I suppose our work here is done, Vane,” he said cheerfully. “Congratulations, we’ve just found you a wife.”
* * *
Richard Lewis, Viscount Gage, paced the floor of the duchess’s library like a tiger restlessly circling his cage. Only he wasn’t circling the room. He was walking a straight line between the two camps that had formed in the library.
On the far side from the doors sat Isabel with her brother Adam, while on the other side of the hearth Evie, St. Clair, and the Marquess of Vane—the man Isabel had run into—discussed something in hushed tones.
