He snorted derisively, and one corner of his mouth curled into an evil dimple. “I believe I’ll take my leave now. You’re about to let that tongue of yours loose on me. And I’ve had quite enough of it for one day, thank you, my lady.”
Her grip on the candleholder tightened, and her other hand balled into a fist. Pompous lout. “Abysmally attractive, indeed! At least, I do not corrupt naïve young friends and stumble home in the middle of the night slinging insults at his sister.”
He appeared to laugh at her and turned to go.
In a firmer tone, she added, “If you think you’ve had a taste of my tongue today, just wait until tomorrow.”
He stopped in his tracks and wheeled around, bearing down on her. “On second thought, I don’t believe I’ll wait until tomorrow.” It startled her when he clasped her shoulders and covered her mouth with his. He kissed her soundly, chastening her tongue quite thoroughly with his. Although, as chastening goes, it was rather pleasant. She failed to breathe. When he let go, she gasped. The candle, miraculously, remained in her hand. Although, it wobbled uncertainly.
He said huskily, “You’re right. I must be foxed.”
She couldn’t think. She put it down to lack of air. Foxed? This is what he says after a kiss like that? Dratted man. She would have slapped him if he hadn’t eased so efficiently out of range. “If you think I will accept ‘I’m foxed’ by way of an apology for this scandalous behavior, you are sorely mistaken.”
“It was not an apology.” He accented each syllable. “Simply a rationalization. I never apologize.” He turned and headed straight for the door without so much as a by-your-leave.
Izzie fumed at his back as he disappeared into the blackness of the hallway. “Wretch.”
She closed the door on Robert’s room and returned to her own with renewed zeal for her sewing. The sooner she brought Lord Pointy-Nose-But-Has-Thirty-Thousand-A-Year to the sticking point, the sooner she could escape Lord St. Rude-Uncouth-And-Overbearing. She decided to make the neckline of her gown a full inch lower than she’d originally planned. No more shilly-shallying about.
Not more than a half hour later, she heard scratching on her door. Aha! The wretch has come crawling back to apologize properly. Well, she wouldn’t accept. She hurried to open the door, planning to ring a peal over his head he wouldn’t soon forget. Her spirits fell when she saw it was a sleepy servant, his white wig askew.
“His lordship said to bring you these oil lamps, lest ye go blind stitching in the dark.”
“Stitching? How did he—” She stopped and took the lamps from the servant. “Thank you. You may tell Lord St. Evert that he is mistaken. I am not sewing at this hour. However, I do enjoy reading late into the evening, and therefore, I will accept his offering as a gesture of apology.”
The fellow glanced pointedly past her at the sewing strewn across the small escritoire.
Izzie sniffed loudly. “Don’t be impertinent. You will tell him exactly what I said.”
He bowed. “Yes, mum.”
She lit the lamps immediately and blew out her guttering candles. Pleased at the bright circles of light that illuminated her handiwork, she whispered, “Thank you.” Although, she was uncertain whether she was thanking Lord St. Evert or the heavenly beings who, on rare occasions, made good things happen.
She bent back to her sewing, but before long, there was another scratch at the door. This time she approached it more warily. The same bedraggled servant stood in the hallway. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but his lordship has sent me with a message for ye.”
“I do wish you would stop referring to him as his lordship. He is not a duke.” She tilted her head, holding the edge of the doorframe as she waited. “Yes? What is the message?”
“He says”—the befuddled fellow cleared his throat—“he says to tell the young lady, balderdash and folderol!’”
“Balderdash?”
“Yes, m’lady. That’s it. Balderdash. And I was to add that it weren’t no apology. His lordship waxed rather coarse on the subject. Mentioned he’d rather burn in hell and a few other words what might be best left unsaid, long as you get the meaning.”
“Oh, I take his meaning.”
“Very good then.” He bowed and tried to hurry away.
“Wait.”
He turned around and trudged slowly back to her door, reluctantly awaiting her instruction.
“Folderol?” She repeated, frowning.
“Yes, miss. I believe he was referring to the bit about you reading rather than sew—”
“I know to what he referred. You tell him...” But she could not think of how to respond.
The footman shifted impatiently from leg to leg.
Izzie tapped her finger against her lip, cogitating, and at last, she smiled. She knew exactly how best to punish the rascal. “You may tell Lord St. Evert that I do not wish to be disturbed any further tonight, for I am going to sleep, perchance to dream. And what will I be dreaming of? You may tell him that I will be dreaming of the next time I might give him a proper taste of my tongue.”
The servant stared at her warily.
She sniffed and corrected her posture. “Be sure you emphasize the word proper.”
“As you wish, m’lady.”
And that, she thought as she closed the door, ought to keep his lordship awake and pondering the direction of her meaning for quite some time. But neither did she go easily to her sleep, for she found her waking mind fixated upon the very dreams with which she had threatened Lord St. Provoking.
6
Pattern Card of Perfection
Lord Pointy-Nose called on Lady Elizabeth the following afternoon. Lord Horton, she corrected herself. She must stop referring to him as Pointy-Nose in her mind. It would be disastrous if it happened to slip out in conversation. She scrambled through her wardrobe trying to find something suitable that he had not already seen, and almost didn’t hear
