Page 96 of The Detective Duke

Fucking hell, it was.

With great reluctance, he rose, extracting a handkerchief from his coat as he did so. Although he did his damnedest to maintain a black reputation, he was not entirely heartless. A sobbing woman was no bloody good under any circumstances, and particularly not when an eager lover would be meeting him here for an assignation in approximately ten minutes.

Lady Isolde’s back was to him, and she was too consumed by whatever doldrums were afflicting her to hear his approach. Her ebony hair was twisted into some sort of coil, her shoulders shaking. Her sob was loud and low and keening. This was deuced uncomfortable. Was she the sort of female who went bosky and then turned maudlin? Had she gone mad?

As he reached her, a modicum of remembrance hit him. She had been jilted recently, had she not? By some lesser son who was marrying an American heiress. Ah, yes. He recalled now. The heiress had been present this evening, dripping in gems and holding court as if she were queen.

Gently, he placed a hand on Lady Isolde’s elbow.

She whirled about with a gasp, pressing a hand to her heart. “Good heavens, sir! What are you doing in here? I… I believed myself alone.”

Tears glistened on her cheeks and clumped on her dark lashes. Despite the low glow of a lone lamp, he could discern the pink mottling her otherwise pale throat. Her nose, too, was red.

He offered her the handkerchief. “Perhaps you have need of this, Lady Isolde.”

“I am not…” Her words trailed off as she hiccupped. “Crying.”

Belying her words, another fat tear slipped down her cheek.

“Of course you are not,” he agreed, catching the tear with the scrap of linen himself.

She swatted at his hand as if it were an errant bee, buzzing about her head. “Please l-leave me alone.”

He tucked the damp handkerchief back into his coat. Leaving her alone would not do. Letitia would be here soon. He was still very much looking forward to the wicked promises she had whispered in his ear being fulfilled.

“Shall I fetch your sister?” he offered, trying to be helpful. “Perhaps a discreet exit from this affair is in order.”

“Why should I wish to flee as if I h-have done something wrong?” she asked, listing to her left.

His hands shot out in haste, landing on her waist and keeping her from toppling sideways into a table lined with a marble bust and other bric-a-brac. “Steady, my lady. You appear to have indulged in too much champagne. There is no shame in it; I have partaken more than my fair allotment on many occasions.”

The most recent of which had been the day he had learned that his two elder brothers had both been drowned in the same day, making him the Earl of Anglesey. His drunken stupor had lasted for a full three days.

“I daresay you have, my lord. Your reputation predates you.” She blinked, an adorable expression of befuddlement clouding her features. “Er,precedesyou.”

“I am certain it does.”

He paused, struggling to think of what step, if any, he ought to take next.

Likely, he should remove his hands from her person. This was his good friend, the Duke of Wycombe’s, sister-in-law for Christ’s sake. And yet, the warm curves of her beneath his hands felt strangely pleasant.

Dimly, he realized the reason. The pliant contours were unimpeded by boning. Lady Isolde was not wearing a corset. Scandalous. But then, perhaps that also explained the awkward fitting of her gown, which was a truly unfortunate shade of yellow silk, bedecked by an abundance of daisies and other flora. She looked as if she had wandered into a meadow and rolled about.

“Your reputation,” she said, eyes going wide, punctuating the two words with yet another hiccup. “Yes, that is precisely what I need.”

She needed his reputation?

What the devil was she—

Before he could even complete the thought, Lady Isolde’s lips were on his.