Fallen (14 page)

Perhaps she was not so inconsolable after all.

As Julian rode closer, Tristan snorted irritably at Eric's brown gelding. Julian patted his mount's neck sympathetically, his own irritation undeniable.

Izzy blinked at him, clearly surprised by his approach. Her smile began, only to be cut short as she saw his expression.

Well, what if he was scowling? A man ought to do a bit of frowning when he found his fiancée alone with another man—even his best friend.

"Blackworth," Eric said, stepping closer to Izzy.

His friend's protective behavior only blackened Julian's mood. "Stretton."

He dismounted and stepped forward. Reaching out, he physically removed Izzy from Eric's possession. At her sharp intake of breath, Julian paused to examine the small hand in his clasp.

In the palm of her glove was a small tear, stained with a spot of blood.

"I caught my hat brim when we went under the arbor, and a thorn…" Izzy's explanation was a bit breathless, but her eyes were wide and sincere.

Beyond them down the path, Julian could see two of Eric's sisters working Izzy's bonnet free of the rose arbor. Of course, this was all innocent. He didn't know why he had thought otherwise, except for the insolent gleam in Eric's eyes, and Izzy's pretty blush.

Curiously, those thoughts only made his mood blacker.

"Clearly you've had enough for the moment. Let me help you mount." He tossed her up onto Lizzie and took the reins from Eric's hands. "I'll escort her home."

"Julian, I do not wish to go home. We've only just arrived. It is a scratch, nothing more."

"Yes, Blackworth. 'Tis a scratch, nothing more." Eric grinned.

Julian mounted Tristan and handed Izzy her reins. "She is leaving."

Eric's smile faded. "She wants to stay."

A frustrated noise made Julian turn, and he saw Izzy rolling her eyes.

"
She
is right here, and she will do as she pleases," she said tartly. She turned her horse, then shot them a wicked smile over one shoulder. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I intend to beat you both to the end of Rotten Row."

With that, Izzy's little mare erupted into a full gallop. Lizzie streaked ahead, dodging in and out of the paths of equestrians and pedestrians alike, raising uproarious havoc down every inch of the track. Julian's heart leapt into his throat.

She was going to die.

"She is going to win!" Eric was on his horse, fast on Izzy's heels. His laughter floated back to Julian, and almost without willing it, Julian had urged Tristan to follow.

The stallion's legs ate the distance between him and Eric swiftly. Julian glanced at his friend, but Eric showed none of Julian's alarm. In fact, he was laughing so hard he was having trouble staying horsed.

Grimly, Julian pressed on. He had to stop Izzy before she—

She won.

Julian pulled Tristan up sharply, unable to believe that Izzy sat safely on her blowing mare, smiling with prim triumph.

"I win."

Julian shook his head, his fear turning to weak-kneed amusement. "You cheated," he accused with a laugh as Eric raced by with a whoop of laughter. His friend began to circle back as Izzy answered.

"Not so. I won, and you lost. You owe me a boon."

"A boon, you say? I fear to ask."

"You will take me to Vauxhall tonight. I have heard so many lively stories about the place, and I truly want to go."

"The Pleasure Gardens are no place for a respectable girl to be found."

"Ah, but since I am neither a girl, nor particularly respectable, I wish to go."

But she would indeed soon be respectable, far too respectable for such pursuits. Once she wed him, there could be no more wild races through Hyde Park, nor tawdry excursions to Vauxhall.

Eric rode back to them, holding his side and grinning. The challenging gleam was gone from his eye, and Julian was glad to feel none of the tension that had been between them before.

"She wants to go to Vauxhall," he informed Eric.

"Well, take her. If you don't, she'll no doubt go on her own."

That was true, and horror trilled through him at the thought of what might happen without him there to protect her.

"Very well, then. We shall go."

The next night, Julian decided upon a quiet evening at his residence. He rarely stayed home during the season, but tonight he had a mystery he wanted to think on.

Besides, the prospect of another boring round of parties sat ill on him after the last month of ceaseless balls and soirees. Although, for the first time in years, he didn't recall having been truly bored, not once. Such events were all much more amusing with Izzy about, with her tart rejoinders and her fresh view of his world.

Clearly not accustomed to so much common sense or plain speaking, the Polite World was sometimes taken aback by its newest favorite.

He chuckled as he recalled the evening's adventure in the Vauxhall Gardens. Izzy had been tireless, a walking chatterbox, interested in everything she saw, from the musicians in the bandbox to the stalls. After sampling each and every unusual food offered at the myriad booths, Izzy had persisted in exploring every darkened path, rousting lovers and conspirators alike with her curiosity and chatter.

At the time he had been less than amused and had thought longingly of his pistols when a few of the disturbed patrons had objected to her intrusions.

For Izzy to be roaming the Pleasure Gardens at all, with only her betrothed for company, was scandalous. To be poking her pert little nose curiously into every clandestine rendezvous was dangerous.

However, even he had been surprised at how many prominent members of society, male and female, had been up to no good in the shadows.

Swirling the brandy in his glass, Julian thought again of the long ride home from Vauxhall. Her appetite satisfied and her curiosity exhausted, a weary Izzy had slept limply against him like a child. Dismaying at first, it had become amusing after she had begun her kittenish snoring, barely audible over the rattle of the carriage wheels.

Wishing that she had not chosen to return to her cousins' manor, he had shifted her reluctantly as they neared their destination, rubbing his knuckles across her cheek and whispering her name.

His hand clenched the stem of his snifter as he recalled her expression as she had woken to his touch. Gazing sleepily up at him, Izzy's eyes had held a look of such openly sensual adoration that he had felt an immediate answering twist in his heart. For just a moment his eyes had locked with hers, and a charge like threatening lightning had hung between them in the dark carriage.

It had shone from her eyes, a look of such tenderness that for a moment, a mere instant, he had ached for it. Then her sleepy eyes had widened and her gaze had cleared. "Oh, Julian!" she had said—as if startled. Why would she be surprised to see him there? Unless she had been thinking of someone else entirely…

A chill went through him at the thought. Appalled, he had stiffened, pushed slightly away.

Instantly, Izzy had recovered herself and sat up with a light laugh. She had set busily to repairing her hair and smoothing her skirts and, after a moment, he had begun to wonder if he had imagined the interlude. She had continued to chirp brightly about their various discoveries of the evening, but he had scarcely listened.

And ever since escorting her into the manor and setting back through London, he had brooded over that instant. She had looked precisely like a woman waking in the arms of her lover. He was certain of her physical purity, so who had she been dreaming of, to wake with such a look in her eyes? Had it been him?

He knew she liked him well enough, but aside from that one heated kiss they'd shared—one that he had nipped in the bud by walking out the night of the Waverly ball—they had never shared anything but their wonderful friendship.

But that had been desire in her eyes, love, adoration. He knew it when he saw it. And there was no reason Izzy should love him. Now, sitting before his fire, he found himself obsessed, wondering precisely who it was that Izzy desired.

So I can kill him.

His glass met the table with a bell-like report. Shocked by his own possessiveness regarding Izzy, he ran a hand roughly through his hair. Of course, she was going to be his wife. Of course, a man should protect and defend what was his. He ignored the niggling little voice that informed him his reaction was far more intense than simply one of threatened ownership.

The bloody hell of it was that, as far as he knew, the only eligible man whom Izzy spoke to—the only one she showed any interest in whatsoever—was Eric. It could be one of the callow youths who constantly pestered her with ill-written sonnets and declarations of admiration, but he doubted it. Izzy treated them all as liked but exasperating children.

Only Eric had attracted her attention for any length of time. The three of them spent a good deal of time together, and Izzy seemed to hold Eric in some affection. The two enjoyed each other's humor, and Julian usually treasured the fact that the two people he liked most in the world were developing such a strong friendship.

Had he always been so jealous of others?

He picked up his glass again and studied the richly tinted liquid against the firelight. Izzy's hair had looked like that the night he had kissed her—almost black in the dimness, with living amber highlights where it caught the firelight.

He shouldn't mind if Izzy and Eric formed an attachment. Perhaps he should even defy his father for them and break off the engagement, if they had. He ought to be glad if his two friends found happiness together. He
was
glad.

Which was why he was so surprised when the stem of his brandy snifter snapped in his clenched fist.

After looking at the glass in shock for a moment, he strode to the fireplace and flung it angrily into the hissing flames. Bellowing loudly for a cloth to mop up the spilled liquor, Julian ripped off his stained waistcoat, and was undoing his shirt studs when Greeley, his butler, spoke from the doorway.

"My lord, the fellow you sent to Marchwell Manor wishes to speak to you."

"Timothy? Send him in here. And tell Simms to bring me a fresh shirt."

"In here? He is a stablehand, my lord."

"Greeley, I know who he is. If you can't bear the thought of his boots on the carpet, have him take them off, but send him in, now!"

Stiffly, Greeley nodded. A moment later, a wide-eyed Timothy stood, cap in hand, in the center of the room.

"Milord, it's the miss! She's sure bad; we couldn't get no sense from her. You'd best come now."

Fear stabbed through Julian's chest.

Izzy? What could have happened to her in a day?

Shouting for Greeley to have Tristan readied, he thrust his arms into his shirt sleeves, scarcely waiting for Simms to do up the studs. Tossing his fresh waistcoat impatiently back into his valet's face, he strode to the door.

"Timothy, come!" Without waiting for a reply, he dashed to the mews, too impatient to have Tristan brought about. He was astride the stallion and away before the anxious stablehand could catch up. Coatless in the chill spring evening, he paid no mind to any discomfort as he galloped like a madman through the crowded dimming streets of London.

Izzy.
His mind could not get around this disaster. Fear for her threatened to overwhelm his thinking. How could harm have come to her? What had happened? Only now did he realize how little information he'd gotten from his man. He didn't know if Izzy was sick, injured, or what.

God, don't let her be injured.

He couldn't bear to see his fragile Isadorable broken or damaged. Not when she had just discovered life had so much to offer. He pictured her dancing, whirling in the arms of some young dandy, like a winsome wood sprite as she flew delicately about the floor. As he left Mayfair behind, he closed his mind against his fears, holding that image like a talisman in his heart for all the dark, cold ride.

Pulling Tristan to a gravel-scattering halt before the Marchwell manor, Julian leapt down and charged the steps. He flung the door open before a startled Spears could touch the handle.

"Where is she? Izzy!" he called, starting up the stair to her room.

"My lord!" Spears stopped him. "Miss Temple is in the kitchen, my lord."

Startled, Julian gave the butler a skeptical glance, but let himself be directed belowstairs.

Izzy sat, still and erect on the bench by the fire. His knees nearly giving way in relief, Julian went to stand next to her. She didn't look at him, but kept gazing silently into the flames. He shot a look at the stout Cook, who only shook her graying head helplessly.

Izzy seemed pale but unhurt. The eyes that stared blankly into the fire were dry, although red-rimmed. Cautiously, he knelt beside her.

"Izzy? Is all well with you?" No response. He reached out and tucked a stray curl away from her brow. She seemed to pull her attention to him with an effort.

"Oh, hello, Julian. I'm sorry. Did we have an engagement this evening?"

Her voice was hollow. The eyes that met his were shuttered, windows without light behind them.

"Izzy, I came. Timothy said you needed me."

"Oh, yes. I suppose I did startle everyone. I was quite upset, you see."

Izzy drew in a breath, obviously making an effort to focus. She turned to look fully at him, and he winced at the raw pain in her eyes.

"It is gone," she said in a quiet, even voice that gave him chills to hear. "Gone. All these years I thought about it. Trusted in it. And it is gone."

She turned her eyes back to the flames.

"I never really believed they hated me, you see. I suppose I have let myself think it was just a lack of affectionate nature, that they did care a little."

He waited a moment, but she didn't explain. "Izzy, what is gone? Who do you believe hates you?"

Izzy closed her eyes. Oh, why could he not leave her be? She did not want to think, to speak. The peace of her flame-inspired mesmerization beckoned her once more. It was so easy to lose herself in contemplation of the fire and let all this turmoil fade away.