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Surely not his sister?

No. He found that difficult to believe.

His father simply had an uncanny talent for sensing weaknesses, and for any changes in circumstances that might affect him. He was fishing. Surely that was all it was.

“Of course not.” Isaiah smiled slightly. “She's not only extraordinarily lovely, she's an exceptionally fine person. I suppose I am merely in a... philosophical mood.”

“I see. Did I send you to school to become a philosopher?”

“I thought I was sent to school to be sequestered from the tawdry influence of the Pennyroyal Green proletariat.”

“Ha!” His father lit with delight. “Proletariat! Do use that word in company, Isaiah. You’d be amazed how many men of business are frightened of words over three syllables!

Makes 'em squirm. Although it's true that it doesn't pay to mingle overmuch with the Pennyroyal Green proletariat.

They're fine people on the whole and it's of course the finest place in all of England to live outside of London, and it's a joy to have merry girls about when they're young.

I suppose anyone could take notions, even you, in spring.

You've always been such a good son, and I know you'll continue to make me proud.”

He punctuated the last three words with one vigorous back pat each.

Even you. As though he was, of course, exceptional when compared to everyone else who wasn't a Redmond.

It was the strangest sensation. How he'd strived his whole life for his father to view him as exceptional. How he'd always craved his words of approval. He could always count on them to warm him like brandy.

But this time his entire gut had gone cold.

“I can think of no greater honor than to make you proud,” Isaiah told him after a moment.

His father turned to leave, smiling with the satisfaction of hearing precisely what he expected to hear.

Isolde had teetered blindly in place after Jacob thundered off, like a jouster who’d sustained a near-killing blow. Her being felt mortally scalded.

Moments later she staggered forward. When she found her footing, she strode faster and faster. as if by doing so she could outpace the feeling she was about to fly into pieces.

She broke into a run, skirts gripped in her hands, heedless of who might see, realizing she was reflexively following Isaiah’s secret path.

She stopped abruptly after she plunged through the trees.

What was she doing ? What was she thinking ?

It seemed ridiculous to go to a picnic, of all things, after such an emotional assault. Moreover, she could hardly burst out of the woods into the Redmond rose garden. This path was Isaiah’s secret. She would not betray it.

But Maria would worry if she didn’t appear at the Redmond house.

And the other ladies would speculate about her whereabouts.

Perhaps they’d talk about her and Isaiah. If Jacob had been in London for all of one day and he’d heard rumors in Smithfield Curtis, in all likelihood all the other ladies present would have heard them, too.

This sent a fresh wash of panic through her.

So she remained frozen, secluded with the wayward roses. For the first time in her life, nowhere in the world seemed safe.

She took a few more indecisive steps into the garden.

And that’s when her furious propulsion gave out and her face dropped into her hands.

She couldn’t face it. She could go no further.

Presently, the thud of footsteps running toward her made her fling her hands up in front of her in reflexive defense, as if the goal of this day was to deliver one terrible shock after another.

“Isolde.”

Her heart skittered in her chest.

What a balm it was to hear Isaiah use her first name, in a voice aching with urgency and warmth. She dropped her arms and turned toward him.

“Isolde.” he confidently, tenderly claimed the intimacy of her name when he saw her expression. “I saw you from an upstairs window…and I… your face...” He took a breath, visibly gathering his composure. “What’s wrong? You're very upset,” he said firmly.

He sounded upset.

“I’m not,” she lied, reflexively.

He snorted.

Something about his disdain for the lie almost made her smile.

“It's nothing…Isaiah. Honestly. I’m sorry to distress you. Please do not worry.”

“Isolde.”

He’d said this so fiercely her eyes widened.

He drew in a breath. “I cannot seem to help it. I…I cannot bear to think you’re unhappy.”

His voice cracked. It sounded like a plea. As if she alone could explain to him why he felt this way.

She knew why.

And it took her breath away.

It was too much. Why was this happening ?

She was just a country girl, not a heroine in A Venetian Romance . Everything was too beautiful and too overwhelming and too confusing and too excruciating.

She was embarrassed when tears finally flooded her eyes and spilled.

“Sweetheart,” he said hoarsely. He reached for her as if he was snatching her back from the edge of a crumbling cliff and pulled her almost roughly against his body.

When his arms folded about her, she settled in; he was warm, hard, solid, and yes, yes ; this was where she wanted to be. She curled her fingers into his waistcoat.

For a moment they merely clung to each other as though they were each other’s only refuge in the world.

And when she tipped her head back it was to discover his head was lowering.

When their lips brushed, sparks all but flew from their bodies.

Lust, unleashed, proved an anarchic force: white-hot and impatient and needful.

Isolde’s limbs trembled with the effort to contain it.

Their kiss deepened, became more searching, more expert, more arousing as they crushed their bodies ever closer.

His mouth was hot and his tongue velvety and clever as it danced with hers.

A bolt of pleasure cleaved her when she felt the jut of his arousal against the crook of her legs, and when she sighed and shifted her hips deliberately against it, Isaiah groaned and slid a hand down to her arse to press her closer still.

This was both too much and not nearly enough, oh, not nearly, and this terrified her.

It was wrong, because he wasn’t Jacob, and right, because he wasn’t Jacob.

And it was wrong because nothing had ever felt righter.

With an extraordinary effort of will, she abruptly turned her head and ended the kiss.

He loosened his arms at once. But she remained in the circle of them. With wonder, she pressed her cheek against the thud of his heart and savored the sway of his breathing.

God help them both.

She had not awakened today expecting cataclysm. There had been no omens or portents.

But she understood too clearly that a girl could forget everything in the arms of a man.

Could know surcease and pleasure.

Right now, she wanted to forget everything. It seemed a bloody pity she could not kiss him until the end of time. Could not lie naked with him, right here in the rose garden.

“Oh God. Dear God.” His voice was hoarse. “Isolde, forgive me. I’m so sorry. I felt—it just—it seemed the only thing to do. I didn’t know what else to do. I could not seem to help it.”

“Please don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “It was wonderful.”

She looked up at him and his eyes were fierce. He touched her face gently.

How odd to be cleaved precisely into two parts:

One part terrible, terrible grief.

One part radiant, nearly intolerable joy.

Surely Isaiah Redmond of all people was not the kind of man who would ravish a girl if he hadn’t intentions to marry her?

“ Isssaaaiiiahh !”

Isolde staggered when Isiah all but leaped back from her as if burned.

It was his sister Diana’s voice, calling from a distance yet again.

“Isolde,” he said hoarsely. “I swear I never meant to… I do not deserve you or your forgiveness. I hope one day you will understand.”

He walked backward three strides, his eyes burning into her as if seeing her for the last time.

Then to her amazement, he spun about and bolted into the woods.

In seconds he had vanished from view.

Leaving her standing alone, head spinning as if she was drunk.

She touched her lips. They felt stung.

“ ISAAAA —Oh! Miss Sylvaine.”

Miss Redmond stopped abruptly, at a distance, as if Isolde were a volcano, or something equally unpredictable and possibly perilous.

If it had been any other two people—if this had been a pantomime, for instance—it might have been funny. Imagine stumbling across a lone woman on the fringe of their property, face scarlet from passionate exertion. Eyes kiss-hazed.

The two young women stared at each. Isolde could still feel the heat of Isaiah’s body on the front of her dress. She wondered if her hair was mussed.

Miss Redmond’s expression at once went carefully bland.

“I thought I heard my brother’s voice. I must have been mistaken.” She said this with slow, masterful neutrality.

Isolde didn’t reply, because she couldn’t yet speak.

At last, she cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry I’m late for the picnic.” Her voice was shockingly hoarse. Kiss scorched.

Neither one of them mentioned that she seemed to have taken an unorthodox route to the rose garden.

“Well. I’m glad you were able to come. We were worried about you.”

“There was just a bit of a mix-up in plans,” Isolde managed. Her voice still sounded creaky.

Miss Redmond nodded carefully. “I was just looking for my brother because I wanted to make sure he knew that Miss Fanchette Tarbell arrived.”

That name rang with portent.

This day became stranger and stranger. Imagine, a person who had featured so flatteringly in the London gossip sheets, here at the Redmond’s.

“Is Miss Tarbell a friend of your family?”

Miss Redmond hesitated. “In a manner of speaking,” she finally replied gently. “Why don’t you come and meet her?”