“So am I.” Another few tears dropped to her cheeks. “I hope you find happiness.” When she turned to leave, he caught her hand.
“Please don’t think less of me.” He was a fool and an idiot. “I have to do what’s right.”
“Well, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.” She shook her head. “How can I not think less when you’re giving up in the face of tradition, or responsibility, of fear of being true to yourself?”
“I don’t know.” Quite possibly, he was the biggest dunce in all of England. Not having the words to explain what he felt, Royce yanked her against him. He kissed her hard and deeply, never caring for who might see from the ballroom doors. A pox on society right now when it was ruining his life. With Isobel in his embrace, the future didn’t seem so frightening, which was odd since she was her own storm. So why was he throwing it all away?
Isobel shoved out of his arms. Anger flashed in her eyes while her posture reflected the height of annoyance. “How dare you!” When she lifted her right hand, he didn’t have the wherewithal to move, so when she slapped his cheek, the echo of flesh hitting flesh resounded loud in the sudden silence. “You can’t have me if you want the title, Doctor Marsden, and I certainly don’t want an earl. My mind is quite firm in that regard.”
Then she fled the terrace to dart into the ballroom, where she soon melted into the crowds. “Bloody hell.” Royce stood there with a hand to his stinging hot cheek. He feared he’d just lost the only thing of value he’d ever managed to find in the whole of his life.
Dear God, what have I done?