That night, Isha couldn't sleep. As the moon climbed in the sky, she reflected upon the events of the evening. How could it possibly have been true that she'd been visited by a man who wasn't there? A man who had influence in the world, but no one knew about it? A man who was more devastatingly handsome than any she'd ever met…but whom no one could behold?
Except her.
Real or not, he certainly revealed some things about her, things she wasn't sure she was proud of. It wasn't like her to lose her head like that. The way she threw herself at him! Even if it was in a desperate gambit to lure him away from her sister, it certainly didn't excuse the fact that she had responded so brazenly to his touch.
Then again, it wasn't every day that a man awakened in her a desire to be caressed so intimately. Dark fantasies whirled around her pillow. What would happen if she received such a man in her bed? Would it be forbidden to make love to a man who wasn't really there? Who would make a stand to accuse her? She turned onto her side, gazing into the fire. What would it be like to have her own secret lover, whom no one but her would ever know existed? Someone who would materialize right in her room, undetected by anyone in her home. To finally lose her maidenhead—especially to someone as blindingly attractive as the man in the red cravat—and finally become as other women her age. To feel his caresses on her bare skin, to explore the steely strength of him under her own fingertips—the thoughts dizzied her with their potential pleasure. Would he appear to her again tonight? Each time a twig broke outside her window or a log in the fireplace crackled, a gasp snapped out of her. But did her heart race out of fear…or out of anticipation?
Isha finally fell asleep as pink tinged the sky. And just as the clock downstairs softly chimed nine, her sister bounded joyfully into her room.
"Isha, wake up! It's time to get dressed."
Isha clambered through the syrup of her restless sleep. "Pirate," she muttered.
Maryan chuckled. "Pirate? Whatever are you dreaming about?"
Isha opened her bleary eyes. The sunlight went right through her. Whatever dream she was enjoying evaporated like a Scottish mist on a summer day.
"Nothing. What time is it?"
"Just after nine. Hurry, you must get up and get dressed. Andrew Harkness will be coming to collect us at eleven for the picnic. Don't you remember?"
Isha had a vague recollection of such a conversation on the carriage ride home. She groaned. "I don't really feel like going on a picnic. Can't we just send word round to Mr. Harkness to leave it for another day?"
"No! I won't postpone Mr. Harkness! It's Mr. Harkness! Please, Isha, get up. Mama won't let me go unless you serve as chaperone."
Chaperone. It was a function served by matron aunts and dowager grandmothers. How she hated to be lumped in among the dried up, forgotten women who were so beyond the clamor of passion they were called upon to smother it in others. If her mother knew how Isha had behaved last night, she would never be asked to chaperone again.
Then again, if she wasn't trusted to chaperone her sister, who would protect Maryan from the man in the red cravat? If no one else could see him, then who else could protect Maryan from Mr. Bad Luck?
Mr. Bad Luck. What utter nonsense. In the bright light of day, all the silly fears and anxious notions that had tortured her last night appeared ludicrous. She might as well have believed she'd been talking with a purple dragon. Funny enough, she didn't recall drinking to excess last night. But perhaps she'd eaten something that made her imagine things. Yes, that was it. She'd only imagined that whole affair with the man in the red cravat. He was nothing more than a vivid daydream brought on by a tainted canapé. She drew in an invigorating, cleansing breath, and chuckled at her own foolishness.