She spotted him a short distance away, talking with a small group of gentlemen. He laughed at something one of his companions said; his boyish grin made her heart skip. Then his eyes found her, as though he’d felt her looking at him. He lifted his glass in silent greeting. Isabelle flushed, then nodded tersely. Mr. Bachman drew her away to introduce her to an old political crony, Lord Bantam.
The elderly gentleman held Isabelle’s hand in a tight grip as he recounted the story of a bitter argument that had broken out in committee over dispensing tax revenues for a proposed hospital in Leeds. Isabelle fought to maintain a visage of interest.
“Ah,” Lord Bantam said in his frail voice. His rheumy eyes wandered over Isabelle’s shoulder. She turned to see Marshall standing just behind her. “Monthwaite! What do you make of this business with the Leeds hospital?”
Marshall schooled his face into a suitably thoughtful expression. “I’ve not formed an opinion yet, Bantam. Has it come back from committee?”
The old man once again launched into his florid complaint against the vile Whigs bleeding the country dry with their hospitals and the like. With her hand still trapped in Lord Bantam’s vise-like grip, Isabelle cast a look of desperation at Marshall. He winked, with the faintest hint of a smile turning the corners of his mouth. Then he looked back to Lord Bantam, once again the picture of attentiveness.
When Lord Bantam’s tale finally wound down in a fit of dry coughs, Isabelle escorted him to a couch and deposited him with two older ladies. The sound of his impassioned complaints against the young reformers in the Lords followed her back to the Bachman’s group.
Mr. Bachman was shaking Marshall’s hand, thanking him for procuring the invitation on their behalf.
“Please think nothing of it. With your permission,” Marshall nodded to Mrs. Bachman to include her in his request, “I would like to introduce the ladies to some friends of mine.”
Mrs. Bachman snapped her fan open and waved it furiously, stirring up a breeze that set her curls to wagging. “Certainly, Your Grace.” She raised her eyebrows to her husband, clearly exuberant at the prospect of making an excellent match for Lily.
For her own part, Isabelle stared after Marshall when he’d gone to collect his gentlemen friends, feeling a little bewildered and stung. His motivation was obvious. She and the passionate afternoon they’d shared meant nothing. He’d just confirmed her fears; he wanted to foist her off on someone else.
Fine, she thought, lifting her chin. She’d known all along that their liaison had been a mistake made even more egregious by her knowledge of his understanding with Lady Lucy. Her whole purpose in being in London was to find a suitable husband. She might as well make the most of it. Marrying a nobleman would go a long way toward fully mending the breach between Alex and herself. No lady could complain about having Isabelle for a sister-in-law then.
Marshall returned with several gentlemen. Lord Freese was an exceedingly handsome man. With a quick smile accentuated by a scar on his cheek and his unruly, dark hair, he cut a rather dashing figure. He bowed over her hand and Lily’s, and dropped a kiss onto the back of Mrs. Bachman’s. The older lady blushed like a schoolgirl. Isabelle couldn’t fault her response to the charming gentleman.
Where Marshall and Lord Freese were both dark complected, Viscount Woolsley was strikingly fair. He had hair so light, it was almost white. His silvery-blue eyes swept over Isabelle in a frank, appraising fashion. He was slender and much shorter than Marshall, but moved with a fluid grace that put her in mind of a serpent.
Finally, Lord Raimond shared none of those traits; rather, he was squat, portly, and balding. However, she saw right away why he was Marshall’s friend. His outgoing, cheerful manner put her at ease. Soon he had them all laughing at a story about a hunt gone awry.
When the dancing began, Isabelle accepted Viscount Woolsley’s invitation, while Lily paired with Lord Raimond. Lord Freese flirted outrageously with Mrs. Bachman and would hear nothing but that she must dance with him. Marshall, meanwhile, vanished into the crowd.
Shortly into the set, she spotted him dancing with an elegant, dark-haired beauty. Judging from the way her hand curled possessively around his shoulder, the woman could only be Lady Lucy. A sick feeling twisted Isabelle’s middle; she suddenly shivered, despite the warm press of bodies all around.
“I do not quite have the measure of your relationship with Monthwaite,” Viscount Woolsley said carefully, “but he seems to have you distracted.” Isabelle’s eyes snapped to his face. His hard eyes pierced right to the truth of the matter.
No good could come of being discovered mooning after the man who’d divorced her, or wounded by his attachment to another woman. She forced a cheerful laugh. “We have no relationship to speak of, my lord. It’s true he caught my eye. I know almost no one else here.”
“No great loss.” The briefest of smiles flitted across his thin lips. His hand tightened at her waist as he led her through the steps of the dance. His movements were even more graceful than his normal stature suggested, every step neat and deliberate. He made Isabelle feel like a bumpkin, and she had always held dancing to be something at which she was reasonably accomplished.
When the set was over, he led her back to the Bachmans. “Enchanted, my dear.” He bowed briefly, then left to find his next partner.
Isabelle watched him depart. She felt depleted, drained by his intensity. Even seeing Marshall deliver a cup of punch to Lady Lucy produced little more than a heartsick thud in her chest. She welcomed a few moments of standing quietly with Mrs. Bachman, greeting the wives of Mr. Bachman’s political acquaintances. Then those moments stretched and multiplied. No other gentleman came to claim her hand for a dance. No lady sought her company.
More, she noticed the old, familiar whispers springing up again: women with their heads together in conversation, eyes cutting her way. Men regarded her more openly. Every guffaw she heard produced anxiety. Were they ridiculing her? She longed to see a friendly face among the ton, someone to show the others that she wasn’t an infectious disease to be avoided and despised.
Lily had not yet returned. She and Lord Raimond stood near the bowl of champagne punch. Lily laughed at something he said. Isabelle turned, feeling conspicuously out of place. Through a clearing in the crowd, she saw Naomi.
The young woman held court among lady friends and gentlemen admirers. She spotted Isabelle and with a gesture invited her to join the group.
Crossing the distance between them proved more difficult than simply wading through the crowd. As the whispering around her grew louder, she realized her suspicions were correct. She caught snatches of phrases: “Poor Monthwaite,” “made a fool of him,” “light skirt,” “an absolute nobody.”
For all their petty bickering, backstabbing, and gossip, the ton behaved like a close-knit clan when it came to outsiders. Isabelle had cuckolded one of their own, one of their loftiest members. This was a very pointed reminder that she shouldn’t have set foot in this ballroom. At present, she wished she were back at the George, back in her cozy cottage with Bessie — anywhere but here.
The room began to swim, and the voices all took on a far-away quality. She had to get out of here. It was beginning all over again — the laughter, the rumors, the hatred. She looked for a nearby exit. There wasn’t one. She wanted to scream.
“Isabelle.”
She blinked. Naomi stood just before her, offering Isabelle her hand. She reached for it like a drowning woman for a lifeline. The younger woman’s grasp was warm and sure. Naomi nodded and drew Isabelle to her side, then turned to introduce Miss Fairfax to her group. Most of Naomi’s friends were too young to have known Isabelle from her infamy as the temporary Duchess of Monthwaite. A smile flitted across the younger woman’s lips as she met Isabelle’s questioning look. Isabelle understood using her maiden name was Naomi’s way of guarding her from speculation.<
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Soon, Isabelle relaxed with Naomi’s friends. Despite her warm, easygoing manner, her former sister-in-law was the obvious leader of the group. Naomi flirted artlessly with the gentlemen. The young bucks nudged each other aside to stand closer to her. The girls all deferred to Naomi’s opinions.
However, it wasn’t long before older siblings and hawk-eyed mamas came to collect their younger charges, throwing dirty looks in Isabelle’s direction, as though her mere proximity had sullied their hands.
“Well!” Naomi planted her fists on her hips as yet another friend was led away by her indignant mother.
Isabelle sighed. “I’m so sorry, Naomi. It was kind of you to try.”
Behind Naomi, the crowd began to part to make way for Caro Lockwood. She was aimed straight for Isabelle and Naomi and looked like she’d enjoy nothing more than skinning Isabelle alive.
“What is it?” Naomi asked. “Your eyes are big as saucers.”
“Your mother,” Isabelle answered in a low voice. “Oh, God, I can’t take this. Not now.” She felt her own imminent demise approaching closer with each of Caro’s steps. “Why did Marshall bring me here? Does he hate me so?”
“No.” Naomi took Isabelle’s hands in hers. “We wanted to thank you for your help at my party. We thought you’d enjoy the ball, Isabelle, that’s all. It wasn’t supposed to be this way!”
Isabelle gaped at the girl. Were they all mad? How could it have been any other way? Other than her sullied reputation as a divorcée, Isabelle was mostly unremarkable among the gentry. But in this crowd, she was a walking target for gossip and vitriol. Maybe Isabelle was the mad one, to think she could ever be forgiven or accepted.
Caro halted just behind her daughter. “Naomi!”
Isabelle became acutely aware of the circle of space around them, as onlookers lapped up the scene.
“Mama!” Naomi turned with a smile on her face, as though nothing in the world was amiss. “Isn’t this the loveliest party? Lord Liverpool is usually so dull, but this turned out to be quite a success, don’t you think? We must congratulate Lady Liverpool.”
“Young lady,” Caro hissed, “do not be glib with me, not when I find you fraternizing with this … creature.” Her hard eyes turned on Isabelle.
Isabelle’s feet turned to ice. She swallowed, trying ineffectually to think of something to say to counter her former mother-in-law’s hauteur.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” The eyes of all three women went to the man who’d appeared beside them. Viscount Woolsley bowed to Caro and then greeted Naomi. “Forgive my intrusion, but I wondered if the duchess could be persuaded away for the dinner waltz?” His face betrayed no pretense, but Isabelle could have kissed the man for swooping to her rescue.
“Certainly, my lord,” she said.
The dowager visibly seethed, but said nothing as Lord Woolsley led Isabelle to the waltz.
This dance with the viscount came more easily, as Isabelle was familiar with his own particular gait and matched hers to his.
She leaned her head closer to her rescuer. He inclined his as well, the barest hint of humor touching his eyes. “I suppose it comes as no surprise to hear you saved me from a most unpleasant encounter, my lord.”
“Really?” His pale eyes glinted. “And here I thought I was stealing you away from something of a family reunion. Your former mother-in-law’s regard for you is legendary.”
Isabelle flushed at his jibe.
He squeezed her waist. “I’m afraid I’ve caused you a new problem, however.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is our second dance,” he said gravely. “People will talk.”
At that, Isabelle could not help but throw her head back and laugh. “My lord,” she said when she’d recovered herself, “if people did not talk about me, I should be forced to conclude I’d died and gone to heaven. Being the object of gossip is nothing new. If the worst people can comment upon is two sets with a gentleman, I shall consider myself lucky.”
Viscount Woolsley’s eyes widened slightly. “You do not mind being the object of salacious gossip?”
Isabelle scoffed. “Of course I mind! But what’s to be done? The ton ripped me to shreds years ago. If they want to work themselves up over the scraps of my reputation now, there is little I can do.”
Viscount Woolsley’s eyes softened at the corners and his lips turned up at one side. “What a remarkably refreshing attitude. Might I come to call tomorrow?”
• • •
“Viscount Woolsley?” Alexander had finally arrived in town after being detained by some difficulties at Fairfax Hall. He accepted a glass of sherry from the Bachmans’ butler and waited for the man to shut the parlor door. Then a wide grin spread across his face. “That’s wonderful, Isa! We couldn’t ask for better. No duke, to be sure, but still, a viscount is nothing to sniff at.” He clapped Isabelle on the shoulder as though she were one of his male friends. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Shall I be expecting a visit from him?”
Isabelle plastered on a bright smile for her brother’s benefit. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but I believe he is not without regard. He’s been to call twice in the last week, and this afternoon he’s taking me for a ride.”
“Ha!” Pride beamed from his eyes. “Well done, little sister.” He tossed back the rest of his drink and relaxed into the sofa cushions. “You don’t know how relieved I am to hear this. I don’t mind saying now that I was becoming nervous, with you still unattached.”
Isabelle flinched. Her brother’s thoughtless words reminded her how undesirable she was to society. She should be as thrilled as Alex that she’d managed to interest someone like Lord Woolsley.
But she wasn’t.
The things Woolsley could provide for her — a good name, children, a home of her own — were enticing. The man himself, however, did little for her. Something about him unsettled her, and not in the happy way she remembered from her courtship with Marshall.
“Why are you frowning?”
Isabelle looked up to see Alexander studying her intently. “Was I?” Her smile clicked back into place.
“Isa … ” Her own name became a word of warning. “Don’t muck this up. You’ll continue to encourage Lord Woolsley’s attentions, and you will accept him when he offers for you, which could very well be at Montwaite’s musicale this Saturday.”
She looked down at her hands and nodded. “I know, Alex,” she said softly.
Chapter Thirteen
The musicale at Marshall’s Grosvenor Square house began well enough — it was the end that became the talk of high society for days afterward.
Isabelle descended from the stuffy confines of the carriage and patted her upswept hair, making sure it had not come loose as a result of the unusual bout of heat and humidity. A footman escorted Alexander and Isabelle to a salon at the rear of the house, where fifty guests mingled around the perimeter of the room. Rows of padded chairs occupied the room’s middle, and a large, dark pianoforte stood front and center.
Instinctively she sought out Marshall. She spotted him across the room at the same time as Alex. Her brother steered her toward their host.
Marshall shook Alex’s hand and bowed over Isabelle’s. By now she expected the near-palpations his touch induced, but enduring the sensation never became easier.
He released her slowly, their fingertips lingering in whisper-light contact. “You look well this evening, Isabelle.”
“As do you, Your Grace.” The understatement of the century.
In his evening attire, he was a vision of sophisticated masculinity. The fine cut of his black coat emphasized his broad shoulders, while the gold buttons marching down his waistcoat invited her gaze to follow them to his close-fitting trousers. Her mouth went dry at the briefest glimpse of his lean, muscled thighs
clad in black. She jerked her eyes back to his before he caught her gawking at his physique.
When he inclined his head to look down at her, his jaw brushed against the standing collar of his waistcoat. Isabelle fought the urge to lay her hand on that beloved face. Instead, she twisted her fingers into her skirt.
“Monty,” said a female voice, “aren’t you going to introduce me?”
The corners of his eyes tightened and his lips firmed. He stepped back from Isabelle and turned to the speaker.
Seeing her from a distance in a crowded ballroom did nothing to prepare Isabelle for the shock of meeting Lady Lucy face to face. The beauty at Marshall’s side took Isabelle’s breath away. She had lustrous sable hair, high cheekbones, and eyes of the most interesting aqua color. Her gown of midnight blue satin was adorned with shimmering gold embroidery across the bodice and down the skirt.
In comparison, Isabelle felt hopelessly frumpy in her diaphanous white muslin and coffee-colored sash.
“Lady Lucy Jamison,” Marshall said, “Mrs. Lockwood.”
Isabelle cringed inwardly. She hated hearing Marshall call her Mrs. Lockwood. It was his family name, divested of meaning. It simply labeled her as his castoff and was only mildly preferable to him calling her Duchess. Had she no name, no identity of her own?
Shame engulfed her from head to toe. Being presented to the woman who would take her place as Marshall’s duchess was nearly beyond enduring. Yet, if she were to marry Lord Woolsley, Isabelle would move in the same circles as they. She must adapt to seeing them together. Somehow, she summoned the strength to acknowledge the introduction.
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