She did not yet know what he wanted, but she was quite sure that she would find out soon. After some time, she gathered her composure, and let herself back out into the hall. There was no one in sight, and she sped gratefully up the stairs to her room. She had no intention of coming out again until dinner time. Tonight, there was to be a welcome dinner, with a small orchestra brought in to allow for some dancing afterwards, so she could not avoid it completely.
Oh, how she wished she had never gone to London in May, how she wished that she had been content to never know the truth of her younger brother’s death. Knowing had, in the end, made no difference. Stanton was still dead, and the truth, while bitter, had actually made it harder for her to cast blame. For the one who she had expected to blame, had been, in the end, not truly at fault. He had contributed, but he was not the cause. War was the cause – a war now blessedly over.
But she had risked everything for that knowledge, trusting the man she had been infatuated with to help her. And that was foolish in the extreme, for he had proven to be only assisting her for his own ends. She had turned away from him very shortly after that ill-advised trip to London. But by then, it was too late. For she had gone, and the risk that she had been seen, and would be ruined, hung over her like a sword which could fall at any time, destroying her life – and probably that of her sister too – for if Isabelle was ruined in such a way, society would turn from Eugenia too.
And now, the chance of it being revealed had increased to an almost certainty, for it seemed probable that Lord Scarpdale knew, and that Dangerfield may well be in a position to know of it too.
Dangerfield. She should have avoided him this afternoon, but at the time, with Scarpdale bearing down upon her, Dangerfield had seemed the lesser of two evils. Perhaps it was her foolish attraction to him, but he seemed somehow safer than Lord Scarpdale.
The thought made her give a small snort of self-deprecating laughter – the man had a reputation of the worst kind, was charming in that deeply dangerous way that she found hard to resist, had very nearly kissed her in the gardens, and here she was, thinking of him as ‘safe’.
Yet that was exactly how he felt, no matter her fear that he might have seen her in London. Sometimes, she did not understand herself at all.
She sat for the next few hours, reading, then, accepting the inevitable, she dressed for dinner, and went downstairs. She had left it to the last minute, so that, almost as soon as she entered the parlour, dinner was announced. As Garrett and Juliana led the procession to the dining room, she stood a moment, unsure. Then, from nowhere, Dangerfield appeared beside her, and offered her his arm.
“Might I escort you in to dinner, Lady Isabelle?”
She placed her hand upon his arm, and smiled. Off to one side, she saw Lord Scarpdale, watching her, and a shiver ran through her. The dining room was warm, and the table and walls decorated with pine and holly, all bound with red ribbons. The Christmas feel was delightful, yet Isabelle still felt distant from it all. The footmen where rushing about, showing people to their allocated seats, and she was not displeased when Dangerfield was seated beside her.
Knowing that she should avoid him, and actually doing so, where two very different things. Her pleasure was, however, short-lived. For not a minute later, a footman showed Lord Scarpdale to the chair on her other side.
“Good evening, Lady Isabelle. I trust that you have had a… pleasant day?”
Scarpdale’s voice had an oily quality about it, as if he was being polite for his own amusement, as if, in a way, he was torturing her, for his pleasure. She barely repressed a shudder.
“I have, thank you, Lord Scarpdale. I spent the morning visiting my friend, Lady Marguerite, and that is always delightful.”
Scarpdale hesitated a moment, his lips twisting into a cruel looking smile, and when he spoke, his voice had a sarcastic edge.
“Oh, I am sure that it is. After all, ‘visiting Lady Marguerite’ is always an acceptable thing to do… isn’t it?”
Isabelle’s stomach clenched, and all appetite left her. He knew. He knew where she had been, and what she had told everyone as an excuse. She barely managed to nod, before turning her attention to the plate in front of her. She felt Dangerfield’s eyes upon her, but he said nothing as she pushed her food about, barely eating at all. The rest of the meal proceeded in silence, with both Dangerfield and Scarpdale watching her. When dessert was finally finished, and the plates all removed, she stood, partly relieved, and partly horrified – how would she get through the next few hours – how would she manage to dance – and who might she find herself dancing with?
Garrett spoke from the head of the table.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would now join us in the ballroom, there will be drinks, and dancing for the rest of the evening.”
He led the way from the room, Isabelle took a deep, terrified breath, and Dangerfield and Scarpdale glared at each other across her. When Dangerfield offered his arm, she took it gratefully. Scarpdale sneered at her, and whispered, “as you will, later will be different”.
Isabelle kept her face calm, with a polite smile in place, but the fear inside her grew, making her wish that she had not eaten even the small amount she had managed to get down. Nausea filled her as she walked calmly at Dangerfield’s side.
The ballroom looked beautiful – all of Garrett and her mother’s effort had been worthwhile, and Isabelle watched with pleasure as all of the guests exclaimed about the decorations. Once they had moved into the room, however, Isabelle found herself at a loss – who should she stand with? Who could she talk to, where Scarpdale might not so easily trap her? She could not really stay with Dangerfield…
Moments later, as she hesitated, the small orchestra struck up, and Dangerfield turned to her, a devilish smile on his handsome face.
“Lady Isabelle, will you grant me this dance?”
Part of her wanted to say no, wanted to run from him and from Scarpdale. But a far larger part wanted to say yes, to feel him hold her, as they moved through the figures of the dance. That part won.
“I will, Your Grace.”
He acknowledged her agreement with an elegant small bow, and led her towards the couples forming up for the country dance. A shiver went through her – and this time, not an unpleasant one. The effect that this man had on her was remarkable – he made her wish to be rash – even more so than she was by nature, and he made her think of kisses, for the first time since Banfield….
They began to move, and Isabelle let the music and the well-known steps carry her along, allowing herself, for just that short time, to simply enjoy the moment, and to forget about the threat hanging over her, both from Scarpdale, and less directly, from the man who danced with her. His eyes locked with hers each time they came around to face each other, and the pressure of his hand as they touched in the dance was strong – and sent sparks of warmth through her.
“You dance beautifully, my Lady. I am sure that there will be a queue of gentlemen seeking you out to dance.”
“Flattery again, Your Grace? Do you make a habit of complimenting every woman you dance with? Or am I honoured with special treatment?”
The dance took them apart for a moment, but when they came back together, his eyes were sparkling with amusement, and that half sardonic smile curved his lips. He quite took her breath away. And those lips… she remembered them, in the gardens, so close to hers…
“But what can I say? I cannot possibly confirm your contention that I flatter every woman – you might judge me a rake and a scoundrel!”
“Are you not so? Do all of the rumours lie? Did you not say to me that…”
He laughed, a rich deep, mellow sound, that seemed to vibrate in her very bones. The dance turned them away again, and she had to wait some time before the figures brought him back before her.
“My Lady, I believe I did say something on the matter – but it must be our secret – I am not prone to admitting anything…”
“I see. Y
ou prefer to let the imagination of the gossips run wild?”
“I do, for what they invent can be endlessly entertaining.”
“Then I shall allow myself to be entertained by it, and make my own assessment of its veracity.”
He set a mock offended expression upon his face, and Isabelle almost laughed.
“My Lady, I am wounded – how can you suggest that what you hear of me is not true, or that what I allow people to say of me is not true?”
“How can I suggest it? Most simply – it is a rare man or woman of whom every tale told is the truth. In fact, I would venture to suggest that most tales whispered amongst the ton are nine parts imagination, and only one part truth.”
He laughed again, and they spun apart, moving down the line of dance, to come back together at the end. Isabelle wished, in that moment, that the dance could last forever, that she might never have to deal with the reality of her life. Dangerfield made her feel more alive and carefree than she had for at least two years.
But even as she thought it, the music slowed, and the dance came to an end. He bowed, and offered her his arm, leading her towards her brother and sister, where they stood to one side. When he left her there, and went in search of refreshment, she felt suddenly cold, and almost abandoned. She went to turn away from the room, to join Garrett’s conversation, when a touch on her arm stopped her.
She turned back, to find herself face to face with Lord Scarpdale. His watery blue eyes ran over her, in that disgusting fashion, and she took a tiny step back.
“Lady Isabelle, I believe this is our dance. I do so enjoy dancing with a beautiful woman – and conversing with her, whilst I do…”
Isabelle was trapped. She could not refuse him without good reason, no matter how much she wished to, and, truth be told, if his purpose in dancing with her was to talk, to quietly tell her what he wanted, then perhaps it was best to agree, to end the terrible uncertainty, and discover what he intended. For, on a ballroom floor, surrounded by other dancers, and watched by her brother, surely, she would be safe? What could he do, in such a situation, but talk?
“Lord Scarpdale. As you wish.”
She took his offered arm, and allowed him to lead her to the floor. As they took their places, she was glad that it was another country dance – whilst that would limit conversation somewhat, it would also limit the amount of time that Scarpdale would spend touching her. Heaven forbid that it might have been a waltz! He stared at her, and licked his lips – she barely prevented a shudder. Then the music began.
As they came close the first time, he leant towards her, and whispered, “I know where you were, with Banfield, and I gather that it’s not common knowledge. Of course, if it were, your reputation…”
The dance spun them apart again, as she shuddered, his words driving ice cold spikes of fear into her heart. When they came back together, she flinched as he took her hand and he laughed softly. Isabelle kept her voice level.
“What of it, my Lord?”
He laughed again. She could tell that he knew of her fear, that he did not find her casual response at all convincing.
“There is a price for my silence, my Lady – or are you a Lady? Perhaps by title, but not by behaviour…”
She spun away, then back, following the dance steps by long habit, not by any conscious thought.
“A price?”
“A price – one that I am sure you will gladly pay. After all… you would not want your sister, your family, to suffer by your disgrace, I am sure.” Her stomach clenched, and for a moment, Isabelle thought that she might cast her accounts, right there in the ballroom. He laughed at her expression. “I see that you understand my meaning well, my Lady. How pleasant that I do not need to spell out the consequences in detail.”
The dance removed her from him again, and, fortuitously, came to an end, just as she came back opposite him. She curtsied, and excused herself from him, moving as fast as she could to where Garrett stood with Juliana. Scarpdale’s soft mocking laughter followed her, barely audible.
Juliana turned to her as she stopped beside them.
“Why Isabelle, you look very pale – are you well?”
“I fear not. I feel, in fact, quite ill, and my head has begun to pound. I believe it is best if I retire for the night.”
“Oh dear! Do rest well, and get Betsy to ask Cook for a warm posset for you. I hope that you will feel better in the morning.”
“Thank you. Do let Mother know, please.”
Juliana nodded, and Isabelle fled from the room, her mind in turmoil. For what could she do? There was no one she could tell, even Marguerite did not know all of the truth, and the last person that Isabelle wanted to have informed of her past foolishness was Garrett!
Perhaps by morning, she would have some idea of how to avoid the trap that Lord Scarpdale was closing around her.
Chapter Six
Lyon had been reluctant to release Lady Isabelle after their dance – a dance during which he had broken every resolution he had made before coming here. He had flirted, he had allowed himself to be completely charmed, and he had allowed himself to forget, for the duration of the dance, that women were a sure path to pain and unhappiness.
The latter was a point he was almost immediately reminded of, for, when he returned to the main part of the room after seeking out a drink, he was greeted by the sight of Lady Isabelle dancing with Scarpdale. A sight which definitely made him unhappy, in a remarkably visceral way. He had an almost immediate desire to plant the man a facer, for nothing more than the offence of touching Lady Isabelle. He refused to contemplate, in detail, what that reaction might indicate. He was, he was certain, simply caring for the lady’s good reputation and her happiness. Scarpdale was not a man that he would ever recommend to any woman. He sipped his drink as he watched them dance, forcing himself to assume his usual dark and brooding look.
It was effective enough that no one tried to talk to him – which, perhaps, was not so good, for it left him with nothing to do but watch her dance with that cad. It was obvious that Scarpdale was speaking to her, as one usually did with one’s partner in a dance, but what was not usual was her reaction. She seemed to stiffen, and to not dance with her usual elegance. Her face paled, and her expression, in the few moments that he saw it, as she rotated through the dance, seemed almost anguished. He had a very bad feeling about the whole situation.
But… he was nothing to her, and had no intention of becoming so. Which meant that he had no right to interfere. She would choose who she wanted to associate with, to love – just like Josephine had. Women did that, whether their choice made any sense at all, or not. Still, he could not stop himself from watching.
The dance ended, and Lady Isabelle sped from the floor, away from Scarpdale and to her family. That she did not allow him to escort her there was telling, and troubling. Moments later, after a hurried conversation with her sister-in-law, she left the room. Lyon discovered that he desperately wished to know what had happened.
He refused to allow himself to act on that curiosity. But, without her presence, the evening seemed somehow duller, and the company uninspiring. He tossed back the last of his drink, and took himself up to his rooms. Once Fulham had assisted him to undress, he sent the man to fetch a decanter of brandy, and settled in to simply think. At least that was his intention. But he soon found sleep overtaking him, so much so that he took to his bed. Morning would be soon enough to consider the conundrum of his own reactions.
~~~~~
Lyon woke slowly, the unfamiliar surroundings confusing for a moment, and the vestiges of dreams still clouding his mind. Dreams which had featured Lady Isabelle, with her disconcerting resemblance to Josephine, and her oh so kissable lips. But in the dream, she had been moving away from him, down a hallway, and then up a large flight of stairs, seeming both close and impossibly distant at once.
He started fully awake, and sat up in the bed. Now he knew why Lady Isabelle had seemed somehow familiar, more than just
the resemblance to Josephine. He had seen her before, almost exactly as in his dream – moving rapidly away from him down a corridor, and onto stairs. At the time, he had noticed her, because for one second, he had thought it to be Josephine.
But… surely not? Yet he was sure, the more he thought about it. He had seen her – in that most disreputable house owned by Banfield’s brother – Owlfege Manor. It was a byword for scandalous liaisons, gambling, and debauchery. He had been there twice, when gambling had still seemed like a good way to forget, but he had been disgusted by the behaviour he saw.
How could Lady Isabelle have been there? And why? He could not imagine that she had ever run with that set – he was quite sure that she was still an innocent, if a rather cynical one! Which left him with no answers. He rose, and set about preparing for the day, but his mind worried at it, needing to know the truth. Of one thing he was certain – if it became known amongst the ton that Lady Isabelle had been in that house, there was no question that she would be ruined.
Even if she had done nothing untoward, even if her virtue was intact, the worst would be assumed. He found that he could not believe the worst of her. He doubted, extremely, that she had lost her virtue – there was something indefinable about the way a woman interacted with a man, when she had known the physical pleasures. And Lady Isabelle showed no sign of that awareness.
So why had she been there? He would say nothing, for there was still the slight chance that it had not been her, and he would not bring ruin upon her – would not, even if she had been there, and the worst were true. Despite his reputation, ruining young women, by any means, was not in the class of activities which he found acceptable. It was, however, the sort of thing that Scarpdale found acceptable, from all he had heard. That thought stopped him. As Fulham worked at tying his cravat into a perfect knot, Lyon reviewed the idea. Scarpdale had been to Owlfege Manor, he knew that for a certainty. What if…? It would explain the look of fear upon Lady Isabelle’s face, if the man knew of it, and threatened to expose her.
To Dance with the Dangerous Duke: Clean Regency Romance (The Nettlefold Chronicles Book 2) Page 4
