Once a Duchess (18 page)

He imagined Isabelle with a new husband: building a life and a home, sharing a marriage bed, having children. He envisioned her round with another man’s child. Panic clawed at his throat and he felt the mental equivalent to a horse kick in the sternum.

Marshall squeezed his eyes shut and drew several deep breaths. These were just feelings stirred by the unwise dalliance they’d indulged in, he assured himself. Once they were both safely married off to others, he would no longer feel a possessive compulsion to have her for himself.

Isabelle had spent the week since Naomi’s party in a numb haze. She and Lily attended several modest balls hosted by gentry or well-to-do professionals, although she had difficulty mustering enthusiasm for such affairs. A few gentlemen came to call upon Lily, and with Alex’s wish that she marry never far from Isabelle’s mind, she tried to pay attention to the men and catch someone’s notice. Every moment was a conscious struggle to not think about Marshall and what had happened the last time they were together.

It would not do, she chided herself. She had to snap out of her melancholy and evict Marshall from her thoughts. Someday, she would marry again. She would have children. To achieve those goals, she had to get past her stupid infatuation with her former husband.

To make matters worse, Lily had been shamelessly prying at Isabelle about the time she’d spent alone with Marshall at the greenhouse. Isabelle couldn’t bring herself to tell her the truth of the matter. While Lily knew about the whole, horrible debacle that had been Isabelle’s marriage, she worried her friend would think less of her if she found out Isabelle had allowed herself to get so carried away with Marshall again. Her humiliation would be even deeper, given the fact that Marshall had an understanding with Lady Lucy Jamison — a fact Isabelle could not bear to dwell upon, but couldn’t stop obsessing over.

This morning, she busied herself in her room writing a letter to Bessie about the upkeep of her small cottage. The house needed repairs, and figuring out the funds and suggesting workmen to complete the tasks proved to be a welcome preoccupation.

A joyful shriek sounded nearby, followed by a door slam and feet pounding down the hall.

Isabelle dropped her pen. She pivoted in her seat as her door flew open and Lily burst into the room, breathing heavily, her face aglow.

“Lily!” Isabelle proclaimed, half-rising from her seat.

“You will never believe,” Lily panted, “where we are going tonight.”

Her friend’s expression bordered on beatific. Isabelle shook her head. “The theater, I thought. Has that changed?”

Lily nodded. “It has. Father’s just told me we will be attending … ” She squealed.

Isabelle had never seen her friend so excited. She laughed at Lily’s giddiness. “Out with it! Where are we going?”

Lily walked toward her as though in a trance, her hands extended before her. “We are going to the Liverpools’ ball,” she said, then clamped a hand over her mouth as though she couldn’t believe she’d said it. Laughter bubbled forth, spilling from behind her hand as she jumped up and down like an excited child.

Isabelle gasped. “The Liverpools?” Lily nodded and grasped Isabelle’s hands. “As in, the
Earl
of Liverpool? The prime minister?” Lily nodded again and another delighted squeal escaped her throat.

Isabelle exhaled a laugh. The Liverpools’ ball would be teeming with the very crème of the
haut ton
— much grander than any event they had attended so far. “How can this be?” she asked, all agog.

“I don’t know,” Lily breathlessly replied. “I suppose because of Father’s connections in government. He only said to ‘make damned sure you wear your very finest.’” She furrowed her brows and rendered a passable imitation of her father’s gruff voice.

“It’s unbelievable.” Isabelle turned in a circle and cast her eyes around the room, suddenly feeling like Cinderella with nothing to wear to the ball, and no hope of a fairy godmother to come to her aid. “Whatever shall we wear?”

Lily’s eyes widened. “I don’t know.” She brought a hand to her cheek. “I wonder if I even own anything that’ll pass muster in Lady Liverpool’s ballroom.”

Isabelle’s mind whirled through a mental inventory of the dresses in her own wardrobe. None of them seemed good enough for what promised to be a glamorous affair. “Such short notice,” she despaired. “Why couldn’t we have received an invitation even yesterday?”

“Oh, bosh,” Lily said, returning to her typical practicality. “That would have just been one day more to worry about it. Let’s pick out something for you, and then you can help me decide.”

The day passed in a flurry of activity as the girls, along with Mrs. Bachman, fussed and fretted and lost themselves in preparations. Only Mr. Bachman retained his equanimity. He hid in his study from the frenzied women.

All too soon, the carriage pulled to the front of the house. Isabelle took one last appraising look in the mirror. She’d chosen a daring gown of violet satin that set off her green eyes to good effect. Her shoulders were bare, and the deep neckline showed rather more of her bosom than made her entirely comfortable. A small train swept elegantly behind her as she walked. While the dress was free of adornment, Lily said it was the picture of sophistication.

Around her neck hung her mother’s amethysts, three modest, round stones surrounded by small diamonds and strung on a gold chain. The gems were nothing compared to the fortunes society’s ladies draped themselves in, but they were priceless to Isabelle.

Lily’s maid dressed her golden tresses in an elegant chignon, with a few curls teased loose to frame her face. She took one last look in the mirror and pressed her hands against her fluttering stomach. Then she took up her silver satin reticule with matching beading and went downstairs.

Lily and her parents waited in the entry hall. Isabelle’s friend wore a dramatic red gown with jet beads in a floral pattern down the skirt. Isabelle could never carry off such a color, but it became Lily beautifully.

As they made their way to Lord Liverpool’s home, Isabelle watched the dimly lit streetscape roll by. She listened with half an ear to the conversation in the carriage, but her attention was fully grabbed when she heard Mr. Bachman say something, followed by a groan from Lily.

“What was that?” Isabelle turned her head.

Lily frowned. Her dark eyes regarded Isabelle with pity.

“I said,” Mr. Bachman repeated, “when we arrive at the Liverpools’, first thing after greeting the Earl and Countess, we must give our respect to Monthwaite. We owe our invitation to him.”

Isabelle turned to look out the window again, so her kind host would not see her shock and dismay. How could she ever hope to put Marshall out of her mind when he wouldn’t stop interfering in her life?

• • •

The Liverpools’ ballroom was resplendent with the light of thousands of candles refracted in crystal chandeliers and reflected in dozens of mirrors. Swags of marigold and red cloth had been draped across the walls, and vases of exotic flowers lent their sultry perfume to the atmosphere. On the musician’s balcony, two guitarists played a duet with a distinctive Spanish flair, barely audible over the noise of the crowd. When she commented upon the unusual theme, Mrs. Bachman told Isabelle that the whole affair was a benefit for the Peninsular army, which was in sore need of funds.

The Bachman group greeted the Earl and Countess of Liverpool, both of whom spoke graciously to Isabelle.

Their kindness, however, did little to mitigate her nerves. From the moment they were announced, Isabelle felt the eyes of the
haut ton
upon her. She noticed, too, that the Bachmans were sorely outclassed at this gathering. The lords and ladies dripped with as many titles as there were jewels on their necks and fingers. Mr. Bachman’s considerable fortune meant little without an old name behind it. What on earth had Marshall been thinking, having them invited to such a gathering?

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 by 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.