Once a Duchess (19 page)

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. Her suspicions were realized as the whispering around her grew louder. 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.

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, 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 Montwaithe’s musicale this Saturday.”

She looked down at her hands and nodded. “I know, Alex,” she said softly.

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 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.

Lady Lucy raised her chin and turned her lips in a satisfied smirk. She laid her hand on Marshall’s forearm.

Isabelle’s first impulse was to swat those bejeweled fingers off his arm. It was no surprise Naomi deplored a potential union between her brother and the calculating Lucy Jamison. The woman seemed cold. Yet, it could not be denied she also possessed every quality Marshall’s wife should have. She came from a noble family, if one of only middling fortune and influence; it was still far greater status than the Fairfaxes could claim. Lucy had been groomed from girlhood to marry high. The duties of a society hostess would come easily to her. Marshall deserved a duchess from his world, one who wouldn’t be a constant source of embarrassment. So, while Isabelle sympathized with Naomi’s plight, she could see no way to justifiably interfere.

Besides, she thought glumly, she was here to convince Lord Woolsley to offer for her, not to pine after her former husband.

“Ah.” Marshall gestured to a man passing by. “Herr Kaufman, a moment. He will be playing for us tonight,” Marshall explained. “We’re most fortunate he’s agreed to join us.”

The man inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. “I am always delighted to share the work of my compatriot.” His English was quite good, but carried a heavy German accent.

“Who is your compatriot, sir?” Alexander asked.

Kaufman spread his hands. “Herr Beethoven, of course.”

A cool hand touched Isabelle’s elbow. She turned to see Viscount Woolsley just behind her. She hadn’t noticed his approach at all; her senses had been tuned to Marshall.

“What selection will you play, sir?” Woolsley asked. His pale eyes found Isabelle’s, and a faint smile touched his lips.

She smiled brightly in return, clamping down on the panic rising in her middle.

The pianist warmed to his subject, and his face became more animated as he spoke. “The twenty-sixth sonata for pianoforte,
Les Adieux
. It is a newer piece, published but two years ago.”

“I’ve not heard it.” Isabelle remarked as she surreptitiously pulled her arm out of Woolsley’s grasp. “I look forward to your performance.”

She glanced at Marshall. He stood stock still with Lady Lucy’s fingers curving over his arm, but he maintained a polite distance between them. Though his face was schooled into a placid expression, the unrest in his eyes was palpable.

Isabelle hid her frown as she contemplated that look. What could one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in England have to be displeased about? He had a beautiful woman on his arm, the crème of society in his home, and his botanical studies to occupy his mind. With everything a man could possibly want, why did he look as though someone was twisting a knife in his gut?

With a gentle tug at her elbow, Lord Woolsley drew her away. She lifted her chin and told herself not to pity Marshall Lockwood. He didn’t need it.

Soon, the assembled guests found their seats. Marshall sat in the front row, with Lady Lucy on his left. Isabelle sat several rows back with her brother and Woolsley. A hush fell over the audience as Herr Kaufman lowered himself to the plush bench at his instrument. He raised his hands; his fingers hovered a breath’s width above the ivory keys. As the movement progressed, Herr Kaufman persuaded his instrument to convey sounds of pained longing and guarded happiness through passages that were by turn heart wrenching and exhilarating.