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.