Once a Duchess(56)
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.