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.