Once a Duchess(59)
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.