Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
This evening Isabella ensured she was wearing her most scandalous gown. Not that she was allowed to wear anything too revealing, but the low bodice on her empire gown, the small sleeves that sat just off the shoulder and golden silk made her sun-kissed skin shine and her figure one to be admired.
She wasn’t the type of woman who looked for compliments, but she enjoyed the few interested glances that came her way upon entering the Felton ball with Rosalind and Ravensmere.
With a start the Duke of Rolle bowed before her, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips without a word. “Lady Isabella, how striking you look this evening. Will you do me the honor of the next dance?”
She stared at him, unsure why he seemed so determined to dance with her so quickly. She looked about, and not seeing anything that would give her pause, she dipped into a curtsy and acquiesced. “Of course, Your Grace. It would be an honor.”
He smiled, and led her out onto the dance floor, and spun her into his arms before proceeding to dance. The strings of a waltz started and others joined and soon they were floating about the floor, his ability making it a most enjoyable event.
“This year you seem to have blossomed into a beautiful flower. Certainly not a wallflower this Season, my lady.”
She laughed, and even to her own ears she could hear that her gaiety was forced.
“You flatter me, Your Grace, but I’ve not changed myself this year.
Perhaps it is you who has merely broadened your outlook in the society in which we circulate and have for the first time seen more than you happened to before. ”
“Perhaps you are right, and I’m glad for it. Nothing more charming than a flower in bloom.”
“Of course,” she agreed, not particularly wishing to continue the conversation, not when it seemed edged with meaning and she wasn’t so certain she wanted the Duke of Rolle courting her seriously or considering her as his wife.
While he was nice enough, and handsome too, she did not have that giddy, nervous feeling whenever she was around him. She did not feel anything at all in truth, and that was telling.
They were better off as friends.
You have that giddy, nervous feeling with someone else, however…
She pursed her lips and ignored her thoughts. Lord Whitmore was not a man she would consider marrying. He was a teasing rogue who would play with his food and then discard it, and before he could make a meal out of her she would play with him instead and see how he liked it.
“My estate in Surrey has a very colourful and established garden. My mother spent many years getting it to perfection. I would like to show it to you one day.”
Isabella cleared her throat and, looking over His Grace’s shoulder, spied Lord Whitmore, standing alone with a glass of wine in his hand, watching her.
His intense dark stare unnerved her. His unruly locks looked disheveled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
Which, knowing the marquess was probably not out of the scope of his situation this evening.
“Should you hold a house party and invite me and my family, I’m certain we would more than welcome a visit to your home county. I do not believe I’ve ever been.”
“It is one of the most beautiful locations in England. I should love to have your approval of it.”
She smiled but refused to agree. She didn’t want him believing she’d set her cap on him and she wasn’t the type of woman to lead any man on. Not intentionally.
Are you not going to do exactly that with Lord Whitmore?
Isabella threw herself into the dance. Her teasing of Whitmore was to prove a point and teach him a lesson in mocking the opposite sex, or her in particular, which he seemed determined to accomplish.
She would not be made a fool of, not by him or anyone and it was high time she called him out on his unfitting comportment and see just how far he would go before he stopped pretending to like her and scuttle off to whatever fox hole he clawed out of.
Only then would she start to consider whom she ought to marry, if anyone at all. The duke was nice and eligible, but she wanted to love her husband, whomever that ended up being. She wanted to be in lust with her husband, and unfortunately the duke did not tick either of those boxes.
Perhaps the Earl of Cust would grow on her some more…
The dance came to an end and before they had stepped from the ballroom floor, Lord Whitmore was before them, eyeing the duke with an odd warning in his green eyes. “Rolle,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth and unlike the teasing tone he usually always spoke with when around her.
“Whitmore,” the duke replied in kind, both men making the room far chillier than it was. “Taking a turn about the room were you? Any prospects this evening who have caught your eye?”
The duke’s words were not what Isabella expected, and she glanced between the two men, wondering why they seemed at odds with each other. Were they not friends? She’d certainly seen them at other social events talking amiably. Whatever was their difficulty this evening?
“Just one,” Whitmore murmured, meeting Isabella’s eyes.
She swallowed the nerves that fluttered in her stomach at his words. Was he openly flirting with her now too, in front of their peers? The man had no shame, and nor would she allow him to get the better of her.
“Then we are in agreement,” the duke responded in turn, looking at her also, a small knowing smile on his lips.
Isabella had heard enough and, dipping into a curtsy, prepared to flee. She needed a moment to regroup, to rethink her plan and ignore whatever this reaction was that was churning within her body. A feeling that only the blasted, rakish rogue Whitmore fashioned.
“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, my lord, I see my sister is gesturing for me to return to her side. I bid you both a good evening.”
“The evening is young, my lady and we shall meet again,” Whitmore stated, his gaze pinning her to the spot.
She did not respond, and instead, fled like the devil himself was nipping at her silk slippers. If she were to teach Whitmore a lesson she really needed to learn to gain better control of her wits and not let him disable her so.
The duke she could handle, not having those odd sensations when around him made his words almost of no consequence, even if she knew he was clearly courting her. But the marquess was a different matter altogether.
She came to Rosalind’s side and moved into a conversation her sister was having with several of her friends.
The time away from both her gentleman admirers, which she would refer to them as from now on—even if she believed Whitmore was doing so merely to cause her confusion and grief—helped her regain her composure.
The conversation regarding the upcoming Leveson ball was all anyone wished to discuss. The mention that her ladyship, the young widow whom Isabella had seen Whitmore with at the park, seemed to be the topic of the night.
Isabella didn’t particularly wish to hear any more on Lady Leveson, not after her interaction with her only yesterday.
Still, to know she was hosting an event would give her the opportunity to attend and see Whitmore fawn all over his love interest. His real one at least. How could he pretend to court her when his true lover was under the same roof?
He would not and it would prove her point that he was a menace, and needed to apologize for being a cad toward her this Season.
Her eyes widened at the unexpected touch of someone’s hand at the hollow of her back. She stilled as warm breath swept across her ear. “Are you running away from me, Bells? I must say I’m most disappointed to know that you’re scared of me.”
She took a calming breath, ready to flame him alive, but instead turned on her heel and looked up at his lordship. She schooled her features, hoped he did not notice that taking in his handsome face was likely to spellbind anyone.
Damn the man and his handsomeness.
“I think it is you who ought to be scared, my lord,” she replied. He just didn’t know it yet…