Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Later that evening, Isabella sat in the supper room with her sister Rosalind and Ravensmere, discussing the night’s events and how wonderful the ball had been so far.
The scent of roasted meats and sweet puddings lingered in the air, though Isabella picked at her crab cakes, not overly hungry. Her mind was a whirl of thoughts.
Around them, the hum of conversation mingled with the clink of silverware on china, the rustle of silk gowns, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. Candlelight flickered across polished mirrors, catching the gleam of jewels and the gloved hands of ladies lifting glasses of wine.
After her dance with Whitmore, she could not forget her scandalous words… His wicked words for that matter. She wasn’t sure what she should do or how to behave when around him, but she was determined to see if his courting was merely for his own amusement.
She was certain his flirtations would go nowhere. He was merely playing with her like a cat played with a mouse before it devoured the poor creature. Whitmore was no different. He was a wolf masquerading in lamb’s wool.
As much as he might pretend they were friends, she couldn’t help but get the feeling he was trying to see if she would fall for his charms if only to gloat about it later. Considering she had been one of the few who had not—and there weren’t many—she could see why that might injure his ego.
Could he be courting you in truth?
She shook the thought aside, lifting her glass of wine and taking a substantial sip. The rich, full-bodied flavor coated her tongue, warming her throat. No, an impossible possibility. He did not want to get married any more than she wished to endure another Season.
So what was he doing?
She caught sight of him outside the supper room doors, talking with the Duke of Rolle. The sight of the two together raised the hackles on her back, for the men, earlier in the evening, had seemed less than pleased to see each other—particularly regarding her. Why were they speaking now?
The duke glanced about and caught sight of her watching.
He excused himself quickly, melting into the throng of guests who had not yet come in to take refreshment.
The marquess, however, lingered. He nodded in her direction, a small mischievous smile curving his lips before he too strolled away, though in the opposite direction.
“Isabella, is something the matter?” Rosalind asked.
She shook her head and took another sip of her wine. “No, particularly, but I do have the oddest feeling that the Marquess of Whitmore is trying to best me in some way.”
“Best you?” Ravensmere asked, setting down his fork and giving Isabella his full attention. “What do you mean?”
“I wish I knew,” she replied. “But do not worry. I’m certain another distraction will come alone soon enough, and he’ll be nowhere to be seen.”
Rosalind turned in her chair to face Isabella. “Whitmore is Benedict’s brother. Surely he would not make sport of you in society.”
Isabella shrugged. “Dear sister, I know you see the best in people, but Whitmore is a scoundrel and one I barely tolerate. He has been particularly attentive to me, and I cannot help but think it’s disingenuous.”
“Do you wish me to look into the situation?” Ravensmere asked, casting a searching glance about the room for Whitmore, as if he could somehow pry the truth from him merely by sighting his lordship.
Isabella shook her head. “No, I do not think that’s necessary. Lord Whitmore has not done anything untoward. He has merely danced and been attentive. I just think it is odd, that is all.”
But why now? She had been in society for three years…
“You have matured, and you are a very beautiful woman,” Rosalind said gently.
Isabella picked up her fork, not wishing to discuss handsome features as a means of catching a husband.
The laughter from the nearby tables grated on her ears, a cruel reminder of how easily others spoke of courtships and matches as if they were as simple as choosing a dish from the supper table.
Surely one might find a partner with something more meaningful than mere appearance. Such a shallow way of judging a spouse.
“I do not wish to be married merely because I have a pretty face.”
Rosalind smiled, reaching across the table to clasp her hand.
“I did not mean it that way, my dear. But you are much more engaged, more confident than your first Season when you were timid and a little aloof. I think any gentleman would notice the change, and see the virtues in it, and perhaps wish those very virtues in a wife.”
“Whitmore is not looking for a wife,” she blurted before she could stop herself.
“Whitmore does not know half the things he wishes,” Ravensmere said, leaning back in his chair and wiping his mouth with his napkin.
That was true. Whitmore was a little flippant of nature.
But oh, he was handsome. Even in the crowded supper room, she could still recall the faint scent of sandalwood clinging to him, and the way the candlelight had caught in his hair when they danced.
Even if she did not wish it, she could not help but admit she thought of him more than she should.
Maybe she was being too severe on the opposite sex. Maybe Whitmore was vying for her hand, and she was so accustomed to being overlooked that now, when he did not ignore her, she could not help but feel unsettled.
Either way, she would see how long Whitmore continued with this farce.
If she were proven right, and she was merely a whim, he would scuttle away like all the others before him.
If not—well, if he truly pursued marriage, she would face that troublesome situation when it presented itself.
Not that she thought such an outcome would happen.
Not with Whitmore at least.