Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
The following evening, at the Groose ball, Isabella hoped to see the Duke of Rolle.
If he was truly interested in her, as his attentions had suggested, then surely if she were to hint at the possibility of a kiss—a stolen moment alone—he would be more than willing.
She entered the ballroom invigorated by her decision, her pulse quickened by a strange mixture of curiosity and resolve.
The gleam of crystal chandeliers shimmered across gilded mirrors, scattering light over silk gowns and jeweled hair.
The scent of beeswax, perfume, and champagne hung thick in the air.
Laughter rippled through the vast space as the orchestra struck up a lively country dance.
She looked about the room, scanning the sea of feathers and polished boots, but could not see the duke. Nor, for that matter, could she see Lord Whitmore in attendance.
For the next several hours she danced with Lord Cust, and later with her brother-in-law, Ravensmere. The evening passed pleasantly enough—the music lively, her steps measured, her smile carefully practiced—but she was unable to gauge whether the duke’s supposed affection was genuine.
Then, after supper, she spied her quarry. Finally, his grace had arrived.
He stood at the far end of the ballroom speaking with Lord Whiteley and his newly minted wife, Margaret.
Isabella paused where she stood, her fan motionless in her hand, and watched him.
He looked every inch the perfect gentleman.
Tall, composed, his dark hair gleaming beneath the candlelight, his expression politely unreadable.
She lingered for several minutes, building up her courage to do what she must. When the dancing recommenced, he started toward her, a small smile touching his handsome face before he dipped into a bow.
“Lady Isabella. A pleasure to see you this evening. Would you care to dance?”
She took his arm without answering, though instead of turning toward the dance floor, she led him toward the terrace instead.
“A dance would be nice,” she said lightly, “but I have been quite busy this evening until your arrival. Perhaps we could take some air outside. There are many others out there—it would not be frowned upon.”
He looked toward the terrace and then back at her. “Of course,” he said, clearing his throat. “If that is what you wish.”
“It is,” she replied, smiling up at him. Her heart beat fast as she noted the faint tension in his jaw, the way his hand flexed against his side as though uncertain whether he ought to have acquiesced.
They exited through the terrace doors, left open for guests to wander in and out through the night.
A soft breeze swept through, carrying the mingled scents of roses and damp stone.
Candlelight spilled from the ballroom behind them, flickering over the flagstones beneath their feet.
The terrace was alive with people—some taking the air, others smoking cheroots, laughter and low conversation floating through the air.
They walked together, the duke oddly quiet. Isabella glanced up and saw that he looked lost in contemplation. “Is everything well, Your Grace?” she asked.
He turned as if startled, as though he had forgotten she was beside him. “Of course,” he said quickly. “I am merely enjoying our stroll.”
She did not respond, merely looked ahead and wondered if that was true. He seemed distracted—his gaze fixed on the gardens beyond, his expression distant, as though his mind were elsewhere entirely.
Perhaps he was as nervous as she? Maybe he wished to kiss her and did not know how to go about gaining such a favor?
“The night is warm, is it not?” she ventured.
He nodded, his tone polite. “Lovely evening to take the air.”
They came to stand beside the balustrade, looking out over the gardens below. The hedgerows formed dark silhouettes under the moonlight, the soft rustle of leaves and distant trickle of a fountain breaking the silence.
She turned, leaning her hip against the wall. Her palms felt damp against the silk of her gown as she rallied herself to be brave. She had never kissed a man before and wasn’t entirely sure how to go about gaining her first. Yet she had resolved to try.
He looked down at her, and as if sensing she might be offering more than polite company, promptly shuffled farther away.
“Have you been enjoying the evening?” he asked, his voice a touch too formal for her liking.
“I have. Though I must say, I was surprised you arrived so late.”
“Yes. Lord and Lady Seymour hosted their own entertainment earlier, a dinner, and I was committed to attend before coming here.”
“My sister, the duchess, is good friends with Lady Whiteley, and had promised that we would remain here the entire evening,” Isabella said, forcing a small smile. “Otherwise, we might have attended also. Lady Seymour is a lovely lady and a most accomplished hostess.”
“Indeed she is,” he murmured.
Isabella bit the inside of her cheek, glancing away. Conversation with the duke was proving more difficult than she had anticipated. Every word between them felt measured, stiff, as if they danced a waltz where no party knew the steps.
She searched her mind for something—anything—to say that might draw warmth from him, some stimulated views but came up blank. Oh dear. This did not bode well for either of them. If they had already run out of conversational topics now, however would they last years of marriage…
“Being outside beneath the stars,” she tried again softly, “is it not romantic?” Surely that would turn his thoughts to the possibility of a kiss. Of moving them away from the guests who stood nearby and give them privacy.
Instead, he shrugged, staring out at the lawns as though he had never seen grass before. “Shall we return indoors? I do not wish you to be missed by the duke and duchess.”
Disappointment stabbed at her that he seemed far from agreeable, and somewhat cold to how he had been at previous events. Return indoors? What gentleman would wish to return indoors when such an opportunity arose?
“Of course,” she said quietly, not seeing the point in dallying outside a moment longer.
She started back without taking his arm, feeling a sting of disappointment at his lack of interest. Her cheeks burned, though whether from humiliation or frustration she could not say.
The music drifted faintly from the ballroom, a bright, laughing tune at odds with the heavy ache settling in her chest.
She could not help but think that, had it been Whitmore at her side on a darkened terrace—well, not entirely dark, nor devoid of people, but private enough—he would have seen the opportunity before him and taken advantage of it.
The duke, however, seemed eager to return her to her family as quickly as possible.
They stepped back into the ballroom, where light and sound rushed to meet them.
The air was thick with warmth and perfume, the swirl of dancers moving in time to a country reel.
The duke escorted her back to where Ravensmere and Rosalind stood.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he excused himself and was gone.
Isabella watched him retreat into the crowd, utterly flummoxed by his demeanor. Was he not supposed to have danced with her? Whatever had happened to that promise?
She snapped her fan open, more from agitation than grace. She could not deem his behavior anything other than flippant. Were all men so capricious?
As if her very thought of unreliable men conjured the embodiment of that term, the Marquess of Whitmore entered the ballroom.
The shift in the space was immediate. Conversations of the female kind faltered, heads turned.
The light caught the dark gloss of his hair as he made his addresses to their host this evening.
His gaze swept across the crowd with practiced ease—commanding, amused, far too confident for a man who had no right to be as handsome as he was.
She straightened her shoulders, rallying herself for whatever the night would bring. The violins struck up another waltz, slow and alluring as she fixed her gaze on the marquess. He would come to her—she had no doubt—and when he did, she would see if he were as erratic as the duke.
She ignored the small hope blossoming inside of her that he would prove otherwise.