Chapter 2 #2
“Your eyes give you away, my dear. I have seen how you view these ballrooms, Isabella. You view it more tactically than a man eyes up a chessboard, but that is gone. Your heart is not in this tonight. As your friend, I do not believe it should be either.”
“Well, whether it is or it is not, I am glad to be weathering it with you.”
Isabella linked her arm through her friend’s.
Across the room, Sibyl was being led to the dance floor by a young lord who looked as though he could not stop laughing with her, the two of them red-faced and smiling.
Her heart eased from its terrible barbed state.
My sister will be fine, she thought. I will endure anything as long as she is well and has prospects I might not get again. If Hermia could courageously face spinsterhood, then…
Then…
She didn’t have the strength to finish that thought.
“I see Lord Darington is here tonight,” Mary murmured, her eyes fixed across the ballroom upon the auburn-haired man she had caught the attention of at a recent ball several weeks ago.
Ever since, she had become quite besotted with the Viscount, who had inherited his title early but was still unwed.
“Will you finally speak with him again? It is clear he is smitten with you, too. See, he is looking over here.”
But before Mary could answer, a few lords passed by, their eyes immediately honing in on Isabella.
Their gazes were not quite in the interested style she was used to, yet she still smiled demurely.
Because she expended so much energy to muster her politest manners, she did not expect their sniggers.
“Lord Stanton remains absent from the ton,” one lord said to his companions, and Isabella stiffened.
“Perhaps he had to travel further abroad to escape a certain lady’s ways. After all, Lady Isabella has not been known for her loyalty to one suitor.”
“A dance is merely a dance, Lord Frederick, and these ladies will dance until their feet fall off,” the first lord snorted. “Although you might be right about her prospects. Some diamonds are not made to shine as brightly as others. Some are… merely stones, no?”
Isabella felt the burning humiliation of their remarks as they passed, their laughter lingering even after they had vanished into the crowd. Further abroad. The potential of that lingered far too greatly in her mind to ignore for a moment, even as she retained her composure.
Her smile did not falter once.
“Well,” Mary huffed, “men are rude, are they not?”
“They are,” Isabella muttered, rolling her eyes.
Her gaze lifted to the ballroom, hoping for something, just one man who might smile at her a little gently, who might make her believe all would be well and she would regain her status as the ton’s diamond.
She only needed a kind gentleman to show her that Lord Stanton’s outrageous abandonment of her had not ruined her prospects.
Around her, the ballroom had broken out into louder whispers. With shoulders tense, Isabella waited for them to be about her. Yet it was not her name that was on everyone’s lips now.
“It is the Beast of Rochdale,” a lady not too far away gasped. “He is here.”
The Beast of Rochdale?
Whispers flooded the room like a tidal wave, far greater than the ones about Isabella, and despite the pity she felt for whoever had arrived, relief eased through her.
“Finally, I am not the gossipmongers’ focus,” Isabella muttered to Mary, but even she had her eyes fixed on the entrance of the ballroom.
However, this beast had already descended the stairs, and no matter how much Isabella tried to peer through the crowds, everybody stuck too close together.
Thickly, the ballroom seemed to double in population, making it impossible to see who caused such a stir.
At once, the whispers quelled, and a silence that knotted Isabella’s gut took over instead.
It was so quiet she could hear the clink of a ring against a crystal glass.
She could hear the shift of a musician as they looked around, unsure of whether to continue playing or not.
Her friend leaned in as more people shuffled, and life was breathed back into Lord Harcross’s ballroom.
“It is the Duke of Rochdale,” Mary whispered. “Although why would he attend tonight? His Grace never shows himself at these events. Or if he does, it has been a rare sighting. How strange.”
“Strange indeed,” Isabella agreed. There was a sour taste on her tongue that said she, of all people, should not be speaking disparagingly of others. Not when she carried her own shame on her shoulders. “I wonder what has brought him out tonight.”
“One can only question in their own mind, for that is all we will do. His Grace never speaks to anybody. He does not answer questions, ask about anybody’s well-being, or ask anyone to dance. He simply… broods.”
At that, Isabella laughed quietly.
What gentleman entered the ton’s most anticipated social events and did not immerse himself with ladies? Did he not wish to have the ladies fawn all over him? What sort of man was this duke?
Although the crowd remained too congested to see him through, Isabella still searched.
The musicians were hastily ordered to strike back up again, and a jaunty melody got everybody moving once more.
The whispers were spoken behind fans, and the gossip seemed to be sidelined for a moment. At least in favor of dancing.
Isabella opened her mouth to say more, but a bustling woman with hair the color of wheat filled her vision, pushing between Isabella and Mary.
“Darling,” she cooed, linking her arm through Mary’s. The Countess of Newbrook was Mary’s mother. She had a hard look in her eyes that never matched the sickly sweet smile she had started giving Isabella as of late. “I believe we spoke about whom to… elevate yourself with at social events.”
“Indeed, Mama, but I wished to speak with Lady Isa—”
“I am certain she has her own friends,” the countess insisted, and Isabella swallowed back the sting she was sure was aimed at her.
“Go,” Isabella urged gently. “Have fun and dance, Mary. For my sake, at least, for I do not believe I will be asked tonight.”
Mary frowned, but her mother was already tugging her away, giving that saccharine smile back at Isabella, bowing her head as if to thank her. Yet it felt mocking.
Isabella quickly looked away as Mary and her mother disappeared into the crowd.
Left alone, Isabella tried not to look too eagerly at every passing suitor. Some glanced at her with mirth curling their mouths, while others pretended she was not there at all. Others made passing remarks similar to the lords from earlier.
The longer the music played, the harder Isabella ground her teeth, fighting back humiliation.
She could not even bear to look in her parents’ direction, knowing they would be keeping an eye on her.
Instead, she watched as Sibyl danced around the floor with another suitor. Her third tonight, at least.
Focus on the joy on her face, Isabella told herself.
But these feelings, this rejection, were unlike anything Isabella had ever experienced. Once, not so long ago, her dance card had not enough space for all the names wanting to fill it, but now…
Now, she was adrift on a very, very stormy sea.
Couples spun around the floor, gowns sweeping around ankles, hands scarcely touching, and men murmured things to their female partners to make them blush. Isabella craved it, ached for that thrill once more.
But no suitor came for her. No hand was offered, and another dance set passed.
Now that the Duke of Rochdale had clearly made his entrance, the whispers and laughter returned their focus to Isabella.
“Abandoned at the altar, abandoned in the ballroom. How tragic.”
Sharply, Isabella turned away from yet another lady’s snigger, hearing more and more comments. Step by step, she slipped away, letting herself hide in the crowd, carefully threading her way through discreetly, until she emerged onto a balcony.
Smoke billowed from a gentleman who leaned on the balustrade, his focus fixed outwards toward the shadowed gardens. At Isabella’s entrance, he stood upright, immediately putting out his light and turning to her.
“My lady,” he said quickly.
“Forgive me,” she said at the same time. “I did not know the balcony was occupied.”
“It shall not be,” he told her with a hint of a smile. “It is yours. You… appear to need it more than I do.”
An ache hurt her chest, and she fought the urge to press her hand to it. She looked a little longer at the man with her. His dark hair curled over his collar in a handsome way, and although he was not broad, he held himself confidently, casually, as if he knew he was worthy of being looked at.
Her interest stirred at the first man to gift her with a comment resembling kindness tonight.
“There is no need,” she told him. “To leave, I mean.”
“Ah, but I fear I must.”
He gave her a secretive smile, as if they both did not want to acknowledge the rules of propriety but had to. The man nodded at her once and went to pass, but as he approached her, he stopped.
“Lady Isabella, is it not?”
Her cheeks colored. “Yes. And you are?”
“Lord Peregrine,” he introduced. “I… I could not help but hear your name circulating through the ballroom. I… Well, how are you? This cannot be easy.”
He was being kind in alluding to only recognizing her name from the ballroom. She knew her sad story had been splashed all over the gossip sheets that week.
Isabella sighed, leaning against the wall of the balcony, not quite approaching the balustrade yet. “I have been better.”
Lord Peregrine nodded, his grimace tight. “The ton is rather ruthless, is it not?”
Wearily, she nodded, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, he was giving her a softer smile than she thought anyone would bestow on her that evening.
“I could not help but notice you have yet to join in the dancing,” he noted. “Do you plan to?”