Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“And why are we attending again?” Isabella pushed.
At her side, Oscar scoffed. “Oh, do not pretend as though you are displeased to be attending a garden party. You are the diamond of the ton; you adore parties, no?”
Isabella scowled. “I was the diamond.”
“Well, at least you can admit it,” Oscar muttered as they emerged from their carriage to approach the countryside residence of Lord and Lady Kirworth. “As I was telling you earlier, Lord Kirworth is a prestigious business partner of mine.”
“You did not quite say what sort of business.”
“Do you need to know?”
Isabella glared at him more deeply. “Fine, keep your secrets as usual. I suppose I should be used to such behavior by now.”
“Says the diamond ever so dramatically, so used to getting her way.”
For a moment, he sounded as sarcastic as Alicia, and Isabella lost her step as they entered the home of the Kirworths.
The couple were hosting a grand garden party in honor of their youngest daughter becoming engaged, and it seemed that everybody from England’s countryside as well as London had been invited.
The guests milled through the entrance hall, expanding through the house and into the garden, where Isabella and Oscar were led. The estate was not far from Rochdale itself, so they had not traveled far at all, but somehow Isabella already felt exhausted by the whole ordeal.
She saw some familiar faces—namely, the trio of old friends she had now well and truly realized were her enemies. Her attention quickly switched away from them.
Once they emerged into the garden properly, the gossiping turned to pristinely practiced smiles, the very sort Isabella herself had perfected.
“Your Graces,” one lord greeted. “How lovely it is to see you again. It has been some time since you graced the ton with your joint presence.”
“Indeed,” Oscar said before Isabella could take the social lead. “But when one is on a honeymoon with the diamond of her Season, who could deny us our privacy?”
It was a challenge of a response, one that nobody would truly dare argue.
Isabella, at Oscar’s side, lifted her chin.
Ever since the night a week ago, after she had caught him during his nightmare, he had spoken to her even less than before.
She had not thought such a thing was possible, but he had proven her wrong once more.
“Of course,” the lord finally answered, looking between the two of them.
Oscar gave a curt, dismissive nod before he guided Isabella onward, deeper into the viper’s nest of the party. He leaned close to her.
“Do not listen to anything you hear,” he reminded her. “They never know your whole story, Isabella; do not forget that. If you ever do, look to me. I will always remind you.”
Surprised, she met his eyes, finding only earnest sincerity in them. He silently gave her one last nod.
“I know well enough,” he added, and she wondered what he kept hidden not only from the ton but from her.
What secrets do you lock up in that mind of yours? What secrets have you been screaming into the night?
He regarded her as though he knew the questions swimming in her mind. He didn’t say anything more.
“What does it cost you?” she asked suddenly. “To be here, to be out in the open, looked at, seen, in full brightness?”
Oscar stiffened, shifting himself away from her slightly. “You saw how I reacted to your inviting light into my home. This is far, far worse, in a way.”
“Oscar—”
“We must mingle,” he said abruptly.
“Oscar,” she tried again, noticing he did not correct her lack of propriety.
He began to stride away, leaving her and her questions behind. Standing alone, Isabella had no choice but to tune into the whispers around her.
“Do they look like a couple happy during their honeymoon?” One lady questioned, her eyes flitting between Isabella and the Duke.
“Not at all. Then again, who could be happy with such a beast?”
The two erupted into giggles, and Isabella’s anger rose from deep within her gut. She took a step toward them, ready to defend both herself and her husband, but her attention was snagged by Lady Miriam, who beckoned her closer.
Frowning, Isabella approached her, finding her broken away from the twins.
“Lady Miriam, you are all by yourself,” she observed.
Around them, the summer air danced around hedges trimmed perfectly, and blooming bouquets of pastel flowers. The scent of freshly mown grass filled the air, along with the flavor of the food being prepared from within the house.
It all wafted out, making Isabella feel far more secure than she ought to.
“I am,” Lady Miriam said. “The twins were taken aside so some lords could speak with them. In truth, I am relieved. The two of them have grown… bothersome.”
Isabella’s brows rose in surprise. “You were rather close to them the last time we spoke. Surely that has not changed so quickly.” Her defenses were on high alert.
Lady Miriam shrugged delicately in her pale yellow gown. “Your words struck true, Your Grace. You are quite right. We have all judged you, yet we have few victories of our own to boast of. Who are we to speak ill of you?”
Again, cautious and wary, Isabella diplomatically approached her response. “I see, and what do you suppose to do about our former friendship?”
“I wish to reinstate it. I would have come equipped with a belated wedding gift, an olive branch of sorts, but I was uncertain whether you would show up today.”
“A fair assumption.”
“I am terribly sorry about the scandal you endured, Your Grace,” Lady Miriam said, her brows pinching in empathy. “And now, to be married to that beastly duke…”
“He is not beastly,” Isabella sharply answered. “How can you apologize to me, yet still speak ill of my husband? He deserves your respect as much as I do.”
Lady Miriam reared back in surprise, frowning for a moment, before that perfect smile took over. It was too late; Isabella saw the cracks in her false apology.
“Of course,” Lady Miriam purred. “But you cannot deny that he is… strange. I mean, those ghastly scars are just awful!”
“I cannot imagine the nightmares he must have endured to receive them,” Isabella murmured.
“Oh, heavens, no, I mean to look at! It almost makes one feel ill at ease.” Lady Miriam shook her head hastily.
“I do not know how to stomach it. Does it not put you off your nightly dinners?” Before Isabella could berate her and follow her own path into her rage, Lady Miriam continued.
“You must manage him well, though, Your Grace, so I will commend you on such a thing.”
“Manage him?” Isabella echoed, disgusted. “Do explain.”
“Well, such a brute must have a terrible temper, no? You are not visibly harmed nor bruised, so you must keep him in check somehow.”
Her lip curled, but her response was lost on her tongue at a commotion across the garden.
She turned, as many others did, to see a footman tripping over, losing a tray of glasses full of wine.
On the other side of the garden party, Oscar stood with Lord Kirworth and Edmund, who enjoyed the attention he was receiving from ladies from afar.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I see my wife waving me over. Undoubtedly, she has yet another friend she wants me to meet.” Lord Kirworth nodded at the two of them before walking away, and Oscar was left with Edmund.
“And what of your wife?” Edmund enquired, raising a brow. “Have you abandoned her this afternoon, too?”
“She is right over there.” Oscar nodded, pointing at where Isabella stood with a red-haired lady whose eyes were too sharp to be as genuine as her smile tried to be.
All they do is wear masks, he thought, grimacing. Some masks were ones of faux confidence, a pretense to endure a night, a conversation, but some masks were to hide a truer personality beneath.
He turned away from them, trusting Isabella to handle herself. He could intervene if she needed him, but he knew she was plenty capable of diplomatically approaching anything if she needed to.
“How are things?” Edmund asked. “Have you had dinner with her yet?”
Oscar sighed, shaking his head. “I have actually thought about it a lot.”
“Sometimes it is the thought that counts, certainly. In this case, Oscar, it is the action. You must show that you see her. You are not a man who speaks his mind, his desires—”
“And what of my desires?” he asked sharply.
“You know what I mean, you incessant idiot,” Edmund snorted, and Oscar quirked a smile. “And yes, I am using my close-friend privileges, for I know you would strike any other man who dared speak to you like this.”
“If you were anybody else, you would already be on the floor.”
“I would expect nothing less—”
A cry came up from a passing footman, who was slightly stooped, and Oscar turned in time to see the older man trip over a fallen napkin that was being toyed with by the wind. The tray soared a short distance, sending the glasses on it flashing to the grass.
Immediately, wine soaked the ground, and the glasses thankfully didn’t smash, but the elderly footman was kneeling. He heaved for breath, already scrambling to collect the glasses as people turned to look and whisper.
Oscar was already moving as the laughter began to rise, the sniggers at the man’s expense. The footman’s face bloomed with a terrible shade of red, and his hands shook as he tried to compose the tray once more. He spared a glance up.
“Heavens, what an embarrassment!” a lady shouted, getting more people around her to laugh.
“If we cannot pay our staff to do their job properly, what do we do?”
“Poor Lord and Lady Kirworth, equipped with incompetent footmen. They ought to reassess their roster.”
Oscar paid them no mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Isabella already making her way over to the fallen footman, but Oscar was closer, and he approached first. Falling to one knee, he picked up the tray as the footman continued scooping up the glasses.
Gently, Oscar pried them from his trembling hands, quickly arranging the tray once more.
Then, he turned to the man, helping him up.
“Are you all right?” Oscar asked quietly.
Around them, the crowd gathered closer to watch the spectacle, still laughing at the footman’s expense. Nobody thought to assist; nobody thought to do anything, thinking themselves too good to help clean up a mess.
“I… I am fine, Your Grace,” the footman said quickly.
“You must compose yourself,” he said bluntly, but without his normal harsh tones. “Do not pay any mind to the onlookers.”
“Your Grace—”
“Take a moment,” he ordered, even though he truly had no place to give the footman such instruction. “And then return when you can. I will speak with Lord Kirworth regarding the ordeal.”
Together, they stood properly, and Oscar handed him the tray back, including the empty glasses, but the mess was already being cleaned up by more staff. Oscar finally felt the pinpricks of attention on him, and his shoulders tightened with the weight of it.
“What a beastly man,” one whisper went up. “He should not be getting himself involved with a poor footman. Heavens, the Duke has likely condemned him.”
“I think he berated him, too,” another lady murmured, and Oscar stiffened.
“No, he helped him,” one lord sneered. “And that is far worse. A duke should never stoop so low; however, what can we expect from the Beast of Rochdale?”
Oscar’s head snapped to glare at the lord, a young man who was clearly trying to curry favor, as he had actually only inherited his title some weeks ago. His comment got the desired reaction of a ripple of appreciative laughter.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the footman said, bowing. “Thank you endlessly. I know that I do not deserve your assistance, but I am grateful for it.”
“You need not thank me,” Oscar muttered, turning away. “Now, do as I suggested, and get yourself away from the prying eyes.”
At least you can, he thought privately.
The footman hurried away, the wine was cleared up, and the guests soon returned to their own conversations.
For a moment, Oscar met Isabella’s eyes. She was still in her position, halfway across the garden toward him.
Behind her, the friend with the keen gaze trailed after her.
Isabella watched as her husband helped the footman up, bending his head close to say something quietly to the man.
After a minute, the footman began to bow his gratitude, and, although the crowd began to whisper about the commotion—and also her husband—Isabella noticed how quickly they returned to their own entertainment.
“Did you see how he lorded over that poor footman?” Lady Miriam commented. “Goodness, one would run so fast away from His Grace. It is a wonder he is any help at all if that is how he approaches people. Do you truly not fear him, Your Grace?”
“I truly do not, Lady Miriam,” Isabella answered, her patience finally snapping. “Nor do I appreciate your form of apology. You may take it back, and quite honestly, you can keep it for good. I have no need of your friendship.”
With that, she walked away, for she had seen how her husband had helped the man, and she had seen how his face had softened while he spoke. He had done something good, and yet people still found terrible angles from which to view his deeds.
Approaching her husband, Isabella nodded to Lord Harcross, who gave her a slow, knowing smile that emerged into a full-on grin. It spoke of conversations Isabella had not heard, but said enough that they may have been at Oscar’s expense.
“Oscar.” Isabella kept her voice low. “May we depart now?”
“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. Despite his answer directed at her, his eyes remained on their surroundings, his scowl deepening at the lack of empathy anybody at the garden party possessed. “Let us go.”
To Isabella’s surprise, he moved to brush his hand against the small of her back, as if to guide her, but he stopped himself at the last moment, dropping his hand.
As they left, Isabella swore she heard Lord Harcross laugh.