Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“Beautiful,” Oscar heard Isabella mutter under her breath.
Lord and Lady Fargreen’s townhouse was alive with music and abuzz with the ton’s latest gossip mill.
Candlelight spilled over the dance floor, catching the gems inlaid in jewelry that decorated necks and ears as they were greeted by potential suitors.
The sight of men approaching the ladies and filling up dance cards was a sight as familiar as any to Oscar, and tonight he possessed as little patience for it as usual.
However, there was something about lingering on the sidelines next to his wife that made it slightly more tolerable.
If anything, now that they were married and uninteresting, their scandal apparently blown over, nobody truly looked at them too hard.
Still, watching how Isabella regarded the ballroom was the most interesting thing he had seen in a while.
She gazed at it as keenly as she had gazed at the chessboard they played on in his study.
He half thought that she had bested him at chess, almost, but she had likely bested every suitor who had ever thought he had a chance at her affections.
She was the queen on the chessboard, ready to win the game she played.
His eyes traveled over her soft, full cheeks—fuller, he thought, since she had moved into Rochdale Castle, as if she had let herself be comfortable eating whatever she pleased.
As if she had felt restricted before marrying him.
He did not like the thought of her parents perhaps inflicting such a mindset.
Finally, his eyes came to linger on her full mouth.
The mouth he had kissed; the mouth that had opened to moan his name as he tasted her.
Swallowing, he let his attention slide further to the base of her throat, where a ruby necklace rested. He wished to lift the piece of jewelry and kiss the skin beneath, to know if it was cold from the chain or warm from the heat of the room.
The necklace matched the daring, dark red gown she wore, a color to offset his own dark clothing.
To match, Oscar had been given a red cravat upon dressing that evening, but his eyes remained on the neckline of her dress, enticed by the shape rather than the color.
Heavens, though, the color was doing something to him, for Isabella had always dressed in softer colors, but this daring red had him on alert.
His eyes swept the room, wanting to know if anybody else looked at her with unabashed desire. The thought made his jealousy flare up, but he pulled his focus back to his wife instead, letting himself focus on her. It was exactly as she deserved.
“I suppose we cannot linger up here all night long,” Isabella sighed, and Oscar nodded once, offering her his arm.
The brush of her hand into the crook of his elbow had him stiffening, a reaction he quickly concealed. Ever since the night in the study, he had been so attuned to her. He somehow sensed her approaching any room he was in, and he was always aware of her humming further down the hallway.
It was as though he had nudged open a window, accepting that he wanted his wife carnally, yet now all the doors had been flung open, overwhelming him. However, if he were to drown in anything, he would rather it be the pleasure he felt toward his wife.
He just ached terribly, and he did not know how to incite another night like the one of the storm.
Right before they descended the staircase, Oscar halted Isabella until she looked at him askance.
“You look beautiful,” he told her, his voice tight and gruff.
“I am just as dressed up as anyone else,” she laughed. “But thank you.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Do listen to me, Isabella, when I compliment you. Such things do not happen often, so take it as a special occasion.”
“To find your wife beautiful is a special occasion?” she teased.
“I always find you beautiful.” His words rang with sincerity, and he saw the surprise flicker on her face.
He looked away, knowing he didn’t have to truly explain that the occasion referred to the fact that he did not voice many of his thoughts.
As one, they descended into the ballroom and were immediately accosted by the Wicklebys, who made a great show of greeting the Duke and Duchess of Rochdale loudly.
“Your Graces!” Lady Wickleby announced, curtseying deeply, exhibiting far greater behavior than she had in his drawing room. “How lovely to see you both tonight. I did hope you would attend, now that you are back in London for… how long is your stay?”
Her question was neutral enough, but her eyes, fixed on him, said everything else.
They said she did not want him around for longer than necessary, that being around him now was already testing her potentially thin patience, given how she had spoken to him and been dismissed the last time they had met.
“Not long, Mama,” Isabella cut in, clearly used to diffusing the tension her mother created. She knew the ways of her mother’s words well, knew what was a trap, a covered-up insult, and what might actually be genuine. “We are departing for Rochdale Castle tomorrow morning.”
“So, only a short stay, then?” Lady Wickleby’s eyes glimmered.
“As I am certain pleases you.” Oscar couldn’t hold back the amused comment, cocking his head in a challenge.
Lady Wickleby looked around, as if checking to see who might have heard it, and laughed loudly.
“I have been saying to Lord Wickleby that you have a hidden humor we have not seen often! You did indeed amuse us when we visited Rochdale Castle the other week.” Her voice raised when she spoke of that, too, and garnered some appreciative looks.
Oscar cared little for ballroom politics.
“Indeed,” he intoned. “I do recall you being very amused. My ears continue to ring with your laughter and… colorful comments.”
“Heavens, Mama, are you terrorizing Isabella and her husband again?”
The new voice had Oscar on edge, turning to face the Duke and Duchess of Branmere, Hermia and Charles, Isabella’s sister- and brother-in-law. He looked at the Duke, nodding once, receiving the same in return.
“I think we ought to say nothing and see which man speaks first,” Hermia giggled, looking between the two of them.
Charles’s head whipped around so he could scowl at his wife, but there was no denying the slight smile that grew on his face.
Outfitted in a blue gown that resembled the deepest part of the sea, Hermia looked beautiful, and it was clear to see why the Duke kept sparing glances around the ballroom, just as Oscar had. The comparison of himself and the established couple had Oscar shift uncomfortably.
“I believe Charles will always speak first, if not to gain authority,” Isabella laughed, and Oscar was surprised at her comfort with using his given name. “My husband enjoys his silence, doing his talking for him, so to speak. He believes it is powerful.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed on his wife, his head tilting to the side, both amused and irritated at being understood so much and so vocally.
Behind the Wicklebys, Sibyl stepped forward. Her hair was braided around her head and decorated with tiny pearls. Immediately, both Hermia and Isabella went to her, taking up arms at their sister’s side.
There was something about the sight of the three of them, standing together like a force against their parents, that made Oscar see Isabella in a different light for a moment.
She was not just his wife, but he could truly see her as an older sister to Sibyl, a younger one to Hermia, somebody who had both guided and been guided.
He turned his face away just as a smile almost formed.
“I do believe Lord Alexander is present tonight,” Hermia said. “I have been told you were seen dancing with him at a previous ball.”
“Oh, I believe I can agree to this,” Isabella answered. “I saw the two of you together at Lord Harcross’s ball, going toward the dance floor. The two of you were rather red-faced, laughing. It looked most cozy.”
“Is he blond?” Hermia asked, and Oscar was amused by the girlish gossiping that Isabella seemed to enjoy with her sisters.
“Indeed,” Isabella said, as though they were conspiring to set up their younger sister.
“Could this be him walking toward us?”
Sibyl turned to look, and hope lit in her eyes as she confirmed this was the Lord Alexander her sisters teased her about.
As soon as he approached, enquiring about being saved a dance, a couple of other lords tentatively approached, their eyes flickering over the two dukes. Oscar wondered if they thought the two of them stood protectively over Sibyl.
Discreetly, he did shift closer to the young lady but said nothing. After a moment, Charles did the same, and the two of them glanced at one another.
“Lord Bennington,” Sibyl was saying to one dark-haired man, “I have already refused your dance at the last ball. Please do not ask me again.”
Oscar tensed, ready to fight for Sibyl if any trouble occurred, or the man proved to be anything like Lord Peregrine, but the gentleman only sighed, backing away.
“Sibyl,” Lady Wickleby scolded. “You ought to be more pleasant to the lords if you wish to reject them. I do not think you are entirely in a position to reject anybody, but for heaven’s sake, at least do it politely.
Hasn’t Isabella demonstrated enough? I recall her rejecting several suitors, for she was quite inundated with offers. Once.”
The slight had Oscar tensing, forcing himself not to glare at Lady Wickleby.
“Mama,” Isabella sighed, shaking her head, “if Sibyl has already tried to reject Lord Bennington once, then why does he deserve such pleasantness? He clearly has not listened. Perhaps a stronger approach will finally get through to him? Sibyl does not have to be like me, nor Hermia.”
She turned to Sibyl, taking her hand. “Take your time, sister,” Isabella continued. “There is no rush, and what Mama is failing to mention is that you do have time to take. Simply look at Hermia and me.”
“Heavens, do not,” Lady Wickleby complained. “I cannot go through any of that again.”