Chapter 14 #2
Together, the two older sisters only rolled their eyes, dismissing their mother’s complaints. It was interesting for Oscar to see what got under Isabella’s skin and what she let simply go over her head. The times she prickled the most were when her mother insulted somebody she cared about deeply.
Yet that would suggest she cared about him, for she had defended him in the drawing room during that disastrous visit.
He filed that consideration away, averting his gaze from the family as more couples filed onto the dance floor in time for a waltz to begin.
Charles took Hermia’s hand. One of the lords returned toward Sibyl.
Oscar couldn’t leave his wife to watch another ballroom floor longingly, as she had once done at Edmund’s ball.
“Dance with me,” he said, an echo of the very first night they had met.
Back then, they had been mere strangers. Now, his wife knew that he had a sweet tooth, and he knew that she favored the left side when she slept, if the faint patterns on her cheek that stubbornly lingered were anything to go by.
He knew what sort of pictures she liked to hang on the walls and how she enjoyed having fresh blooms in her room.
The pink posies were her favorite, but he had also noticed the recent appearance of dark blue flowers.
He could not be sure, but he was inclined to associate the contrasting colors with the duality of her personality.
She was at once the pink, soft diamond of the Season, but she also maintained a deep blue, slightly darker side, tucked beneath the surface.
He was learning about her. Slowly but surely.
As he held out his hand, offering himself to her here in this ballroom before the entirety of the ton, he felt the weight of their marriage commitment. He wished for her to trust him, and if she took his hand, that would speak volumes about her own feelings.
Isabella took his hand, and Oscar led her to the dance floor.
As soon as his hand tucked against her waist, Oscar struggled to control his thoughts.
Heavens, how could one instance of allowing himself to have her, to pleasure her and devour her, turn into a raging desire that he couldn’t ignore or deny?
How had one evening of touches turned into him starting to lose control every time their arms brushed, or he held her hand, or her waist, now, for a dance?
The music picked up, the tempo deepening, as the waltz built around them.
Oscar dipped Isabella in the first steps, falling into place among the other couples.
However, he thought that there could be one thousand people on the dance floor, in the whole ballroom, and he would only have eyes for his wife.
Her own didn’t stray from his, either, as her fingers curled into the lapels of his tailcoat before sliding up to his shoulders. Her fingers spread slightly, and Oscar knew he was the only one who would notice how her eyelashes fluttered at the broadness she found there.
He had never forgotten how she had looked at him the day she found him exercising in the woods. Ever since, he had found a different spot for his own privacy lest she catch him without a shirt, but there was little denying it: his wife enjoyed his strength.
Stepping and turning, Oscar guided her through the dance, gazing at her—at the way the light caught the ruby, convinced the color shone on her lips, and his thoughts ran rampant with the desire to kiss her right there.
If Lady Wickleby wished to boast about her daughter’s popularity, then Oscar only fought the urge to show everybody that they had chosen to wed.
Perhaps it had been transactional at the start, but…
But part of him was terrified that he was no longer feeling quite so stoic, especially since their night in his study.
When their dance drew to a close, he stepped back, ducking his head. Wordlessly, he walked away, knowing he ought to say something, but fear was a vise around his chest, squeezing until no words, no breath, were available. He needed to put distance between them before he said something foolish.
“Oscar.” Her whisper of his name almost pulled him back, but he continued, ducking through the crowds, escaping his own feelings he could not, and would not, untangle.
He would not corrupt his wife; he would not dim her sunshine with his shadows.
Isabella watched Oscar walk away with a pit in her stomach, wishing he would just come back, wishing that every time they grew close, he did not extend the distance again.
How can I make him stay? She thought hopelessly.
She had always known how to win men over. She always knew the right words, the right curve of her lips into a smile that had them returning, but her husband was a puzzle she could not figure out how to put together in the right way.
Acutely, she was aware that she had missing pieces of him, and until he offered those up, she would have to watch him distance himself every time.
Her thoughts were quickly distracted by Mary coming up to her side, tugging her from the dance floor.
“You looked beautiful dancing together, Isabella,” Mary murmured in her ear, giggling. “For a lady who continues to claim she does not want more from her marriage, the way you looked at one another says otherwise. His eyes certainly told a story.”
“Oh, I do not think his eyes said much beyond his cool tolerance for me and this setting,” Isabella attempted to dismiss, though she could not deny that she had indeed seen a heaviness to his gaze that had made her stomach flutter.
“I believe otherwise.” Mary’s smug smile made Isabella smile in return.
Hope was a terrible thing to feel in such a situation, but she could not help it. Surrounded by the candlelight and hauntingly beautiful, slow music from the minstrels, how could she not let herself get a little swept up in the magic and hope that something truly was blossoming between them?
Perhaps his distance was a safety barrier, but he had danced with her. He had held her hand, and he had pleasured her several nights ago, and she still recalled the heat of his mouth on hers.
Did she dare to hope?
“Have you had the pleasure of dancing with any handsome suitors yet?” Isabella asked, eager to have the attention off her.
Between her visit to her sisters and her own ruminating thoughts, she was seeking a distraction from herself.
“I have indeed. Lord Benedict has put his name down on my dance card, along with Lord Gregory. Both are rather good, advantageous matches should the evening go well. My mother is hopeful I will have at least four visitors tomorrow, all bearing bouquets.”
“And you shall pick the one who, by the hands of fate, guesses your favorite flower correctly without ever having to ask?”
“Precisely,” Mary laughed. “Ah, speaking of the woman herself.”
Isabella looked to where Mary’s mother was bustling her way over, followed by yet another lord who looked slightly bewildered.
“Mary, you must speak with Lord Torrington. He is most eager to dance with you, are you not, my lord?”
Lord Torrington looked half fearful of the persistent woman, and Isabella spared a moment of gratitude that while her own mother had been forceful, she had not dragged suitors directly to her feet. Still, she was growing desperate, and Isabella worried for the rest of Sibyl’s Season.
“I shall arrange a quieter corner where you may speak,” Lady Newbrook insisted, sparing a glance at Isabella.
She rather assumed the countess still did not like her very much. Politely, Isabella inclined her head but offered no greeting. The two women departed. Despite her efforts, she found herself looking for Oscar in the crowd, but he was always good at hiding.
As she craned her neck slightly to look further, she felt a shift in the air behind her.
“Good evening, Lady Isabella.” The voice that came from behind her made her stiffen.
She turned around slowly, ensuring her hands did not tremble, and that she retained her composure.
But facing Lord Stanton after thinking she might never have to again was no easy feat. Not when he looked at her as though he was ever so smug, pleased he had caught her alone.
“Heavens, you are all alone,” he noted, pointedly looking at her side.
“With the stories going around the ton, one would assume your husband would not be far from you. Word is that he is rather protective of you. Lord Peregrine still raves about the ghastly attack that unhinged man exacted upon him.”
“Lord Peregrine implicated himself,” Isabella answered. “You, of all people, should not gossip when you do not know the full story.”
His smile was broad and charming, unfazed. “Wise words, my former betrothed.”
“Do not call me that,” she muttered. “Be careful, Lord Stanton, for it almost sounds like you regret the decision you yourself made.”
“Would it be so wrong to admit that I do?” His words were smooth, casual, as if he cared but not greatly, as if he didn’t wish to reveal too much vulnerability.
She had heard such softness be used as a playing tactic to garner favor and forgiveness.
“I am immune to feeling sympathy for you,” she told him, and although her words remained strong and firm, her hands trembled, buried in the folds of her gown. “You shamed me, Lord Stanton. I had no part in our engagement ending.”
“I know, I know.” He sighed, as though weary.
“Now, I look upon you and see how you come alive beneath these ballroom lights. It takes me right back to the night we met, to the night I knew I had to make you my wife. Like I said the last time we spoke, I was a cowardly fool, and I am willing to go to my knees to beg forgiveness.”
His eyes lowered beyond her face, lingering on her neckline, and Isabella stepped back.
“You may stay standing, for I am not interested in forgiving you. In fact, I do not care enough to even think you need forgiving. You are nothing to me, Lord Stanton, so do save yourself the trouble of exacting an apologetic stance.”