Chapter 1 #2
There it was again: that sharp, private twist in her chest she never quite managed to master whenever she witnessed her sister with her husband. Tonight, it settled more darkly than before, a lonely little ache that she could taste like something bitter.
No wonder, then, that she felt an unexpected flicker of relief when the young, blond gentleman began to make his way toward her. Rifling through her memory of the numerous events she had attended since her debut, she recalled that the man approaching her was the Marquess of Falchester.
“Lady Isabella, the pleasure is quite beyond words. You are, as always, a vision. Your beauty is so vivid that one is tempted to shield one’s eyes.
Truly, beholding you is not unlike witnessing dawn break across an untroubled ocean, the first golden light shimmering upon the waves.
It quite steals the breath,” Lord Falchester began, then took her hand in his and placed a quick kiss on it.
Isabella had to employ every ounce of self-control to prevent herself from cringing. She hardly knew this man and could rarely stand such flowery compliments from people she knew, let alone men she’d barely spoken to twice.
“Easy on the flattery, Lord Falchester. My sister rarely believes the words poured from the mouth of a man, especially an unmarried one,” Beatrice chimed in, and a wave of relief rushed over Isabella as the Marquess pulled his lips away from her hand and released her.
“Your Graces.” Lord Falchester bowed to Beatrice and Leo.
“My sincerest apologies. Your presence quite escaped me for a moment. Lady Isabella’s loveliness has a most distracting effect; one can scarcely be expected to notice anything else.
” His pale brown eyes matched the sandy blonde hair on his head and the handlebar mustache above his lip.
Leo nodded once. “Noted. I trust your vision has now fully returned.”
Lord Fletcher bristled for the briefest of moments.
“Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace.” His fingers lightly brushed the edge of his waistcoat as he straightened, a deliberate elegance in every motion.
“It was scarcely my intention to show disrespect. Not when my purpose in approaching the lovely Lady Isabella is to declare, most earnestly, that I intend to win this competition in the hope of earning her favor.” His eyes darted back to Isabella.
Isabella would have preferred to sink into the depths of the sea than hear those words. A shiver of embarrassment ran along her skin, but she forced the smile she had perfected over countless encounters with men like him.
She knew what the lords of the ton were about: the luscious dowry, as well as connection to nobles of higher caliber, she promised as the daughter of a wealthy duke.
Because of that, she had quickly realized that the gentlemen of the ton would say anything and promise any castle she might desire, all for their own personal gain.
Their interest was not in her but in what she could provide, which explained why, despite her outspoken nature and three years in society, they still swarmed around her like moths to a flame.
“Ah, I see,” Leo replied to the Marquess, exchanging a brief, knowing glance with Isabella. “Well, then, good luck to you, Lord Falchester.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Falchester said with a bow, his smile faintly teasing. “Though a mere glance from Lady Isabella shall suffice as motivation.”
He dipped into a final, elegant bow before turning away.
Rolling her eyes, Isabella caught the tail end of Lady Kendrick’s announcement:
“Regrettably, due to pressing duties, the Duke of Everthorne will not be joining us. However, he has requested that we all enjoy ourselves to the fullest.”
A murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd, but the Dowager’s tone allowed no protest.
“Without further delay, let the games commence.” She inclined her head, signaling the start of the matches.
And so, they did. Lords of every rank squared off, their exertion marked by strained grunts and labored breathing, just as loud as the crowd’s cheers urged them onward. Steel clashed against steel with light twangs that carried through the air.
Isabella watched with rapt attention, captivated by the precise movements and clever tricks of the players.
How she longed, even for a fleeting instant, to try her hand at fencing, but she knew the idea was hopeless.
The gentlemen of the ton would sooner surrender their very souls than permit their wives to wield a foil without scandalizing half of London.
As the game continued, gentlemen kept flocking to Isabella, each offering extravagant promises of honor should they win. They became so many that the ladies around her, desperate for respectable matches, began shooting her with sharp, resentful glances.
The attention soon became unbearable, and she finally excused herself from Beatrice and Leo, cradling a flute of champagne as a small shield against the mounting tension.
She had almost made it to the edge of the ballroom when a lady, clearly intent on mischief, collided deliberately with her.
The impact sent a splash of champagne across the woman’s gown.
Isabella froze, mortified, while the crowd nearby stifled surprised gasps.
“Lady Isabella! What is the meaning of this?” shrieked a voice, sharp enough to turn heads across the ballroom.
Isabella’s eyes immediately landed on Lady Rebecca, a lady two years her junior.
“I—I do apologize,” Isabella said smoothly, raising her hands slightly in a pacifying gesture. “It was an accident. I did not mean to spill my drink.”
Lady Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “An accident, you say? Do you think I would believe that when you looked me straight in the eye as you walked into me, Lady Isabella? How could you do such a cruel thing?”
Before Isabella could reply, another lady stepped forward, leaning in. “I saw it all, Lady Rebecca. She did it on purpose!”
Isabella’s brow lifted. “I assure you, I did no such thing. I merely stepped forward and,” she gestured subtly, “you walked into me. The drink spilled upon of contact.”
The woman’s voice sharpened, venom dripping from each word. “You parade about with a fortune on your arm, refusing every respectable match simply for the thrill of attention, and now, you ruin a lady’s dress because she has been favored more than you. How shameful!”
Isabella’s lips curved slightly, but her voice remained calm. She was not one to be bullied. “I understand your frustration, but the facts remain as I have stated. I did not do this deliberately.”
From the edge of her vision, she saw Beatrice and Leo making their way toward her. She parted her lips to respond further, ready to defend herself, when a firm, measured voice stopped her.
“It is all right, ladies,” said Lady Kendrick, gliding toward them, her tone gentle but unyielding. “A lady should never raise her voice in public, no matter how provoked she may feel.” She cast a glance at the ladies who were making a scene.
“I agree, Lady Kendrick,” Isabella added, her voice steady but firm, “however, these two ladies must admit their scheme. This was a timed display to paint me in a less-than-respectable light.”
The two ladies scoffed in shock, clearly mortified by having been caught.
“Had there been anything respectable about you, perhaps this would not have happened,” Lady Rebecca sneered. “You should apologize for scheming so wickedly against me!”
“That is quite enough,” Lady Kendrick said sharply, her tone carrying through the hall. She cleared her throat, softening only slightly. “A lady of your standing should never be dragged into such theatrics, Lady Isabella. Remember, composure is the finest armor in situations such as these.”
“Theatrics?” Lady Rebecca scoffed. “Lady Isabella was seen walking into—”
“Thank you, Lady Rebecca. I shall have one of my staff amend your dress immediately,” Lady Kendrick cut her off, gesturing to a footman, who disappeared into the house.
“Thank you, Lady Kendrick. You’re as gracious as ever.” Lady Rebecca plastered a sickly-sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes, then murmured, “Unlike some.”
Isabella’s fists clenched, but Lady Rebecca was already walking away, arm-in-arm with her friend.
The crowd’s attention drifted back to the game, but the heat of anger that consumed Isabella was unlike anything she had felt before.
She knew the unmarried status she bore bothered many in the ton as it drew the attention of gentlemen, yet she would not trap herself in a loveless match simply to please others.
Lady Kendrick placed a light hand on her arm, a rare softness in her stern gaze. “Do not let them see you ruffled, my dear. Anger is a temptation best contained, or it will undo the dignity you have so carefully maintained.”
Isabella met her gaze briefly, then let her jaw tighten. “Thank you, Lady Kendrick,” she said quietly, her tone polite yet icy. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Without another word, she spun on her heel, letting the hot surge of anger dictate her steps.
Each stride was longer, sharper than the last, carrying her past familiar corridors, down quiet hallways, and deeper into the townhouse, far from the ballroom’s prying eyes and judgmental whispers.
The echoes of laughter and applause faded behind her, replaced by the faint hush of empty halls.
Just as she thought she had put enough distance between herself and the world of polite society, a rhythmic pounding reached her ears.
What could that be? It was a steady, deliberate sound that stirred her curiosity despite herself. She followed it, her anger giving way to intrigue as she turned another narrow corner.
At last, the source revealed itself in a side section of the mansion, quieter, almost hidden. The pounding grew louder as she approached, emanating from behind a sturdy wooden door that stood ajar.
Tentatively, she pushed it open, the tips of her fingers pressing against the hard wood.
Inside, rows of chisels, planks, and half-finished furniture filled the space…
But it was the man at the center of it all who captured her attention.
Shirtless, with short black hair, he swung the hammer with precision, every muscle in his back and arms flexing painfully under the effort.
He was so absorbed in his work that Isabella almost forgot to breathe.
Gnarled scars crisscrossed over his back, weaving a pattern that she yearned to trace with her fingers.
How did he get those scars?
Isabella was so mesmerized by the view before her that she hadn’t noticed she’d knocked over a plank in her haze.
Drat.
The man looked up from his work, dark grey eyes boring into hers.
“What are you doing here?” His deep voice almost smoldered like the burning embers of a fire.