Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Are the ladies still present?”
Cassian’s deep baritone rolled through the corridor like distant thunder, entirely unaware of the effect it produced on the unsuspecting gathering inside the ballroom.
His butler, Michael, who stood dutifully at his side, bowed his head.
“Yes, Your Grace. They are.”
Had the man possessed a measure of foresight or the imagination of a poet, perhaps then he might have predicted the chaos those two words, Your Grace, would unleash. But neither he nor Cassian anticipated the chain of events already set in motion.
For inside the ballroom, every feminine head had snapped toward the door in utter disbelief. Like a hive of bees responding to the ancient and mysterious call from their queen.
“Your Grace?” a lady’s voice rang out in shock and unmistakable delight.
A wave of whispers erupted, followed by quick rustlings of silk as dozens of young ladies craned their necks to peer into the hall.
Cassian stiffened.
Of all the tortures he had braced himself for this morning, he had not anticipated walking straight into the center of attention like a deer into an open trap. He had thought that they would have been done by the time he had finished in his study.
For one absurd second, he contemplated turning around and escaping into the quiet of his study, but he was the Duke of Everthorne, and this was his own residence.
If anyone were to flee, it ought not to be him.
Even so, the thought of voluntarily stepping into a ballroom full of curious young women felt like walking into an entirely preventable ambush.
If only he had remained in his workshop where he belonged.
“You should join us, Your Grace!” the same eager lady called, boldly stepping forward. “Perhaps you might formally introduce yourself. I am certain most of us have not yet had the liberty of gazing upon you and making your acquaintance.” She batted her lashes almost absurdly.
Cassian shot Michael a murderous look. The butler exhaled quietly, as if already offering his condolences, seeing as there was nothing else he could do.
With resigned irritation tightening his jaw, Cassian inclined his head a fraction and stepped through the threshold. He might as well just be over and done with them.
The room fell into a hush the moment he stepped in. He’d expected that.
Had he the leisure to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, he might have done so, but hardly anything was worth the laughter.
Dozens of ladies stood in a semi-circle, eyes round and unblinking, cheeks flushed with either cold or excitement, he could not tell which—simply because Cassian saw none of them.
His attention snapped straight to the center of the commotion, where something far more alarming and infinitely more absurd was happening.
Lady Kendrick stood proudly in the middle of the ballroom, holding a wooden foil in a stance while staring at him. His heart dropped in sheer disbelief.
Without thinking, he strode across the room in a few long, purposeful steps and snatched the wooden weapon from her frail hands.
“Grandmother,” he said, his voice low and taut as he looked down at her, “I did not agree to this madness only to watch you injure yourself.”
Lady Kendrick rolled her eyes as though she had endured such scolding for a lifetime.
“Oh, please, my boy. It is a wooden stick, not a cavalry sword.” She sighed heavily at his remark.
“Nevertheless—” His voice trailed off as he reached for her sword.
Isabella stepped forward then, stopping him from proceeding. “Nothing we are doing here is dangerous, Your Grace,” she countered, her tone firm. “Our foils are made of wood, and we are being taught by a professional. What could possibly go wrong?” Her tone challenged him.
Cassian’s eyes found hers instantly. He disliked how effortlessly his breath caught.
“Everything. On all counts,” he replied curtly.
Truth be told, his mind was not on the wooden foils but on the sight of her standing there, bright-eyed and confident with faint droplets of perspiration across her brow and chest where her neckline swept low enough to reveal the curves of her bust..
Something about the way she held herself pricked at him, unsettling his usual composure.
She frowned.
“With respect, Your Grace, we are not children in need of protecting.”
“Perhaps not,” he said coolly, “but it seems the protecting is needed regardless.”
She blinked, incensed. “You overestimate the danger and underestimate our competence.”
“And you underestimate how quickly a room of amateurs may create chaos when holding weapons,” he said, gesturing pointedly to where a lady in the background had nearly dropped her foil onto another’s shoe.
The wooden foil clanked to the side, proving his point as if on cue.
“That was an accident,” Isabella retorted.
“No, it was a demonstration,” Cassian returned dryly.
“Well, it seems a demonstration of your lack of confidence in women.” She thrust her chin in the air, refusing to back down.
Cassian lifted a brow. “Confidence is earned, Lady Isabella.”
“And yet you seem to have enough for the whole room, Your Grace.” Her eyes flashed with a challenge, adding to her already exotic allure.
A ripple of soft gasps fluttered behind them.
His jaw flexed. “Holding a stance for five minutes does not constitute mastery,” he said tersely. “You all are at the very beginning—”
“As is the nature of learning,” she cut in. “We do not claim mastery, only the right to try without interference.”
“I am not interfering,” he said, exasperated. “I am preventing fractured ankles, broken toes, and possibly my grandmother’s hip.” His voice cut through the air sharply.
“I am perfectly well, Cassian,” Lady Kendrick chimed in, thoroughly amused.
Isabella lifted her chin higher, folding her arms. “If you know so very much about fencing, Your Grace, perhaps you should demonstrate your superior skill so that the ladies may learn from your infinite wisdom.”
Gasps again, followed by whispers and a few stifled laughs.
Cassian stared at her.
She stared right back.
The nerve of this woman.
For a heartbeat, the tension tightened like a drawn bowstring, and Cassian looked around at the semicircle of eager ladies watching him with scandalous interest, each waiting to see whether the Duke of Everthorne would rise to the challenge.
His gaze slid back to Isabella, and her eyes were bright, too bright and far too satisfied with her provocation.
Cassian stepped back slowly, refusing to dignify the challenge with a direct answer. Instead, he turned to the fencing instructor.
“Ensure she does not strain herself,” he said, his voice as sharp as steel as he nodded toward Lady Kendrick, “Or I will personally see to replacing you with someone who understands the fragility of age. I am sure that you would not like to end up on the floor like one of your wooden foils…” He threatened.
“Y-yes, Your Grace. I shall go easy on her, I assure you. Gentle footwork only, slow demonstrations.” The instructor bowed quickly.
“Good,” Cassian interrupted, sparing Isabella one last, unreadable glance—something heated, irritated, and grudgingly aware.
Without another word, he pivoted sharply and strode out of the ballroom.
An hour later, the ballroom was filled with cheerful chatter and lightly flushed faces.
Ladies compared their stances, laughed at each other’s missteps, and declared their surprise at how invigorating the lessons had been, and Lady Kendrick dismissed the instructor with warm gratitude before turning to Isabella.
“Oh, my dear Isabella,” she exclaimed, taking Isabella’s hands in hers, “what an extraordinary beginning! You did wonderfully. Absolutely wonderfully. This is precisely the sort of spirit I hoped the Laurel Club would inspire.”
Isabella, cheeks warm from exertion and perhaps from something else entirely, filled with modest pride.
“Thank you, Lady Kendrick. I am relieved everything went well.”
“And proud, I hope?”
“Very.” A soft smile curved Isabella’s lips.
Lady Kendrick squeezed her hands. “The first meeting was a success. I shall sleep happily tonight,” the older woman exclaimed, and Isabella laughed, the last remnants of tension slipping from her shoulders.
Soon enough, coats and cloaks were retrieved, farewells exchanged, and the ladies departed in clusters, chattering excitedly about the next session.
Christine linked her arm with Isabella’s as they made their way out of the ballroom and toward the entrance hall.
“What a remarkable day,” Christine said warmly. “I daresay you created quite the impression. I am happy for you.”
Isabella exhaled, feeling the weight of the day settling over her. “I am glad. I only hoped they would find joy in it.”
“Oh, they did. I could see it on every face.”
The carriage awaited them at the bottom of the townhouse steps, but Isabella paused before climbing in, glancing once more at the mansion.
This time, no one was watching through the window.
After today, she should have felt nothing but triumph, satisfaction, and pride.
Yet… a small part of her wilted in disappointment.
A soft knock, too gentle to be her maid, roused Isabella from her strained slumber.
“Come in,” Isabella called, pushing her hair from her face, stretching her arms.
Christine entered with a small, warm smile.
“I hope I did not wake you?” Christine asked lightly, and Isabella shook her head.
“No,” she replied. “I was half-awake.”
Christine stepped further into the room. “An invitation to Lady Hamilton’s sixtieth birthday celebration arrived during the week. I did not tell you sooner because you were preoccupied with preparations for the club, but now that the first day is behind you, I thought it best to bring it up.”
She produced a cream-colored envelope sealed with a heavy stamp from her robe.
“You should attend with your father and me. It will not be so regrettable an evening, I promise.”
Isabella nodded instantly, wasting no time on baseless thoughts. Truly, she’d grown bored of balls and the likes, but she still attended them just in case she was fortunate enough to meet a man who checked all her boxes.
“Yes, I shall attend,” she replied to seal her agreement.
Christine blinked, then clasped her hands in delight.
“How wonderful! I must confess I had a gown prepared in advance for you. I suspected you might refuse, but I could not resist.”
Isabella’s heart warmed. Gratitude swelled quietly in her chest, not merely for the gown but for Christine’s attentiveness, her care, and her understanding of Isabella.
“Thank you,” Isabella murmured, “truly.”
Christine’s smile softened. “The event is this evening. I shall have your dress pressed and ready.”
Lady Hamilton’s celebration was, as expected, a grand affair.
The ’hostess’s townhouse was a maze of glittering chandeliers, aromatic garlands, and elegantly dressed guests who filled the rooms with bright laughter and polite chatter.
Music drifted from the orchestra’s corner, sweet and melodious as the event commenced.
Isabella entered on her father’s arm, Christine walking beside them. The gown Christine had chosen for her, a soft rose color embroidered with silver detailing, made Isabella feel both graceful and beautiful, and the warmth in Christine’s eyes assured her she need not second-guess herself.
They had barely stepped into the drawing room when the whispers began.
“Oh, there she is, Lady Isabella, who is on her way to making all the respectable ladies of the ton wanton.”
“A club for what purpose, I wonder?”
“Oh, it shall turn to dust before the next meeting, mark my words.”
Isabella held her chin high, refusing to let their murmurs prick her composed facade.
Let them talk. Let them sneer. None of them had the faintest idea of the determination to do exploits that burned within her.
After congratulating the host on her birthday, Isabella separated herself from her family, only to regret it the moment the one man she hoped to avoid stalked towards her.
Lord Falchester.
He approached with his usual condescending air, his eyes sweeping over her as though she were a painting he was appraising, one he believed ought to belong to him.
“Lady Isabella,” he drawled, bowing only as much as propriety demanded, “How radiant you look this evening. I must say, time has been kind to you. You grow lovelier each day.”
“Time treats us all the same,” Isabella replied coolly.
He chuckled, finding her remark far more flirtatious than she had intended. “I have heard,” he continued, lowering his voice, “that you are a part of a ladies’ meeting of sorts?”
“A ladies’ club,” she corrected.
“A ladies’ club,” he echoed dismissively, “Dearest, what interest could ladies possibly have in such exertions? Surely you will become bored with it soon enough.”
“Perhaps,” Isabella said, her voice steady, “but that is my decision to make, My Lord.”
Lord Falchester stepped closer than necessary. “You ought to concern yourself with matters more suited to your station, such as securing a future. A husband of standing would bring far more satisfaction than these little… diversions.”
“Your concern is noted.” Isabella’s jaw tightened as she watched him.
“Good,” he said, clearly misinterpreting her civility as softness, “then perhaps you might grant me the honor of calling upon you next week. I believe we might—”
“No, My Lord. You may not,” she cut in before he could finish.
His face faltered. “I… I beg your finest pardon?”
She softened her voice, recalling that her father would want her to treat the man with civility. “I fear I am too busy with the Laurel Club this week. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said dryly and turned from him.
Her heart thumped with irritation as she crossed the room, weaving between clusters of guests until she found her father and Christine perched near a table of refreshments.
Christine lifted her brows, already sensing Isabella’s agitation. “Is everything all right?” she asked, and Isabella shook her head.
“I have grown quite bored with this event. Might we go home?”
Christine’s expression softened immediately while her father nodded, seeming relieved to leave before the night grew too long.