Chapter 25 #2
A silent ripple spread through the ballroom. No one dared speak, but the curiosity, awe, and speculation were palpable. Isabella felt Cassian’s posture grow rigid, and she straightened her shoulders.
She could understand the stares of the people.
First, there had been a whisper of a scandal, and then they were married, but this was also the first time Cassian had arrived at a ball at the right time without trying to hide himself first, and it was the first time in more than a decade that the people were looking at a Duchess of Everthorne.
Truly, the stares were overwhelming, but neither Isabella nor Cassian let that deter them as together, they approached Lady Darby, who glowed in deep amethyst silk, her smile widening at their approach.
“Your Grace, Your Grace,” Lady Darby said warmly, dipping her head to both. “Allow me to congratulate you once more on your nuptials. A finer match I could not imagine.”
Cassian bowed slightly. “You are too kind.”
Isabella curtsied, smiling. “We are honored to be here.”
Lady Darby’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “And I, for one, am greatly looking forward to the Laurels’ demonstration tonight.” She winked at Isabella.
“Lady Darby,” Lady Kendrick called cheerfully as she swept in behind them, “you look positively radiant. I am certain half the men in this room shall attempt to court you by night’s end.”
Lady Darby laughed. “If they are handsome enough, I shall not object in the least.”
After the brief pleasantries, Lady Kendrick tugged Isabella toward the far end of the ballroom. “Come, child. Leave the Duke to go to the smoke room or whatever cave he prefers. We must discuss the ladies.”
Cassian, relieved at the escape, bowed once more and slipped away toward the gentlemen’s smoking room. Isabella watched him go, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd, before turning back to Lady Kendrick.
“Are the ladies ready?” the older woman asked.
“Yes, they should be,” Isabella answered. “The Laurels practiced extensively. Everything should go according to plan.”
Socializing filled the next half hour; compliments, curious inquiries about the Laurels, and subtle stares from matrons and ambitious debutantes alike.
Then Lady Darby’s voice rang through the ballroom.
“Everyone,” she announced, tapping a flute lightly with a table knife, “may I have your attention? Tonight, we are graced by the presence of the Foundresses of the Laurel Club, an assembly of brave ladies seeking refinement of intellect, strategy, and skill, as we all know. They shall now give us a brief demonstration.”
She gestured toward Isabella and Lady Kendrick, and the ballroom murmured.
The Laurels stepped forward, their dresses elegant but simple enough for movement. Isabella led them with steady poise.
But the whispers came almost at once.
“Fencing? Ladies?”
“How utterly improper.”
“Absurd.”
“No true gentleman would allow—”
“They are all desperate for attention, I see.”
Isabella ignored them. Her spine remained straight, chin lifted as she encouraged the Laurels to stand tall beside her. “We practiced well,” she murmured. “Remember that.”
Their first demonstration, a fencing display, began smoothly. Their second, a dramatic reading and a subtle debate followed, though the few snickers persisted and even grew louder in the crowd.
And then, when the demonstration concluded, the murmuring became sharper and meaner.
“Ridiculous.”
“Unbecoming.”
“Not ladylike at all.”
“Reading and arguing? How could one marry either of them?”
Stung but composed, Isabella moved to gather the Laurels, only to find Lady Emily trembling, eyes wide, lips quivering. A moment later, the girl bolted through the nearest terrace doors and into the rose garden beyond.
Isabella excused herself and followed at once.
The winter roses were pale under the moonlight, their frozen petals gleaming like small pink crystals, and Lady Emily stood near a marble bench, cornered between two hedges, but she was not alone.
Lord Falchester.
Isabella’s breath caught. She slowed her steps, moving silently across the path.
“Ruined already,” Falchester murmured to Lady Emily. “The ton will say so after tonight. Fencing with foils like some circus performer. You have handed them your reputation.”
Lady Emily shook. “I-I did nothing wrong,”
“No?” Falchester lifted a brow. “They laughed. They always will. A lady who mocks propriety might as well live up to it.”
Lady Emily’s eyes flooded with tears.
Isabella stood, alarmed. What relationship did Lord Falchester have with Lady Emily that he could not only speak to her but speak to her in that manner?
“Enough,” Isabella said, stepping forward at last. “Lord Falchester, remove yourself.”
Lady Emily startled, her relief palpable as she slipped away, running back toward the ballroom.
Isabella moved to follow, but Falchester stepped directly into her path.
“Your Grace,” he said softly, his tone almost pleasant, but his smile all wrong, “how very fortunate to encounter you.”
“I will not speak with you,” she replied coolly. “Move.”
He chuckled but didn’t move. Cold dread prickled down her spine.
“Do you know,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I was convinced you would make a fine wife. Graceful, well-bred,” His grip tightened the smallest fraction. “But you prance with foils in front of the ton, encouraging young ladies to embarrass themselves.”
“Release me,” Isabella demanded.
Falchester ignored her. “You think you have escaped their judgment because you married well? A duchess can be ruined, too. Quite thoroughly.”
Isabella’s throat tightened; still, she met his eyes steadily. “If you believe threatening me will silence the Laurels, you are mistaken.”
“Tsk.” His smile widened, chilling. “You mistake my meaning. I am simply offering you wisdom. A tarnished reputation spreads quickly.” His gaze dropped slowly, pointedly, down the length of her body, hungrily.
Isabella jerked backward, but he closed the distance.
“Let me go,” she said again, her voice lower, sharper.
Lord Falchester only leaned closer. “Tell me, Your Grace, does your husband know how very easily you attract danger?”