Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
I t took precisely three minutes for Isobel to discover that attending a Whitby Manor dinner party as Lady Isobel Balfour was quite a different prospect to her previous ventures as a mere Honourable Miss.
She’d expected her entrance on Lucius’s arm to attract the usual polite murmurs of greeting before she withdrew to sit in her preferred position at Aunt Ursula’s side. In fact, she was already moving towards her aunt when Mr Whitby’s stentorian welcome rang out loud enough to quiet every other voice in the room.
“Lady Isobel! What a vision of loveliness you are tonight! Come here, dear girl, and let me introduce you around. Everybody is longing to be acquainted with you.”
Isobel froze, clutching the stiff wool of Lucius’s sleeve. He covered her hand with his, the warmth of his fingers reminding hers to relax.
Heavens above, there was not an eye in the room not fixed on her. Mr Whitby was bustling forwards from the group of gentlemen he’d been entertaining. A brandied glow was already warming his cheeks.
Isobel heard Lucius suck in a sharp breath, but his face remained in that easy smile he’d assumed before entering the room.
“You must not blame Lady Isobel for her tardiness, Father,” he said, taking Isobel’s hand and passing it to Mr Whitby’s with a degree of ceremony. “We met each other on the stairwell, and I was so enthralled by our conversation that I lost all sense of time.”
So the game had already begun. Isobel should not have been surprised that Lucius glided into this role so effortlessly. She’d chosen him for precisely that reason, hadn’t she? His feather-light flattery – his easy charm – his lack of any moral objection to meaningless flirtation.
But the fantasy of the compliment still caught on some secret part of her, hidden deep inside, that remembered that nobody had ever cared to flatter her before. A half-forgotten, bruised piece of her heart ached with disappointment that it was only pretend.
Mr Whitby, tipsy, convivial, and enamoured with gossip, was the perfect audience for their performance. “I can hardly blame you, my boy!” he said, his eyes darting merrily from Isobel’s face to Lucius’s. He bent to plant a smacking kiss on her hand. “Lady Isobel could charm the birds from the trees, could you not, my lady?”
Isobel opened her mouth without the faintest idea of what she was supposed to say – she’d never been quick with words, like her sister Anthea, or self-possessed, like Selina – but Mr Whitby was already tugging her along to meet his friends, and Lucius merely bowed a farewell, quickly tapping two fingers against his chest as he did, where only she could see them.
Two out of ten on the scale of love. The game was on.
By the time they were called in to dinner, Isobel’s jaw ached from the effort of smiling. Chief among the benefits of life as a wallflower was the freedom from looking amused at every boring anecdote. She was enormously relieved when they went in to dinner, and she had only the gentlemen immediately beside her to contend with, and the charms of Georgiana nearby to distract both of them.
Georgiana’s first devotee that evening was Lord Bell, a tall fellow with a pronounced chin who sat at Isobel’s left and laughed uproariously at everything Georgiana said, whether it was amusing or not. To Isobel’s right was Sir Ivor Chamberlain, Bell’s short, chinless friend whom Georgiana kept calling “Sir Chamberpot” – and if Bell was Georgiana’s new lapdog, Chamberpot was Bell’s kicked spaniel. He attended on their conversation with the permanent frown of a man who understood only half of what he was hearing, and every time he ventured to make a remark, Bell made sure to speak over him.
For her own part, Georgiana seemed to hear nothing of what either Bell or Chamberpot were saying. She had turned her attention almost wholly to the gentleman sitting at her own side.
Randall.
Georgiana’s pretty rosebud lips were curled into an enticing smile. The fingers of one hand curled through the bobbing curls that fell artfully to her shoulder as she turned in her seat, eyes fixed on Randall, listening intently enough that anyone who did not know her would have thought she was fascinated by his explanation of the intricacies of Gentleman Jackson’s boxing method.
“Does boxing interest you, Lady Isobel?” asked Sir Ivor, giving up hope of stealing Georgiana’s attention. Isobel was recalled to herself with a start and realised that she had been clutching her knife so tightly that her fingers ached.
“Not at all, sir. I confess I cannot see the art in it.”
“Nor I,” sighed Sir Ivor, burying himself in his roast pork. “Nor I.”
Isobel set down her cutlery and stretched out her fingers.
Georgiana possessed the rare ability to make every person she deemed worthy feel as though they were the most important person in the world. The total focus of her attention, seldom bestowed, warmed its recipients like a beam of sunlight.
It was a power Isobel had never managed to wield for herself. And, though her friend would have been mortified to know she was causing Isobel pain, the sight of Randall’s rapt attention as Georgiana twirled her hair and smiled was a particular sort of misery from which Isobel could not persuade herself to escape.
Until a loud clatter from further down the table tore her eyes away, and she saw Lucius’s clear grey eyes fixed on her even as he dabbed perfunctorily at the wine stain spreading on the tablecloth beneath his toppled glass.
“Pardon me,” he said to nobody in particular and gave Isobel a tiny nod.
The feverish prickle of jealousy fell away, soothed by the cool rain of that storm cloud gaze.
She followed Chamberpot’s example and turned her attention to her food.
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Isobel postponed her longed-for escape to the safety of the piano to sit beside Georgiana.
“Is something the matter, Iso?” her friend asked, turning that sunny smile to her. “You seem out of sorts.”
“There is something,” said Isobel. “Georgiana, I must confess…”
She paused, the rest of the words she’d planned to say suddenly ringing false. Was it her place to warn Georgiana away from Randall? What warning could she give – beware! Here is a man who does not propose to wallflowers ?
Would she truly be speaking out of friendship, or bitterness?
“I must confess I am exhausted after the long journey,” she said. “I was not expecting your father’s idea of a quiet family dinner to be quite so lively!”
“Oh, I’m as surprised as you! Mama seems to have invited every gentleman in the county to join us this summer.” Georgiana glanced across at the corner where Evelina sat, lost in a book, while Cassandra perched on the arm of her chair, whittling away at a stick with a pen knife and looking as though she would gladly stab it into the heart of anyone who disturbed her sister. Georgiana turned back to Isobel and spoke in a murmur. “I think Mama is trying to lift Evie’s spirits by providing plenty of company. The disappointment of Lord Henry has been very hard to bear.”
Isobel stole a glance in Evelina’s direction. “If she truly loved him, she is not likely to be cheered by the prospect of another. Not so soon after the heartbreak.”
Georgiana gave a wicked smile. “Why do you think I have been working so hard to keep all the gentlemen’s attention to myself?”
Their suppressed laughter drew the attention of Mrs Whitby.
“Georgie! Please do not make those silly faces! It is not ladylike!” Without waiting for a response, Mrs Whitby patted the seat beside her at the card table. “Lady Isobel, do come and join me. I have just been asking your aunt for her advice on which is the best jeweller in London, but she is so mysterious! I cannot persuade her to give me an answer.”
Isobel hastened to join them, before the unmistakable furrow in Aunt Ursula’s brow spilled out into real irritation.
“I do not mean to be mysterious at all!” Ursula was protesting. “I have not bought a new piece of jewellery in forty years! This necklace you are admiring was a gift – and not the sort of gift a woman receives in her eighties, at that.” She gave a broad wink which Isobel pretended not to see.
Mrs Whitby smiled and waggled a finger. “Ah, you may pretend to be frugal, my lady, but I know you always get your niece the best of everything. Isobel, you may confess the truth to me, for I always find out everybody’s secrets in the end. You are quite comfortable, are you not? And all thanks to your aunt’s generosity!”
Isobel frowned. “I… Yes, I suppose I am.” She smiled, if only to hide the fact that she did not at all understand Mrs Whitby’s line of questioning. “Aunt Ursula has a truly generous heart.”
She would have liked to seek an explanation of Mrs Whitby’s odd remarks, but at that moment the gentlemen came in. Mrs Whitby sprang up to take the pen knife from Cassandra’s hands and steer her towards a more ladylike activity.
“What a peculiar question that was,” said Isobel, keeping her attention firmly on Aunt Ursula and certainly not on turning about to see whether any gentlemen were coming her way.
Ursula gave an unladylike snort. “Peculiar? No, I think not. Unsubtle, yes. But neither peculiar nor unexpected. You’ve never been much of a flirt, my girl, but if you make a habit of cavorting about with Mr Lucius Whitby, you may certainly expect to be priced up like a slab of meat at the butcher’s.”
“Auntie! That’s a shocking thing to say.”
“Ha! You don’t deny cavorting, then?”
Isobel stood up, doing her best to appear prim. “Excuse me, Auntie. I must go and speak to Georgiana about… something important.” She winced, but since Cassandra had just been persuaded to sit down and play a duet with one of the unsuspecting gentlemen, she hoped her discomfort could be excused by the noises emanating from the piano.
Georgiana was holding court, perfectly at ease with Lord Bell and Sir Ivor the Chamberpot hanging from her every word. Isobel was almost at her side when she realised that Randall had started across the room at the same time, with the same destination in mind.
She froze. Was he coming to speak to Georgiana? Or had he noticed Isobel, just as she’d noticed him? Could he be coming to speak to her ?
She cast about for Lucius, but in her sudden panic, did not see him.
“Iso!” called Georgiana. “Come and sit with us! You’ll never believe the rot Lord Bell is trying to tell me.”
She patted the seat beside her just as Randall reached their group and bowed, and Isobel knew she would have to retreat. Make an excuse, feign a headache. Anything to escape.
She’d thought she was ready, but she’d never felt so powerless as she did when Randall took Georgiana’s hand and pressed it to his lips.
But before she could speak, the pianoforte sent out a chord so jarring it made her teeth ache.
“Blast you!” came Cassandra’s strident cry from behind the instrument. She slammed the fallboard closed with a loud smack and a discordant tremble of keys. The elegant gentleman who had been playing the other half of the duet only just managed to jerk back his hands in time to save his fingers.
Cassie rewarded him with a poisonous glare. “You know full well I cannot play at that speed, Kendrick, and you kept increasing the pace to force me into an error. I know your tricks.”
Lord Kendrick was unperturbed by her outburst, though everyone in the room was looking at them in astonishment. He answered her with a complacent grin. “You flatter me, Miss Cassandra. I am not talented enough to alter my tempo out of spite.”
“Tchah!” was Cassandra’s only response. She rose from the piano and stormed across the room, holding her skirts up in an ungainly handful, the better to stamp her feet.
Isobel burned inwardly for her friend. Cassie only played in public when forced, and Mrs Whitby’s guilty face showed all too clearly just how severely she had been forced that evening.
Lord Kendrick raised his hands and offered Cassie’s retreating back a round of applause. His expression was perfectly polite, but Isobel could not help but feel there was mockery in the gesture. The clapping was taken up sporadically by the other guests, with half an eye on Cassandra to check that she was not about to vent her wrath on them.
“Poor Cassie,” Isobel murmured to Georgiana, as the humiliated girl reached the refuge of Lady Ursula’s card table, where she was promptly handed a set of cards and a glass of something fortifying.
“Poor Kendrick, rather!” Georgiana responded. “I am sure he meant to get under her skin, and now he has the embarrassment of being publicly caught!”
“Ah haha,” laughed Lord Bell dutifully.
“Is Lord Kendrick –” began Chamberpot.
“Lord Kendrick is your neighbour, is he not?” asked Bell, stepping in front of him. Chamberpot sighed and turned his eyes to the ground. “Well, he ought to be well-acquainted with Miss Cassandra’s temper! But what a fortunate man he is to have such charming company so close by. I declare, if I were Kendrick, not a day would pass without my calling upon you.”
“I cannot think Lord Kendrick’s embarrassment is anything compared to Cassandra’s,” said Isobel, giving Bell the most disapproving look she dared. “Georgiana, can we not think up some distraction? Something to take everybody’s minds off Cassie?”
“An excellent idea!” cried Mr Whitby, overhearing her suggestion. To Isobel’s dismay, he took her arm again to propel her forcibly towards the piano. “Lady Isobel,” he announced to the room at large, “has agreed to finish the piece on my daughter’s behalf!”
Isobel froze. “Please, sir, that is not at all what I meant…” She sent Cassandra a look of deepest apology, though Cassie did not look up from her cards to see it. The last thing Isobel had intended was to add to her humiliation.
But Mr Whitby was bowing and gesturing towards the piano, and Isobel did not know what else to do but sit. She was no Cassandra, after all, and could not storm off.
She ran her eyes over the piece on the stand, and though the music was unfamiliar, its melody tingled in her fingertips at once. It would be easy enough to play on sight. Mr Whitby beamed at her, happily oblivious to the slight he was inflicting upon his own daughter. Lord Kendrick waited politely, his hands poised to play, one eyebrow half-raised as though he too were in dire need of a way to escape Mr Whitby’s effusions. Whether or not he had really intended to embarrass Cassandra, he evidently regretted the depth of the humiliation.
Isobel sighed, shook her head, and closed the music book. “I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I simply cannot play this without studying it first. The most I can offer at such short notice is a simple jig.”
“Oh, a jig would be magnificent!” cried Lord Kendrick, jumping up with tangible relief. “Miss Georgiana, I know you will oblige me by dancing!”
Bell and Chamberpot launched an immediate protest, but Isobel unleashed a lively jig with such gusto that nobody could make out what they were saying. It was a cheerful little tune with an oom-pa beat. Not at all showy. Nothing that would outshine Cassandra’s reluctant attempts.
Across the room, past the energetic whirlwind of jigging feet that was Georgiana and the Viscount Kendrick, Isobel saw Lucius approach the card table, put his arm around Cassie’s shoulder and steer her towards the dancing. Cassie made a great show of resisting, but Lucius took her by both hands and tugged her along regardless. Isobel added a little flourish on the keys as Cassie shrugged her shoulders and began to dance.
That, at least, was one feminine accomplishment in which Cassandra Whitby had no rival. The broad grin on her face showed that her embarrassment was forgotten, and her energy was so infectious that soon Lord Bell stood up with Evie, and Mrs Whitby with a red-cheeked Chamberpot.
And there, just past Evie –
Isobel’s hands faltered. She recovered from the error so smoothly that the dancers did not miss a step. But the fault was there: an E flat tossed into a cheerful C major, modulating everything, turning the candlelight dim. It resonated in her head as she played on, and as Lord Randall Graves made his way across the room – Good lord, was he actually coming towards her?
Lucius let go of his sister at the height of a spin so swift that she whirled directly into Lord Randall. Cassie was slender to a fault, but wiry with it, and her form carried surprising heft. Randall staggered backwards, barely managing to catch hold of Cassandra’s arm. It was unclear whether he was steadying her or using her as a post to keep himself from falling.
“Careful there, Whitby!” shouted Lord Kendrick, still spinning Georgiana at a rate of knots. “Miss Cassandra is not a weapon one should wield lightly!”
Cassandra bared her teeth at him in lieu of a smile and cast about for Lucius again. He caught her hand and pressed it into Randall’s.
“No trouble at all, old boy,” he said, as though Randall had asked to cut in. “Be my guest.”
Before anyone realised what was happening, Lucius spun on his heels and came to stand at Isobel’s side.
She stole a glance up at him, catching the mischievous grin playing on his lips, and returned her attention primly to the piano. Cassandra had already shrugged off her stumble, seizing Lord Randall’s hands with little regard for what the gentleman’s feelings on the matter might be. He was safely entrapped by a ring of dancers, and Lucius was standing guard at Isobel’s side.
“That was smoothly done, Mr Whitby,” said Isobel. “Anyone would think you were an old hand at this sort of game. Should I be shocked?”
He bent down to bring his mouth closer to her ear. Too close. Closer than a gentleman’s face had ever been, discounting certain memories that Isobel would rather forget.
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” he murmured, keeping his eyes up and scanning the room to check that they could not be overheard. “Anyone can see that I was too tired to keep up with my sister. I simply released her to a fresh partner.”
Isobel played a little faster. If only to make Randall sweat. “You are too modest, sir. It seems to me that you are as much an expert in securing a lady’s company as I am at playing the piano.”
She dared not meet his eyes with his lips so close to her ear, but she heard the widening grin in his voice. “I am rarely accused of modesty, my lady.” He straightened up. She was not sure if she was relieved. “Ah, you’ve changed the key.”
She restrained herself from tutting. “Not quite. Guess again, Mr Whitby.”
He rested a hand lightly on the piano, his attention withdrawn from the dancers and turning completely to her. As he watched her play, his quick grey eyes taking in every flicker of her fingers, something about it felt just as intimate as his breath on her ear. “Of course,” he said. “You’re adding the dominant seventh. There’s something restless about it, isn’t there.”
“Restless?”
“No need to look so surprised. I’m not completely tone deaf.” Here, with his back to the gathering and his face visible only to her, there was an unexpected solemnity to him. His eyes were darker somehow – more storm cloud than steely gleam. “It’s a chord that begins something. That demands a progression. I understand now why you chose it.”
She nodded. “We speak of resolving dominant sevenths.”
He glanced over his shoulder, and Isobel followed his gaze. Randall was still safely occupied with Cassandra. Mrs Whitby was trying to ignore the way Chamberpot kept treading on her feet. Georgiana was winking at Bell every time the dance brought them together.
“I wonder how this one will resolve,” Lucius murmured. Isobel had the impression he was talking more to himself than to her. He was dwelling on something he did not wish to share.
But his smile returned easily enough, and he gave her a deep bow. “That ought to add on the extra half a point,” he said, and returned to the party.
Isobel resolved the dominant seventh to the tonic without too much trouble, and without any inkling of what deeper meaning the transition might possess.
She wasn’t entirely sure their scale was accurate. Or perhaps Lucius’s idea of two point five was quite different to hers. She still felt his breath tingling against her ear, still heard the dance of mischief in his voice. And just then, before he withdrew, there had been something that stirred her still more deeply. His gaze was wintry – and yet left her warmer.
Lucius’s idea of a ten , she realised, would be far more than she had bargained for.