Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Isadora rapped on Nicholas’s study door a few days later, her knuckles aching against the tough oakwood. The butler had informed her that His Grace wished to speak to her, and the absurd formality of the affair made her increasingly nervous.
“Come in,” he commanded.
Her hands trembled as she opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it again.
He looked just the same as he always did, which was to say, he looked remarkably immaculate.
Midnight-blue superfine sat across his shoulders above a snowy linen shirt, unbuttoned near the collar, where a cravat tied in a child’s knot hung loose.
At the sight, she felt her mouth go dry.
There was something so captivating about his sapphire eyes in the sunlight, so crystal clear and deep, and the harsh planes of his cheeks that occasionally softened in a manner that was endlessly endearing.
When he saw her, his expression went blank. Of course. This was usually the expression he wore when he was around her, except for those few occasions where he looked at her as though she were a rabbit, and he, a wolf.
“You came,” he started.
“You summoned me. Of course I came.” She took the seat before his desk, waiting for him to tell her whatever she had done that had displeased him so.
Perhaps she was not being an adequate mother to Sophia in some manner or other, or perhaps she was teaching the girl poorly?
Perhaps she was not dressing in a manner that befitted a duchess?
Or, perhaps she had majorly overstepped the other day, and she was about to receive a dressing down.
She arrived at the slightly ajar door of his study. Ghostly pale, he was ensconced in a letter open on the blotter before him, and he flipped it face-down with two fingers just as she knocked.
Sighing, she tried to get ahead of it first, “I realize I may have overstep—”
Instead, he held up a card between two fingers, flicking it with his thumb. “We have been married for two weeks on the dot. I think it’s time we show our faces in Society again. Were it down to me…” He inhaled sharply. “Alas, it is not.”
“You want us to… attend a social… together?” she asked, slightly dumbfounded. Then again, his clear reluctance made his feelings on the matter plain. “For what purpose?”
“Sophia will make her bow in ten years’ time, and by then her parents’ names must be as pristine as polished silver.
As Duke and Duchess of Winchester, it means we must be seen.
Seldom enough to keep them wondering and frequently enough to keep them quiet.
” He set the card down. “We have been invited to Lady Carmichael’s ball, and I deem it best we attend. ”
Isadora’s stomach twisted viciously. They had very little practice at being civil in the same house—they largely occupied separate rooms. For them to attend a ball, they would have to show the world that they got along well.
If not in love, they would at least have to pretend to be perfectly cordial.
In public.
“There is also the added benefit of showing your relatives that you are happily situated,” Nicholas said, and although his tone was perfectly pleasant, she had the sudden idea that he might have seen all the petty, bitter thoughts running through her head about her family over the past two weeks.
How they had never hoped for anything this good for her, and how she wanted them to know that she was far happier with Nicholas—despite everything—than she had ever been with them.
They had never once allowed her to be chosen; Nicholas had chosen her. The rest could be forgiven for now.
“Do you agree?” Nicholas arched a brow.
Isadora frowned at him. “Does my consent matter?”
“Naturally. It’s my belief we should attend, but if you have some objection, then I shan’t force you. Or, if you would prefer something smaller, there are numerous other socials that we might attend instead.”
“Oh.” She attempted to clear her mind and find her equilibrium. “No, I should be—I should be very happy to attend the ball with you. As you say, people expect us to keep up appearances, and I would hate for my family to be worried.”
For a second, she thought she caught a flash of understanding in his eyes, but a blink later and it was gone.
“Good. If you require a new ballgown, you may send for Mrs. Spenser. I believe she spent some time in France and knows all the best fashions.” He looked back down at the letter he had been reading.
“I imagine you will want to look your best.”
For your family.
The words resonated between them unsaid, but she knew he understood. And gratitude overpowered her resentment for a brief moment, leading her to say, “You are too good, Nicholas.”
At the sound of his name, he inhaled, nostrils flaring, and his gaze flicked up to hers, heat scorching through his reserve.
Then it was gone, so thoroughly she might have dreamed it.
“You’re welcome. We may not know each other well, but you are still my wife, and I will do all I can to protect you against the world when it seeks to demean you. ”
Overcome, her heart still pounding from the look in his eyes, she dipped a curtsy and fled without answering, pulling the door shut behind her.
She sagged against the wood, eyes falling closed, wishing she knew how to cross the distance between them—the few feet of study, the whole uncharted country of him.
Times like these, she could almost believe he wished it too.
Nicholas heard her before he saw her.
The whisper of silk drifted down the staircase, followed a heartbeat later by Isadora herself.
He had commissioned the gown with every intention of repairing the offence of that faded relic in which she had first come to Winchester.
He had not anticipated this.
Creamy lilac shimmered around her like the last light of evening, gathering beneath her bosom before gliding over the graceful sweep of her hips.
The neckline dipped just enough to reveal the delicate ivory curve above her breasts, where a rivière of diamonds rested on milky skin.
A sprinkle of auburn curls escaped the elegant coiffure at her nape, threaded with tiny sapphire blossoms that served only to draw the eye toward the woman wearing them.
Somehow, the jewels looked borrowed from her, rather than the reverse.
His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch, and he did his best to suppress the feeling that swelled in his chest.
This was entirely his doing. His bride had been a mildly pretty girl when he had first encountered her, and somehow in the course of their short marriage, she had turned into the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance.
Or perhaps she had always been, and it was only now that they were to re-enter society together that he’d allowed himself to see it.
But no, that couldn’t be it either, because even on their wedding night, in her nightgown, he had been stunned into silence by her pretty face and magnificent curves.
He cleared his throat. “Isadora.”
“Nicholas.” She floated to stand beside him, the jasmine in her perfume already threatening to send him wild.
He locked everything back and merely offered her his arm with no more comment.
If he revealed even a hint of what he thought about her dressed up like this, he would risk unleashing everything.
“Do you think I look well?” she asked, self-consciously patting the tiny blue blossoms nestled amongst her locks.
Well? He almost laughed.
She looked capable of undoing years of discipline with nothing more than a passing glance.
He nodded, waiting until he was certain of his voice before saying, “You look… like everything a duchess ought to be.”
“Oh.” Her voice carried the trace of disappointment, but she said nothing more until after he had handed her into the carriage. “Have you ever been to one of Lady Carmichael’s balls?” she asked when they were seated.
“Some years ago, yes.”
“Years?” She blinked in surprise. No doubt she had been expecting him to be some sort of social butterfly, when in reality, he had locked himself away after Grace’s passing.
Showing his face in public without her on his arm felt like a betrayal, every single time.
Frankly, if he could have had his way, he would not have attended this ball, either.
But he had married. This was his role as husband, and while he could not give her everything a husband might, he could at least give her this.
He understood she needed it.
She was quiet for a while, her gaze lingering on the passing streets beyond the carriage window. “I see,” she said at last. “I hope I have not erred.”
“Not at all.”
In the face of the finality in his tone, she let the silence keep them company for the remainder of the journey.
Lady Carmichael’s townhouse blazed with light long before the carriage drew alongside the curb.
York could not rival London for grandeur, but wealth had found comfortable lodgings all the same.
A line of elegant equipages stretched the length of the street beneath the shade of Summer elms, as liveried footmen darted between them while music floated into the warm evening air.
Nicholas stepped down first and turned to offer his hand. Isadora’s fingers slipped into his. She sucked in a small breath as her eyes lifted to the grand house.
Nervous.
Before he’d thought better of it, his thumb brushed lightly across the back of her gloved hand.
“You’ll do very well,” he said quietly.
Her lashes swept low, and for one perfect, undeserved moment, she gave him a coy smile. Nicholas cleared his throat and released her hand, setting it upon his arm instead. Together, they mounted the broad stone steps and were led into the blazing expanse of Lady Carmichael’s ballroom.
The whispers began before the announcement even finished. Curiosity moved through the room in a slow ripple, fan by fan, glass by pausing glass, every gaze fastening upon the Duke of Winchester and the young duchess no one had believed he would ever take.