Chapter 10 #2
Beside him, Isadora flushed, but pleasure outweighed the discomfort in her face—he could see it.
She had spent too many years passing invisible through rooms like this one.
Tonight, for the first time in her life, she stood at the burning center of admiration and envy alike, and some starved part of her was drinking it in.
Most of them would be remembering Grace. He had brought her to gatherings just like this; it had been Grace’s gloved hand resting on this same arm.
It was not that he missed her, precisely—not after all these years, and they had been poorly matched even at their best. But the guilt had never loosened its grip. That he had been part of the reason she died.
And now here he stood with a new bride on his arm, and somewhere behind every smiling face in this ballroom, the same question was surely turning: how long before this one, too, withered in his keeping?
A curse felt as though it had been placed upon his head.
And so he did as he always did in situations such as this: he retreated inside himself, to a place where nothing and no one could touch him.
While Isadora smiled prettily beside him, he left his body to conduct the evening, offering nods and whatever polite little tidbits necessary to facilitate conversation.
Lady Carmichael complimented Isadora’s dress, and she turned to him with her whole face alight, expecting him to echo it, to glory in her a little. He had commissioned the thing, after all.
But he could not summon so much as a smile.
The small group of musicians in one corner of the room struck up a merry jig, preparing the way for the country dances.
Isadora looked up at him. Candlelight had turned her brown eyes to lit amber, her hair a dark flame framing her face, and the wanting hit him with such sudden violence that his hand twitched with the urge to tip her chin and kiss her before the entire assembly.
He forced his face to shutter, pushing the emotions down until he could almost believe they didn’t exist.
“Will you not dance with me, husband?”
He didn’t want to dance with her; he wanted to sweep her into a private room and do unspeakable things to her instead.
That would not do here. None of it would ever do for her; she could not have his passion lest he ruin them both.
“I don’t dance,” he told her, his voice as cold as he could make it, and walked away.
Ire burned in Isadora’s chest. How dare he speak to her in that cold, unfeeling way, humiliating her in front of everyone when he had known—she was certain he had known—how important this evening was to her.
On the other side of the room, her aunt and uncle watched and had no doubt seen her own husband turn down her request.
She was not a clingy wife, and she asked very little from him. Yet this he could not do.
Another gentleman approached and bowed. “Forgive my impertinence,” he said. “I know we have not been formally introduced, but I could not remain where I was when you ought to be dancing.”
She inhaled a shuddering breath, composing herself. “You are too kind, sir.”
“Please, call me Lord Rupert.” He offered her his hand. “Would you do me the honor of the next dance, Your Grace?”
Relief replaced the anger, and sent warmth through her limbs. So she was not to be left as the wallflower, as had happened in most of the gatherings she had thus far attended. She was no longer simply the overlooked daughter of a dead baron; now she was a duchess.
She smiled at him. Lord Rupert was passably handsome, a taking smile saving him from being nondescript, and he moved through the world as though he was long accustomed to being welcomed in it.
Well, if he had approached her knowing she would welcome his approach, that was hardly so very bad. At least he had approached her.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before,” he said, drawing her closer. Out of the corner of her eye, Isadora noticed Nicholas prowling around the outskirts of the ballroom, his midwinter eyes branded on her.
She did her best to ignore him.
“I have only recently married,” she answered, attempting to focus on her dance partner.
“Ah, yes. Allow me to offer you my felicitations.”
Knowing the way Nicholas had so rudely and overtly snubbed her, the words only brought another surge of anger through her. She laughed, the sound glittering and sharp. “Thank you. I am exceedingly fortunate in my choice of husband.”
“Few would disagree, Your Grace. And I must say, you look divine in this gown. A duchess on the arm of a duke who may do as she pleases when she arrives at any event? There are plenty of ladies who would be absolutely green with envy.” He smiled at her, a little archly, and Isadora realized he was flirting with her.
Both congratulating her on her new position in life and her freedom, and suggesting that he could be the thing she did with her newfound freedom.
On the surface of it, flirting with him seemed like a fun and lighthearted way of spending the evening. He openly admired her—which was more than Nicholas had done when he had seen her in the gown he had paid for.
But somehow the thought of flirting with a gentleman who was not her husband did not appeal. Even so, she smiled up at him.
“You are too kind.”
“I only tell the truth as I see it.” His brown eyes glittered. “But if you are in the mood for other entertainments, I’m sure we can find something more to your liking.”
“It’s not that I need something more to my liking,” she explained, suddenly embarrassed. “More that this is my first ball after my marriage, and I would rather not—”
He squeezed her hand. “I understand. And with the way your new husband is glaring at me, perhaps it is safer for me if I beat a strategic retreat after this dance.”
“Oh, he could not care less,” she waved a cavalier hand. How she wished he would, sometimes.
Lord Rupert cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? I’m not entirely sure I agree with your assessment, Your Grace.”
“My lord—”
He chuckled hearteningly. “I am a man, and by the very virtue of belonging to the less-fairer sex, I have come to recognize the expression in another man’s eyes.”
Isadora’s brows drew together. “But—”
“If you seek my advice—and I understand if you may not—then you will dance with as many gentlemen as you can get your pretty gloves on tonight.” He shot her a teasing wink. “Show him the error of his ways.”
Isadora tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “You think in this way, I can make him jealous?”
“Precisely. Do you doubt me? I would happily wager our next dance.”
“I should rather not…”
“Then merely allow me the satisfaction of being right,” he replied with a crooked grin. “Or do you doubt your conviction?”
Isadora didn’t think she could make him jealous, precisely—but then she recalled the look in his eyes when he had seen her with Mr. Windham’s letter on their wedding night.
Perhaps he was not jealous, but he was possessive.
He had not wanted her attention to be on another man when he had been the one to marry her.
Could the same concept apply here?
“Very well…” she said after a brief moment of musing. “Let’s see if you’re right after all.”