Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“Ido believe Lady Isolde has finally decided to show her face in Society again,” Lady Lillian Edgerton’s voice carried across the manicured lawn of Berkeley House. “How brave of her.”

Isolde Townshend kept her chin high as she crossed the garden, though her heart thundered beneath her pale blue morning dress.

She had known her return to Society would be difficult, but she had not expected such immediate and open disdain.

“My dear aunt,” she murmured to the elegant woman beside her, “perhaps this was a mistake.”

“Nonsense,” Jessamine Finch, the Dowager Viscountess Haxford, replied. “You cannot hide forever. Besides, Lady Berkeley specifically invited us.”

“To mock me, no doubt.”

“Stand tall, Isolde. You are still the daughter of an earl.”

As they approached the cluster of young ladies gathered near the rose garden, Isolde forced a smile. They were her former friends—or so she had thought.

“Good morning, Lady Lillian. Lady Margaret. Lady Jane.”

The ladies exchanged glances, their fans fluttering like nervous birds.

“Why, we hardly recognized you,” Lady Lillian said, looking Isolde up and down. “A year in the country has changed you.”

“Not really,” Isolde replied smoothly, “though I see your impending marriage agrees with you, Lady Lillian.”

Lady Lillian’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, well, some of us will actually go through with our weddings. Tell me, are you here seeking a second groom? Though I imagine your options are rather… limited now.”

The other ladies tittered behind their fans.

Isolde’s cheeks burned, but she maintained her composure. “I am here because Lady Berkeley invited me.”

“How charitable of her,” Lady Margaret drawled. “Though I suppose even the ton’s most notorious runaway bride must be allowed some amusement.”

“Come, ladies,” Lady Lillian said, turning away. “I believe I see Lord Pembroke arriving. And he is still unmarried—though perhaps not desperate enough for some.”

Isolde watched them flutter away, their pastel dresses bright against the green lawn.

A year ago, she would have been among them, sharing in their lively conversations and savoring the joy of their companionship. Now, she was the subject of their cruel jokes.

“Shall we find some refreshments?” her aunt Jessamine suggested, touching her arm gently.

They made their way to the refreshment tables, where footmen served glasses of lemonade and light wine. As Isolde accepted a glass, she couldn’t help but notice how the gentlemen who once vied for her attention now looked past her as if she were invisible.

“Lord Worthington!” She managed to catch the gentleman’s eye, remembering how he’d once eagerly sought her for every dance. “How lovely to see you again.”

Lord Worthington’s face froze in a mask of polite disdain. “Lady Isolde.” His bow was barely adequate. “I’m afraid I’m engaged elsewhere.” He turned on his heel, leaving her standing alone.

Jessamine’s hand tightened on her arm. “The man never had proper manners. Come, let’s enjoy our lemonade.”

But as they moved from the refreshment tables, voices carried from behind a nearby topiary.

“I tell you,” a woman confided, “Lady Ashworth was in quite the same position after that scandal with her brother’s tutor. Can you imagine? Caught in the library in quite a compromising position! But she went to that matchmaker—you know, the exclusive one—and now look at her! Married to a viscount and welcomed everywhere as if nothing had ever happened.”

“Surely not the same Lady Ashworth who ran off with him to Gretna Green and had to be dragged back by her brothers?”

“The very same! And now she’s welcomed in the finest homes, all because of this matchmaker’s connections. They say she only takes on the most difficult cases…”

Isolde’s hand tightened on her glass.

“Lady Isolde!” Lady Berkeley’s voice cut through her thoughts. “We’re forming teams for Pall-Mall. Surely you will join us?”

The invitation was delivered with such artificial sweetness that Isolde knew refusing would only make things worse.

“Of course, Lady Berkeley. How kind of you to include me.”

As she followed her hostess to the Pall-Mall course, whispers seemed to follow her like autumn leaves in the wind.

“Did you hear? She actually fled to her aunt’s estate.”

“Poor Lord Wakefield.”

“The nerve of her, showing her face…”

“My dear,” Jessamine whispered, “you don’t have to⁠—”

“Yes, I do,” Isolde replied. “I cannot let them think I’m afraid.”

But as she took her place in line, mallet in hand, she wondered if perhaps she should be afraid after all.

Lady Berkeley handed Isolde a blue ball with an exaggerated flourish. “Do mind the new flowerbeds, Lady Isolde. Though I suppose you’re quite experienced in avoidance.”

More titters from the ladies.

Isolde gripped her mallet tighter, the polished wood smooth against her gloved palms. She focused on the course ahead rather than the sharp glances being exchanged, trying to slow her racing heart.

The afternoon sun beat down on her neck, and she could feel beads of sweat forming beneath her collar—though whether from the heat or her anxiety, she couldn’t tell.

When her turn came, she approached her ball with measured steps. The whispers followed her like angry wasps, but she kept her chin high.

She could do this.

It was just a simple game of Pall-Mall, one she had played countless times—on happier days when these same ladies had been her friends.

The scent of newly bloomed roses wafted across the lawn, reminding her of peaceful afternoons in her father’s garden.

She took a deep breath, setting her feet carefully on the manicured grass.

Just one clean strike and perhaps they would see she was still the same Isolde—still worthy of their friendship and respect.

But as she drew back her mallet, calculating the perfect angle for her shot, Lady Margaret’s parasol suddenly fell into her path.

Isolde’s skirts tangled around her ankles as she stumbled forward.

Time seemed to slow down as she fell, giving her a perfect view of Lady Margaret’s satisfied smirk and Lady Lillian’s gleaming eyes. Her hands flew out instinctively to break her fall, and she landed hard in a muddy patch near the rose garden.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs, but it was the sharp burst of laughter that truly wounded her. Cold mud seeped through her gloves and the fine muslin of her dress—the new dress she’d chosen so carefully for this occasion, hoping it would help her blend seamlessly back into Society.

“Oh dear.” Lady Lillian’s voice dripped with false concern. “How clumsy. Though I suppose that’s what happens when one spends too much time in the country.”

Isolde’s cheeks burned with humiliation as she struggled to right herself, her muddied skirts heavy and clinging.

Not a single hand was offered to help her up, though she could see several ladies shifting uncomfortably, as if their better natures were at war with their desire to remain in the ton’s good graces.

Isolde saw her aunt start forward, but she shook her head slightly. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her needing rescue, even from family.

The mud had soaked through to her skin now, cold and clammy against her knees, but she forced herself to stand up with all the dignity she could muster.

Her heart pounded so hard she was certain everyone could hear it, but she kept her voice steady as she said, “I believe it’s your turn, Lady Margaret.”

But as she stepped back, Lady Lillian’s sharp voice cut through the afternoon air. “Leaving already, Lady Isolde? I’d hate for anyone to think you’re running away again.”

Isolde froze mid-step.

“Surely you must stay and at least pretend to have some dignity,” Lady Lillian continued. “After all, you came here looking for a husband, didn’t you?”

The entire garden fell silent. Every eye turned to Isolde, waiting for her response.

Lady Lillian delivered her final blow with a cruel smile. “Perhaps next time, you will remember that a lady who runs from one groom won’t find herself another.”

The words struck deeper than any physical blow. Isolde’s carefully maintained composure cracked like fine china dropped onto marble.

Without a word, she turned and fled toward the small ornamental pond at the far end of the garden, ignoring the laughter that followed her like a swarm of angry bees. Her muddied skirts felt heavier with each step, weighing her down just as surely as Society’s judgment.

The pond lay in a secluded corner of the garden, surrounded by weeping willows whose branches created a sheltering curtain from prying eyes.

Here, in years past, she had often sat with her cousin Octavia, sharing secrets and dreams of romance.

How different everything was now.

Octavia was in Rome, happily married to her Duke, while Isolde knelt alone at the water’s edge, trying desperately to clean the mud from her gloves as her vision blurred with unshed tears.

She watched her tears fall into the pond, creating ripples that distorted her reflection.

Perhaps that distorted image was more truthful—wasn’t this how Society saw her now? A warped version of the proper young lady she’d once been?

“They are not worth your tears, my dear,” Jessamine said gently as she approached, offering her a handkerchief.

The soft grass rustled beneath her skirts as she kneeled beside Isolde, uncaring of the damp.

“They’re right, though, aren’t they?” Isolde’s voice trembled like a leaf in autumn. “I’ve ruined everything. No gentleman will have me now. And Papa…” She swallowed hard, remembering how her father’s face had aged years in the days following her escape. “He’s tried so hard to be understanding, to help me find a suitable match. But this will reflect badly on him too. The Earl of Winthorpe’s wayward daughter, who couldn’t even manage to secure one match, let alone find another.”

“Your father loves you, Isolde. He wants your happiness above all else.” Jessamine’s hand was warm on her shoulder, an anchor in this storm of emotion. “He told me himself that he regrets ever trying to force you into that marriage.”

“What happiness can I have when all of Society shuns me?”

Isolde stared at her reflection in the pond, watching the ripples slowly settle until she could see herself clearly again—pale face, red-rimmed eyes, and the unmistakable defeat in her expression.

“Only a miracle will save me now, Aunt Jessamine. Something to help me find my place again. Anything.”

A pair of swans glided across the pond, their elegant necks curved in perfect unity. They made it look so easy—finding one’s perfect match.

Suddenly, the conversation she’d overheard at the refreshment tables came rushing back. A matchmaker who could work miracles, who had helped another ruined lady return to Society’s good graces.

“Aunt Jessamine,” she asked slowly, “what do you know about matchmakers?”

Her aunt’s eyebrows rose. “Isolde⁠—”

“Not just any matchmaker,” Isolde hurried to add. “There’s one, they say, who has connections to the highest circles. Who helped Lady Ashworth after her scandal.”

“The ton can be quite creative with their gossip, my dear.”

“But what if it’s true?” Hope flickered in Isolde’s chest for the first time that day. “What if this matchmaker could help me too?”

Jessamine studied her for a long moment. “You’re serious about this?”

“I am.” Isolde stood up, squaring her shoulders. “I cannot continue like this, being the subject of their cruel jokes and whispers. If there’s even a chance this matchmaker could help…”

“Very well,” Jessamine sighed. “I shall make inquiries. But Isolde?” She touched her niece’s cheek gently. “Remember that you have nothing to be ashamed of. You followed your heart, and that takes more courage than any of these Society puppets possess.”

Isolde managed a small smile, though her heart still ached.

Perhaps this mysterious matchmaker would be her miracle, after all. She had to believe that somewhere in London, there was a gentleman who would see beyond her past—who might even love her for the very courage Society condemned.

She only had to find him.