Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

“Well, well.” Lady Langhall’s voice carried a hint of amusement. “That was quite a display with the Duke of Meadowell.”

Isolde turned to find her father’s friend studying her with shrewd eyes. The older woman’s garnets caught the candlelight as she moved closer, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“It was nothing,” Isolde managed, willing her cheeks not to flush. “Merely an escape from Lady Lillian’s sharp tongue.”

“Indeed?” Lady Langhall raised an elegant eyebrow. “And I suppose the way you trembled when he held you was also nothing?”

“I did not tremble!” But even as she protested, Isolde felt the phantom pressure of Arthur’s hand on her waist.

“My dear girl, I’ve known you since you were in leading strings. You cannot deceive me quite so easily.”

Before Isolde could respond, her father appeared, carefully balancing two glasses of lemonade. “My dear Lady Langhall, I remembered you mentioned being parched.” His eyes softened as he handed Lady Langhall the drink, his fingers lingering as they brushed hers.

“How thoughtful of you, Lord Winthorpe.” Lady Langhall’s stern countenance melted into something tender and warm.

“I noticed you favored the lemonade at Lady Ashworth’s garden party last week,” he said, looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you, my lady.”

Isolde watched their gentle courtship with mingled joy and longing. They had forgotten her presence entirely, lost in their private world of shared smiles and soft glances.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, though neither seemed to hear. “I need some air.”

The cool night air promised relief from both the crowded ballroom and her confused thoughts. Here, with only the stars as witnesses, the orchestra’s music floated pure and sweet, unmarred by gossip and scheming tongues.

Isolde moved deeper into the shadows of the balcony, letting the melody wash over her.

A sudden gasp followed by the rustle of silk shattered her moment of peace.

“Edmund, we mustn’t. Someone could—” Lady Lillian’s breathless voice carried from behind a large potted palm.

“Let them,” came the husky reply. “Let them all see how that fool you married fails to satisfy you.”

Isolde stood frozen, unable to look away from the shocking scene before her. Lord Blackwood had Lady Lillian pressed against the balustrade, his hands roaming over places that would make even the most experienced courtesan blush. Lady Lillian’s carefully arranged coiffure was coming undone, several pins already scattered on the marble floor.

“What’s the matter?”

The Duke of Meadowell’s voice so close behind her made Isolde jump. She whirled around to face him, her warning dying on her lips as Lady Lillian and Lord Blackwood sprang apart.

Lady Lillian’s expression transformed from passion to fury in an instant. “You⁠—”

“I say, what’s all this then?”

Lady Rutland’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. She stood framed in the doorway, and several other guests were peering around her with avid curiosity.

Something calculated and cold flickered in Lady Lillian’s eyes. At that moment, Isolde saw their friendship’s final death warrant signed.

Lady Lillian stepped away from Lord Blackwood, arranging her features into a perfect mask of outraged virtue.

“Lady Rutland!” Her voice trembled with artful distress. “Thank heavens you’ve arrived. Lord Blackwood and I just discovered…” She pressed a gloved hand to her breast. “I can hardly speak of it. The Duke and Lady Isolde, in such a compromising position!”

“We were simply taking the air,” Lord Blackwood added smoothly, adjusting his cravat, “when we came upon them in a most shocking embrace.”

“That’s preposterous!” Isolde’s protest sounded weak even to her own ears.

Lady Rutland’s hand flew to her throat, her shock almost theatrical. “In my home! Really, Lady Isolde, I would have expected better manners, even from—” She paused delicately. “Well…”

The crowd in the doorway had grown, faces eager for scandal. The whispers grew like a rising tide, each one striking Isolde like a physical blow.

“The runaway bride…”

“Always knew she was no better than she ought to be…”

“And the Duke… Well, everyone knows his reputation.”

Ladies hid their vicious smiles behind their fans, while gentlemen exchanged knowing looks. Isolde felt each glance like another crack in her already fragile composure. Years of carefully maintained social connections crumbled before her eyes as former friends turned away, unable or unwilling to meet her gaze.

“Lillian,” Isolde tried one last time, reaching for her former friend’s arm. “You know this isn’t⁠—”

“Do not touch me!” Lady Lillian jerked her arm away as if Isolde’s fingers burned her. “I am a respectable betrothed woman, not some common trollop who meets rakes on dark balconies!”

Arthur stepped forward, his face thunderous. “This is absurd. Lord Blackwood, you will explain⁠—”

But Blackwood had already melted into the crowd, using their hunger for scandal as cover for his escape.

“Oh, Your Grace.” Lady Lillian’s eyes widened with artificial concern. “I understand you must defend her, given your… position. But really, to encourage such behavior in an unmarried lady? Even for a man with your… reputation, it seems rather beneath you.”

Arthur took another step toward her, and several ladies gasped at the apparent menace, which only served to support her performance.

“See how he threatens me?” She pressed a gloved hand to her breast again. “Simply for speaking the truth about what Lord Blackwood and I witnessed!”

“What you witnessed,” Arthur growled, “was your own indiscretion, Madam, which you now attempt to⁠—”

“Isolde?” Lord Winthorpe’s voice, thick with disappointment, cut through the growing chaos. “What is the meaning of this?”

He pushed through the crowd, Lady Langhall close behind him. The horror on his face, the way his eyes darted between Isolde and the Duke, struck deeper than any of Lady Lillian’s barbs.

“Papa, please,” Isolde began, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears. “This is all a misunderstanding⁠—”

“A misunderstanding?” Lady Rutland’s voice dripped with disdain. “Really, Lord Winthorpe. I know you’re… lenient with your daughter, but surely even you must see⁠—”

Lord Winthorpe drew himself up to his full height, though Isolde could see his hands trembling. “My daughter has always conducted herself with⁠—”

“Oh yes,” Lady Lillian interjected smoothly. “We all remember how properly she conducted herself when she jilted poor Lord Wakefield at the altar. Tell me, Lord Winthorpe, does your family make a habit of causing scandals?”

The crowd pressed closer, hungry for more scandal. The rustle of expensive silks and barely concealed whispers filled the air as Lady Lillian played her audience like a virtuoso.

“Lady Lillian.” Lady Langhall’s voice cut through the gossip like a blade. “You forget yourself.”

But the damage was done. Lady Lillian’s triumph was complete, her lies executed with surgical precision.

“To think, I once called her a friend! But I suppose we now see why she really fled her wedding—clearly, she preferred more experienced company.”

The implication—that Isolde had fled her wedding for a lover rather than her principles—hung in the air like poison. She saw the exact moment her father’s face crumpled and saw Lady Langhall reach for his arm in support.

This was everything she’d feared since returning to London. Every whispered prediction of her fall from grace came true in the most spectacular fashion.

She was ruined. Utterly, completely ruined.

Through the fog of humiliation, she heard Arthur’s voice, sharp with command. “Lady Lillian, you will retract these lies immediately, or I swear by all that’s holy⁠—”

But Isolde couldn’t bear to hear more. Her feet carried her away from the accusation on every face, the weight of every damning assumption.

The crowd parted like water, and she rushed down the grand staircase and out into the night.

Behind her, she heard the Duke of Meadowell calling her name, his deep voice urgent. But she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t face him or anyone else.

Not when her worst nightmare had just come true.

The bitter irony wasn’t lost on her—she’d run from her wedding to avoid a loveless marriage, and now she was running again, this time from a scandal that would ensure no man of good character would ever offer for her.

Isolde found refuge in the Italian garden, collapsing onto a stone bench partially hidden by a flowering arbor.

Her hands shook as she pressed them against her burning cheeks, trying desperately to hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

“My dear girl.”

Lady Langhall’s voice, usually so steady and composed, held a gentle warmth that broke the last of her resolve.

A sob escaped her throat as the older woman gathered her into her arms, propriety forgotten in the face of such distress.

“I didn’t—we weren’t—” Isolde choked out between sobs.

“Hush now.” Lady Langhall rubbed her back soothingly. “Your father is handling everything. Lord Winthorpe can be quite formidable when his daughter’s honor is at stake.”

“My honor?” Isolde let out a watery laugh. “What honor do I have left? First the broken engagement, now this… Perhaps the ton is right about me.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Langhall’s voice turned fierce. “You are not the person they make you out to be, and I won’t hear such things from your lips.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Lady Langhall produced a handkerchief from somewhere in her elegant gown. “Now, wipe your tears and tell me what’s truly troubling that heart of yours.”

Isolde dabbed at her tears, the fine lawn of the handkerchief soft against her skin.

“I’m not wicked,” she whispered. “I’m not scandalous, or brazen, or any of the things they say. I just…” She took a shuddering breath. “I want what you and Papa have.”

Lady Langhall’s hand stilled on her back. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, please.” Despite her tears, Isolde managed a small smile. “I see the way he looks at you, the way your eyes light up when he enters a room. That’s what I want—real love, not just a suitable match or a convenient alliance.”

“Your father is…” Lady Langhall paused, and in the moonlight, Isolde could have sworn she saw a blush bloom in the older woman’s cheeks. “He is a true gentleman, and I am… fond of him.”

“Fond?” Isolde raised an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Impertinent girl.” But Lady Langhall’s tone was affectionate. “Perhaps you are more right than I care to admit. Your father has brought unexpected joy into my life.” She squeezed Isolde’s hand. “Which is precisely why you mustn’t let tonight’s events defeat you. Love—real love—is worth waiting for, worth fighting for.”

“Even when everyone believes the worst of me?”

“Those who matter know the truth of your heart.” Lady Langhall stood up, pulling Isolde up with her. “Now, we are going to fix your appearance, and then you will return to that ballroom with your head held high.”

“I can’t⁠—”

“You can, and you will. Running away now will only confirm their suspicions.” Lady Langhall began smoothing Isolde’s hair back into place. “Show them that you have nothing to be ashamed of. Let them see your dignity, your grace under fire.”

“Like you would?”

“Like a lady would.” Lady Langhall’s fingers were deft as she adjusted Isolde’s necklace. “Remember, you are Lord Winthorpe’s daughter. You come from a long line of strong women who faced adversity with courage and poise.”

Isolde straightened her spine, drawing in a deep breath. “Will you… will you stay with me?”

“Every step of the way, my dear.” Lady Langhall’s smile was warm. “Now, let’s go find your father and face whatever comes next together.”

As they walked back toward the brightly lit ballroom, Isolde felt something settle in her chest.

Yes, there would be whispers and cruel glances, but she didn’t have to face them alone. She had her father’s love, Lady Langhall’s support, and her own truth to sustain her.

And perhaps, just perhaps, she had inherited some of that strength Lady Langhall spoke of—the strength to stand tall in the face of scandal and fight for the kind of love she dreamed of.