Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

“ M y dear girl, where is His Grace this afternoon?” Lady Langhall asked, passing Isolde a delicate porcelain cup. “Surely he means to call on his father-in-law?”

Isolde’s fingers tightened on the saucer. “The Duke had some urgent business with his solicitor. Estate matters, you understand.”

The excuse sounded hollow even to her own ears. In truth, she had no idea where her husband was—they’d barely spoken during the carriage ride to London, and he’d disappeared almost immediately after escorting her into their townhouse.

“Ah yes, very demanding business, being a duke.” Her father’s attention was clearly more focused on the way Lady Langhall’s fingers moved as she poured cream into her tea. “Though surely he could spare an hour for family?”

The word ‘family’ caught in Isolde’s chest. There was nothing familial about her relationship with Arthur. Nothing like the warm affection she witnessed now as her father leaned forward to catch every word Lady Langhall was saying about her latest charitable endeavor.

“The orphanage desperately needs new windows before winter,” Lady Langhall continued, her eyes bright with purpose. “Though the expense?—”

“My dear Matilda, you need only ask.” Lord Winthorpe covered her hand with his. “Whatever you require.”

The intimacy of the gesture made Isolde’s throat constrict. The way her father gazed at Lady Langhall with such easy tenderness, such absolute trust…

“You are very quiet, my dear,” Lady Langhall observed, her keen eyes missing nothing. “Is married life not agreeing with you?”

“No! That is… Everything is…” Isolde took a steadying breath. “Meadowell is lovely. The servants have been most welcoming.”

“And your husband?” Lady Langhall pressed. “Is he being… attentive?”

The memory of that night in the music room flashed unbidden through Isolde’s mind—Arthur’s hands guiding hers over the keys, his breath warm against her neck, the way he’d made her feel so cherished before pushing her away.

“He is everything a duke should be,” she managed, the practiced response tasting bitter on her tongue.

Her father and Lady Langhall exchanged knowing looks.

“My dear,” her father began, “if there’s anything troubling you?—”

“Nothing is troubling me.” The lie came easier with practice. “I am perfectly content.”

Yet, watching her father fetch Lady Langhall’s shawl, seeing the way they gravitated toward each other like flowers following the sun, Isolde knew she could never be content with mere duty.

Not when she’d grown up witnessing true love. Not when she saw daily proof that such deep attachment was possible.

Better to keep her distance. Better to guard her heart before Arthur could wound it further. She would be his Duchess in name only and fulfill her responsibilities with grace, but she would not let herself hope for more.

No matter how much her treacherous heart yearned for it.

The evening of the Ashworths’ ball arrived with all the glittering promise London could muster.

Isolde stood before her mirror as Martha made final adjustments to her silk gown—a confection of pale gold that made her eyes appear almost amber in the candlelight.

She felt Arthur’s presence before she saw him, his reflection appearing behind her in the mirror.

His sharp intake of breath made her pulse quicken despite her resolution to keep her distance.

“You look…” he trailed off as his eyes traveled the length of her gown.

“Yes?” The word was barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, his lips nearly grazing her ear. “Like a goddess stepping down from Olympus.”

The Ashworths’ townhouse blazed with light, every window a beacon in the gathering dusk.

As they climbed up the front stairs, Arthur’s hand on the small of her back sent warmth through her despite the layers of fabric between them.

“Still trying to keep your distance, my dear?” he murmured, guiding her through the entrance. “Even when you tremble at my slightest touch?”

Isolde kept looking ahead, though her cheeks burned. “We should greet our hosts.”

Lord Ashworth’s face broke into a broad smile at their approach. “Meadowell! Finally caught and tamed, eh? Though I dare say your Duchess makes the capture worthwhile.”

“Indeed.” Arthur’s voice held a warning edge, though his smile remained pleasant.

“Speaking of worthwhile ventures,” Lord Ashworth continued. “I have a rather fascinating proposition I believe would be of interest to you.”

Arthur’s eyebrows rose, but he inclined his head. “Perhaps we might discuss it later?”

“Of course, of course! Find me after the first dance set.”

They had barely moved away when Augustus and Jane appeared, the latter practically glowing with impending motherhood.

“My dear,” Arthur said softly, concern evident in his voice, “should you be here in your condition?”

Jane laughed, one hand resting on her slightly swollen belly. “The physician assures me that I may enjoy another month or two of socializing before my confinement. Though it’s sweet of you to worry, Your Grace.”

“Congratulations, Lady Jane,” Isolde offered, finally understanding. “I did not know.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Jane’s eyes sparkled with genuine warmth. “Perhaps you’ll soon have happy news of your own to share?”

Isolde’s breath caught as she glanced at Arthur.

Could she imagine him as a father? As a husband who cherished his wife the way Augustus so clearly adored Jane?

The opening strains of a waltz saved her from responding.

“Shall we?” Arthur extended his hand, and despite her earlier resolve, Isolde found herself taking it.

“The new piece from Vienna,” he commented as they took their places. “Though I prefer Mozart.”

“You play it beautifully.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

His hands tightened slightly on her waist. “Have you been watching me practice again?”

“I—”

The music swept them into motion, and she lost her train of thought as they moved together. She was acutely aware of the ton’s attention, of whispers behind fans and speculative glances.

From a runaway bride to a duchess—what a transformation they had witnessed.

“Are you well?” Arthur’s concern seemed genuine. “You seem tense.”

“Just nervous,” she admitted. “So many eyes.”

“Focus on me.” His voice dropped, becoming more intimate. “They don’t matter.”

Gradually, the crowd seemed to fade away. There was only the music, the warmth of Arthur’s hands, the way he looked at her as though she were precious.

“You move like poetry,” he murmured, drawing her closer than was proper. “Like music made flesh.”

“Such pretty words for a man who claims not to believe in romance.” She found herself smiling, responding to his gentle flirtation.

“Perhaps you inspire me to reconsider my beliefs.” His eyes dropped to her lips as he guided her through a turn.

The music swelled around them, and Isolde felt herself swaying closer, drawn by the heat in his gaze.

His head dipped slightly, and for a moment, she thought he would kiss her. But the final notes of the waltz faded away—though the warmth of his touch lingered.

Isolde stepped back, her heart still racing from their near-kiss, only to find Lord Ashworth hovering nearby.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” he addressed Arthur, “about that business matter…”

“Of course.” Arthur lifted Isolde’s hand to his lips, his kiss lingering just a fraction too long to be proper. The heat in his eyes made her breath hitch. “Until later, my dear.”

She watched him disappear into the crowd, trying to calm her racing heart. So much for maintaining emotional distance.

“Well, well.” Jane’s voice made her jump. “I haven’t seen Arthur look at anyone quite like that before.”

“What? That? No,” Isolde demurred, accepting Jane’s invitation to promenade. “It’s simply his usual charm.”

“Is it?” Jane’s knowing smile reminded her that she had tamed her own rake. “He seems rather… attentive for a mere marriage of convenience.”

Before Isolde could respond, a wave of whispers swept through the nearby crowd.

“Lady Lillian’s wedding trip to Bath…”

“They say Lord Wexford is quite besotted…”

“Such a love match…”

Isolde’s fingers tightened around Jane’s arm, the injustice of it burning in her throat.

Lady Lillian, who had nearly ruined her with her lies, was now being celebrated as a romantic heroine?

“She’ll get her comeuppance,” Jane said softly. “Such schemes have a way of unraveling.”

“You know about…?”

“About her using you to cover her affair?” Jane’s usually soft expression darkened. “Augustus told me everything. That woman’s day of reckoning will come.”

“She was my friend once.” Isolde’s voice caught. “Before I fled London, before everything…”

“I lost friends too, you know.” Jane squeezed her hand. “When I married Augustus, they said I was wasting my life on a rake, that he’d never be faithful…”

“And now you are expecting his child.” Isolde couldn’t quite hide the wonder in her voice.

“Love changes people,” Jane stated simply. “When you trust someone with your heart…”

“Lady Jane!” a deep voice interrupted them. “How delightful to see you again.”

Jane’s face brightened. “Lord Woodford! May I present Her Grace, the Duchess of Meadowell? Your Grace, Lord Woodford is an old family friend.”

The gentleman bowed elegantly over Isolde’s hand. “Your Grace outshines every lady present. Meadowell is a fortunate man, indeed.”

Heat crept up Isolde’s neck at his obvious admiration. Lord Woodford was handsome in a conventional way, with perfectly arranged golden curls and fashionable clothes.

“You’re too kind, my lord.”

“Not at all.” His smile held just the right amount of deference. “Would you do me the honor of the next dance, Your Grace?”

Isolde hesitated. The proper thing would be to accept—after all, a lady couldn’t dance exclusively with her husband. But something in Lord Woodford’s admiring gaze made her uneasy.

Still, propriety demanded that she accept.

“I would be honored, my lord.”

As they took their places for the quadrille, Isolde felt the weight of eyes upon them.

Lord Woodford proved to be an accomplished dancer and pleasant conversationalist, speaking of mutual acquaintances and recent social events.

“Your Grace has caused quite a stir,” he remarked as they turned. “The toast of the Season, they’re saying.”

“How kind.”

Yet, Isolde’s attention had wandered to the edge of the ballroom. Arthur stood there, his face thunderous as he watched them dance. Even from this distance, she could see the muscle in his jaw ticking.

The dance seemed interminable. When the final note was struck, Isolde barely had time to catch her breath before Arthur materialized at her side.

“A word, if you please.” His voice was ice-cold. Without even glancing at Lord Woodford, he took her arm. “Now.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Woodford protested, but Arthur was already steering her away.

“I do apologize, my lord,” Isolde managed to call over her shoulder, though her heart raced at the barely contained fury radiating from her husband.

So much for his understanding attitude earlier in the evening.

And despite her resolve to keep her distance, despite her determination to protect her heart… some treacherous part of her thrilled at his obvious jealousy.