Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

I t had been a matter of hours since Isolde Wilds had debuted into society, and already she was wondering if there was a single eligible, pleasant gentleman to be found.

"Heavens, Vincent, where have you been hiding this exceptional creature? Lady Isabel, is it not?" a gentleman named Lord Pomfrey cheered, the glassiness of his eyes behind a golden mask suggesting he had freely been partaking of the port and punch that was on offer at Kensington Palace.

Everyone, Isolde included, had been thrilled when the announcement had come that the debut ball of the Season, where she would make her entrance into society with the rest of the debutantes, was to be held in such an illustrious environment. Society had spoken of nothing else for weeks. Isolde had spoken of nothing else for weeks, eager for the day to come at last.

The fact that it was a masquerade too only made it more exciting, though Isolde had wondered if it was a rather foolish idea, considering the point of a debut ball was supposed to be that the debutantes were seen for the first time.

Isolde smiled politely at Lord Pomfrey, lowering her own gaze behind a mask of ornate silver and bronze vines and leaves, coiling over the bridge of her nose, the apples of her cheeks, and around her eyes as if they were part of her. Vincent had had it imported from Venice, and it was already drawing a great deal of attention.

Which, Isolde supposed, was what a young lady wanted on the night of her debut.

"Lady Isolde," she corrected the loud man, praying he would not ask for a dance. "But I can understand the confusion, Lord Pomfrey. The names are so very similar. You would not be the first to muddle them, nor shall you be the last; I am sure."

She chuckled just enough to be considered demure, rather than obnoxious or discourteous, remembering the lessons she had received over the past few years. After a somewhat memorable—for all the wrong reasons—house party at her family's residence, Grayling House, she had been thrown into elocution and deportment and comportment lessons at once by her mother.

"You will never embarrass us like that again, you wretched girl! If your father were here, he would not stand for it! Why, I am almost glad he is dead so that he did not have to see such behavior!" Six years later, Isolde still remembered her mother's furious words, though she liked to think she had done her best to make amends since then.

"What did I say?" Lord Pomfrey tilted his head to one side, clearly too inebriated to remember what he had called her.

Vincent clapped the man on the back. "It is of no consequence. Now, if you will excuse me, our mother is waving for us to come over, and we should not keep her waiting."

"But I—" Lord Pomfrey slurred, then tailed off, no doubt forgetting what it was he had meant to say. An invitation to dance, most likely.

Venturing back into the security of the masked crowd, Isolde patted her brother's hand and flashed him a smile. "Thank you, Brother."

"For what?" Vincent replied, grinning. He wore an unusual golden mask that was apparently meant to be a fox but looked more like a ferret to Isolde's amused eyes. She had neglected to tell him as much, for politeness' sake.

"I know I should not be terribly particular on my debut evening, but I am glad to not have to dance with such a gentleman," Isolde replied. "At best, my toes would be broken by the end. At the worst, he would forget what he was doing halfway through the dance and wander off, leaving me mortified. And one should never be mortified in the midst of a country dance. A quadrille—now, that is mortifying for everyone."

Vincent chuckled. "You have only yourself to blame."

"Whatever do you mean?"

Vincent paused, staring down at her for a moment with solemnity in his blue eyes. "It is no secret that I had my concerns over the years," he explained haltingly. "There was a time when I worried you were as half-wild as Prudie, but… you have surprised me, Isolde. Which, in and of itself, should not be so surprising."

"I still do not have the faintest idea what you are saying," she teased, aware of many eyes on her.

Gentlemen had been staring ever since she made her entrance in her splendid gown of cream silk, the skirt and bodice painstakingly adorned with pearlescent beads that caught the light in the most remarkable way. She preferred to think that they were merely admiring the craftsmanship of the gown, rather than looking at her; it seemed less intimidating that way.

Vincent gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Nor do I know what it is I am trying to say." He paused. "I know I have been stricter with you since that unfortunate business with Edmund at our residence, but I am not sorry for it. I am proud of you, Isolde. Proud of the charming, elegant, demure young lady you have become. Prouder still that you have not entirely given up your sharp sense of humor, though you are better at hiding it now—it bewilders and adds to your charm where it once outright offended."

"I took pains to study the world's greatest humorists, and though I am not nearly as entertaining as they are or were, I do well enough. As long as I amuse those who are dearest to me instead of embarrassing them, I am quite content with my wit," Isolde teased, feeling a little sorry that she had forced her brother to be stricter with her.

It had not been her intention. Six years ago, she had simply been trying to protect him and had gone about it all wrong.

"You could never embarrass me, Isolde," Vincent assured, resuming their subtle promenade through the crowd once more.

"I wish Mama had the same faith," Isolde remarked wryly. "Where is she, anyway? Did you not say she was waving us over?"

Vincent grinned from ear to ear, making his mask look more like a wolf than a fox or a ferret for a moment. "I have no notion of where our mother has wandered off to, but if there is one thing that is guaranteed to deter a gentleman from pursuing a lady, it is mentioning one's mother. Then again, I think you probably could have dispensed with subterfuge and distracted Lord Pomfrey just by pointing to something shiny."

"The trouble is," Isolde countered, " I am rather shiny tonight."

"‘Dazzling' is the word I have heard several gentlemen use." Vincent really did seem pleased, like a weight was slowly lifting off his shoulders. He now had one sister out in society, with two to go—that was reason enough to relax a little.

And when I am married, he will not have to worry about me at all anymore. It saddened her and gladdened Isolde in equal measure as she cast her brother a sideways glance. It could not have been easy to take on the role of the Earl of Grayling at the age of four-and-ten, long before he was ready, but he had dedicated his life to his family, slowly filling the shoes of the father who had passed before his time.

Isolde knew she had not always made it easy for him to do his duty well. She had been half-wild after their father passed and might have walked a more gossip-worthy path if she had been left half-wild, but she had realized that it would only cause her brother and mother more heartache. That had been the true catalyst to her changing her behavior.

Deep down, there was still a sliver of rebellion in her, but now it was dressed up in a pretty gown and would never show its face around her family again.

"What of you?" Isolde swiped a glass of lemonade off a passing tray. "Should you not be seeking out marital prospects tonight?"

Vincent pulled a face. "All I intend to do, once you begin to toil through your crammed dance card, is to find the smoking room and enjoy cigars and brandy with Edmund."

"Excuse me?" All the good cheer abandoned Isolde in a flash, halting right where she was walking, prompting a pair of young gentlemen to almost knock into her.

Even the likes of Lord Pomfrey were preferable to Edmund Connolly, the Duke of Davenport. Isolde prided herself on being amenable to most people, but she could not stand Edmund. She could not stand the way he behaved as if he were the most honorable, respectable, congenial gentleman to ever walk the earth, when it could not have been further from the truth.

Since the age of twelve, Isolde had decided to loathe him, for the crime of not being there for her brother when he needed a friend the most. Yet, he had expected Vincent's loyalty and generosity and comfort when he had suffered the same grief and had never once thanked Vincent for it. Edmund had acted as if it were a reasonable expectation instead—something required, rather than something graciously offered by Vincent, who was the best of men. As such, he would not ask for an apology or a gesture of thanks himself; it had been up to Isolde.

Over the last six years, wherever possible, she had tried to force an apology out of Edmund for abandoning Vincent after the loss of their father, only to receive rudeness and haughtiness in return. At times, she might have deserved that, but still…

Eventually, her attempts had turned into a general distaste which she doubted would ever fade.

A grimace twitched upon Vincent's lips. "There is no need for that tone of voice, Isolde."

"Edmund is back? When? Were you planning to inform me, or were you waiting for me to bump into him?" Her eyes flared with irritation. Of all the people she hoped would attend her debut ball, Edmund Connolly, the Duke of Davenport, had his name firmly in the bottom spot. If she never saw the man again, it would be too soon.

Vincent sighed, leading her to the side of the main ballroom, where they might have more privacy from gossipmongers. "He is my oldest and dearest friend, Isolde. I know the two of you have not always been friendly, but I had hoped that three years of distance might be enough for you to be civil in one another's company." His grimace became more pronounced. "Besides, dear sister, it is mostly your fault that there is enmity between you."

"I was twelve," Isolde shot back. "And trying to get an apology out of him for you, that you deserved!"

Vincent nodded slowly, having heard this argument many times before. "And he was mourning the loss of his entire family, thus in no mood for a girl's tricks and schemes. He has never been able to eat strawberry tarts again after what you did."

Clenching her hands into fists, Isolde had to fight to regain her composure. Even from elsewhere in the palace, Edmund was unraveling all of the hard work that she had done to become a respectable, polite young lady: the kind that could make her mother content.

" He behaved worse than I ever did after that incident," she reminded her brother. "I cannot recall a single encounter since where he has not been utterly vicious to me. Why, I should say it was a greater test for my ladylike manners than any lessons a tutor has taught me."

Vincent hesitated. "He teased you a little, that is all. I do not think it was worse than what you did to him."

"Of course not, because he is your dearest friend and, in your eyes, can do no wrong," Isolde grumbled. "Honestly, I would like to see you withstand such teasing. Then, you could deign to tell me how I feel."

They were interrupted by the shy clearing of a throat, and, for an awful moment, Isolde feared that Edmund himself had crept up on them. Instead, she looked upon the bird mask and kind brown eyes of Colin Ward, Marquess of Fenton.

"Apologies for the intrusion," he said, adjusting his posture. "I believe we are to dance the next set together, if you are still willing? Of course, if you are in the midst of something, then I shall return when it is more convenient."

Isolde brightened, shuffling off her irritation like a heavy cloak after a walk in the rain. "Now is perfectly convenient," she said softly. "My brother and I were just having a lighthearted quarrel about nothing much at all. It is assuredly a family's prerogative to squabble now and then, for I believe it shows you care."

Colin chuckled, gazing at her as if she were the most precious thing he had ever seen. She would have been lying if she said it did not feel good to be so admired, after all of the effort and determination she had put into being a refined lady of the Ton . Anyone would have been pleased by the reward after such hard work.

"My brother and I never cease our quarreling," Colin said, offering his arm. "If we ever did, I would think that something was wrong with him."

Isolde laughed daintily. "Quite so!"

"I shall restore Lady Isolde to you after the dance, Your Grace." Colin bowed his head to Vincent.

"There is no rush," Vincent said slyly, blue eyes glinting with mischief. "If the compulsion should arise, and my sister is amenable, dance two dances."

Not content with letting her brother off the hook, Isolde leaned in to Colin's ear. "He is eager to retreat to the smoking room before any lovely young ladies compel him to dance. The poor soul has two left feet."

Colin stifled a snort, turning his warm brown eyes on Isolde once more. "Meanwhile, I should hate to be in the smoking room—at least while you are still in the vicinity. Who would choose the company of gentlemen over the prospect of catching a glimpse—perhaps, even dancing—with the most beautiful lady in all of England."

Remembering to be modest, Isolde made a show of glancing this way and that. "Where is she, Lord Fenton? Might you point her out so that I might witness this rare creature?"

He beamed at her. "We would have to find a mirror for that, Lady Isolde."

"Oh!" Isolde snapped out her fan, half hiding her face behind it. "What a charming gentleman you are, Lord Fenton, though you flatter me too much. I cannot accept such a compliment, but I will accept a dance."

She was as eager to be on the dance floor as Vincent was to reach the fog of the smoking room, though she doubted he would actually sneak off. He had a sister to chaperone, and he would not neglect his duties for the sake of port and cigars, regardless of his claims to the contrary.

Looking as proud as a peacock, Colin led Isolde toward the dance floor, but not before she made another discreet view of the guests in the main ballroom. News of Edmund's return had left her restless, her chest uneasy with the sort of nerves that struck before an important recital.

Her stomach dropped as she caught sight of a towering figure leaning against the entryway to the ballroom. Dark brown curls, with an undertone of auburn, framed a smirking, annoyingly handsome face, while eyes the color of sapphires twinkled smugly, unfettered by any mask despite the fact it was supposed to be a masquerade ball.

A few ladies were making eyes at him, no doubt ‘charmed' by his rebellion against the nature of the ball. Isolde could imagine them whispering of how daring he was, to show up without a mask, nudging each other to walk past him or drop something in front of him—anything to capture his attention in return, though his attention was firmly fixed on Isolde.

She glared at him, wondering if he knew it was her or if his face had just stuck that way, forever etched with haughty self-importance.

Why come back tonight of all nights?

Of course, she already knew the answer: he wanted to ruin her debut. Revenge was a dish best served cold, after all, and it appeared he had waited six long years to exact it.