Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T he Duke and Duchess of Farnaby's opulent ballroom had been transformed into a scene from Roman myth and history, emulating the triclinia of ancient days—everything designed for feasting and drinking and merrymaking.

False pillars had been brought in, bordering the sides of the ballroom, while heavy purple velvet draped luxuriously between. More velvets and silks and gauzy swathes of fabric in bright reds, burnished oranges, and rich purples billowed from one side of the ballroom to the other, creating a lower, swaying ceiling. And chaise-longues had been arranged around the space instead of the usual tables and chairs, for those who wished to spectate or rest awhile.

"It is outrageous," an old woman in a stuffy black dress muttered, turning up her nose at the long, narrow feasting tables that could be glimpsed between the false pillars.

Edmund, who was standing to one side, minding his own business until he saw someone worth talking to, stifled a laugh at the woman's remark. He thought it was rather impressive, and the array of delicious food had already tempted him to wander by the tables a few times, picking at the plump grapes and sweet treats and roasted duck.

Since he had decided to return to his own townhouse to avoid Isolde, he had all but lost his appetite, so he had been rather pleased to rediscover it. Indeed, he hoped it meant he was recovering from his temporary insanity.

"I feel as if I am at a bacchanalia," another woman—a friend of the first—said haughtily, and rather too loud, as if she wanted the entire ballroom to hear her disapproval.

"Did you attend many of those in your youth?" Edmund asked, unable to resist.

The group of four older women stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. Perhaps he had, but as he did not know how to remedy his predicament, other than to let time fade his thoughts of Isolde, there was nothing else to be done.

"Say, are you the Duke of Davenport?" one of the women asked, eyes narrowing.

"Guilty as charged," Edmund replied, raising his glass of red wine to her.

The demeanor of the four women shifted in an instant, their disapproval and turned up noses transforming into cheery smiles and a bombardment of questions: Had he met their granddaughters? Was there a lady who had captured his attention yet? Should he not be thinking about taking a wife rather soon? They could arrange a meeting with this granddaughter or that granddaughter, if he would like them to?

"Of course, you are still young," one of them said, "but that is of great benefit for children. My own husband was about your age when we married, and he?—"

She stopped abruptly, as if the ability to speak had suddenly been snatched away from her. Her mouth remained open, making no sound, her eyes widening with every passing second. But she was not looking at Edmund anymore; she was looking at something over his shoulder.

The other three ladies followed their friend's gaze, their expressions matching hers within half a second.

Indeed, though the orchestra, attired in Roman-style garb, continued to play a pleasant tune for the dancers who had already taken to the floor, everyone else had fallen silent. Everyone staring at exactly the same spot. A few of the dancers—men and women—missed a step or forgot what came next, like the King himself had just wandered in.

Slowly, Edmund turned to see what all the fuss was about.

It was not the King, but a goddess, shimmering like starlight. The skirts of her evening gown moved like water reflecting the night, her skin as radiant as the moon, her honey-blonde hair appearing like spun gold, fashioned into a pearl-studded bun.

She wore it… Edmund's chest clenched, wishing he had not purchased the gown for her. Not because it did not look exactly as breathtaking as he had imagined, but because it did. Madame Versailles was right: that material had been made for Isolde.

He had no doubt that it would make her the most sought after lady at the ball, for there was not a single gentleman who was not staring at her, visibly brimming with envy for the unknown husband who ended up with her. Edmund, despite himself, was no exception.

"Lord Mentrow, you are here!" Isolde cheered, grateful to find a friendly face among the crowd.

Noah, wielding two glasses of cloudy lemonade, bowed his head politely, a nervous smile on his face. "I would not have missed it. The Duke and Duchess always have such magnificent gatherings." He offered one of the glasses to her. "I took the liberty, in case you were thirsty."

"You are too kind." Isolde accepted the drink and sipped it delicately, though she really wanted to down it in great gulps to slick away the tight, dry feeling in her throat.

She had known the dress might cause a stir, and her mother had not helped matters by chirping in the carriage, over and over, "Oh, you shall be inundated, my darling! You will not have a single spot left on your dance card and I daresay we shall have to purchase a whole bakery's worth of cakes to appease the hordes of suitors who will come to call on you after this!"

In truth, she was not sure she liked the intense attention. She certainly did not like the prickly sensation that flushed her skin every time she realized people were staring at her and not looking away. Gentlemen, mostly, but there were a few sour looks from ladies, too.

"You look… beautiful, Lady Isolde," Noah said stiffly, no longer the relaxed and easy presence he had been at Martin Thorne's dinner party. "I mean, you always look beautiful, but… um… exceptionally so."

Isolde took another sip of her drink. "Thank you, Lord Mentrow, but it is the dress that is beautiful. I am so fearful of ruining it that I hardly dare to move." She eyed him, wondering. "Have you ever seen such fabric before?"

"I confess, I have not." Noah moved to stand at her side, so they could better observe the guests who crowded the ballroom. Or, perhaps, he did not want to have to meet her gaze by standing in front of her.

It is not him. He did not send it.

"Are you here with friends or family?" Isolde prompted, uncertain of what had come over the Viscount. Did he not like balls? Was he just uncomfortable?

He cast her a shy, sideways glance. "I am alone, Lady Isolde. There was an agreement between my friends and I that we would meet here, but they have not yet arrived." He paused. "And you?"

"My mother is just over there," Isolde said, pointing her chin toward the woman in question.

The instant they had arrived, Isolde's mother had somewhat abandoned her daughter in favor of soaking up the adulations. Lots of other mothers had rushed in to ask about the gown, celebrating Julianna Wilds for having such a beautiful daughter, and Julianna had been only too willing to accept the credit.

At that very moment, Isolde's mother was regaling a small congregation with tales of Isolde's intense education in the art of becoming a lady: making recommendations of books and tutors, bragging about all the suitors who had called at the house already, insisting that any young lady could become a success.

Pride comes before a fall, Mama, Isolde wanted to warn, but her mother was happy, and that seemed like reason enough to stay quiet.

"My friends are also yet to arrive," she added, discreetly searching for Amelia, Valery, and Beatrice.

They had promised they would be early, and she could not help feeling that her entrance might have been less overwhelming if she had had them beside her.

"That Duke fellow is not escorting you tonight?" Noah asked, with a small smile, as if remembering Edmund's rude behavior at the dinner party.

Isolde swallowed thickly, for she had done everything within her power to try not to think of Edmund. At least, that was what she was telling herself, though he was the first face she had looked for in the crowd, and a sinking sensation of disappointment had weighed in her stomach when she had not been able to spot him.

If I could just look into his eyes, I would know if the gown came from him…

Despite herself, she looked for him again, scouring the Roman-themed ballroom for the shine of those sapphire blue eyes or the sweep of those luscious, dark auburn curls, or the stern expression of that infuriatingly handsome face.

"He was supposed to escort me again, at my brother's behest," she said tightly, her heart thudding an uneasy rhythm, "but he had other business to attend to."

It embarrassed her to imagine the look that had been on her face when her mother had informed her that it would only be the two of them. Isolde had descended the stairs with nervous anticipation, expecting him to be waiting in the entrance hall as he had done on previous occasions, so he would be the first to see the gown.

Instead, she had been faced with her mother, complaining that they were going to be late when, if anything, they were unfashionably early.

"I see," Noah said flatly.

Isolde cleared her dry throat, fidgeting with the scalloped, dark blue lace that fringed her capped sleeves. For an awful moment, she feared that Noah was not going to say anything else, leaving them in that silent awkwardness for the foreseeable.

Noah finally took a sip of his drink, his shoulders relaxing. "I apologize if I seem less conversational than the last time we saw one another. My sister and mother had something of a quarrel before I departed, and I cannot stop thinking of them at home, tearing one another to pieces."

"Oh goodness!" Isolde blinked. "It sounds rather serious."

Noah shrugged. "They are perpetually at odds with one another, but there was… a thrown vase this evening, which is new."

"May I ask what caused the argument?"

"My mother is insisting on employing the services of a matchmaker, though my sister only debuted last year. She refuses to attend society events, you see, and has grand dreams of being a writer. She has the talent, that cannot be denied, but my mother cannot be convinced." Noah tugged at his collar as if it were too tight. "My mother informed my sister that the matchmaker would be coming tomorrow. Chaos ensued."

Isolde gazed at the man beside her, not with attraction or flirtation but with the greatest sympathies. "I am so very sorry, Lord Mentrow. Can it not be helped? Are you worried that she might flee?"

"I do not know," he replied with a sigh. "I think it could be remedied, but… No, it is not your concern. I should not trouble you with my woes when there are revels to be had. Indeed, I should be asking you to dance."

A funny feeling wriggled in Isolde's chest as she observed Noah more closely. He did not have the same eager quality of some of the gentlemen she had entertained, nor did he appear to have an ulterior motive for being so sweet to her, but his words had just waved a rather interesting flag in her mind.

To help his sister, he must marry and marry quickly. It saddened her, to think that someone else's happiness rested on his choice of a wife. Then again, her own situation was not so different.

"I do not suppose you were in the gardens of Kensington Palace on the night of the debut ball, were you?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Noah frowned. "Me? No. I stayed in the ballroom with my sister, who did not want to be there. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." She smiled. "I am sorry for your sister's predicament."

"As am I." Noah hesitated, taking a larger gulp from his drink. "I do not suppose you would do me the honor of dancing with me, would?—"

"Excuse me, Lord Mentrow," a gruff voice interrupted, a rough hand closing around Isolde's upper arm. "I must borrow Lady Isolde for a moment."

Noah frowned up at Edmund's grim face, before his gaze flitted to Isolde. She knew what he was thinking: I thought you said he was not in attendance tonight.

But Isolde was just as surprised as Noah. Even more so, as Edmund pulled her away without another word.