Chapter Three

The first ball of the Season was held by one Lady Juliana Lafayette, an aloof young bride who had never been much of a friend to Isolde, even though they’d come out together. It didn’t matter, though, because Isolde had received an invitation anyway, and it wasn’t as if she’d actually have to talk to Lady Juliana in the tremendous crush.

It was unavoidable that they had to greet each other, though.

Beatrice and Richard passed through the door ahead of Isolde, murmuring greetings and shaking hands. Isolde came next with James on her arm.

Lady Juliana beamed at James.

“Why, Lord James! What a pleasure! I’d heard you were back in the country. You are most welcome to my humble abode, of course.”

Isolde barely muffled a snort at the idea of Lady Juliana’s sprawling, ornate home ever being described as humble.

The snort earned her a glare.

“Ah, Lady Isolde!” Lady Juliana fluted sweetly. “I am surprised to see you here. I am quite honoured, having the Ice Queen herself attend my intimate little party.”

The words stung, as they were intended to. Isolde had tried her best to convince herself that Ice Queen was a fine nickname to have but hadn’t quite managed it yet.

“It’s the first ball of the Season,” Isolde managed. “Of course I would come.”

It wasn’t exactly the sort of witty rejoinder that, say, Elizabeth Bennet would have come up with, but it was all Isolde could manage at short notice.

Lady Juliana smiled smugly, tossing rich chestnut curls over her shoulder.

“This will be your… your fourth Season, will it not, Isolde? Goodness. Pray, do proceed. Enter and partake in the festivities,” she added, and it didn’t much sound like she meant it.

Clenching her teeth, Isolde allowed James to steer her past the entrance and into the vast ballroom beyond.

“Ignore her,” he murmured. “She’s jealous, always was.”

“She might have been jealous when we first came out,” Isolde acknowledged. “I did have a lot of suitors.”

I didn’t accept any of them, though. How could I, when I was lying to them the whole time about who I was?

“And now you’re free, and she’s married to that drunken fool of a man.” James insisted.

“She’s married and settled, and I’m a spinster,” Isolde responded tautly. “That stupid nickname has followed me through three Seasons now, and I’m fairly sick of it.”

“Oh, Izzy, I’m sorry. But look, this is a new Season, and I’m sure it’ll be entirely different.”

Isolde bit her lip to avoid arguing. It was too loud to talk much, anyway. Lady Juliana’s intimate little gathering seemed to include the whole of Society, all jammed into her cavernous ballroom.

Since it was the first ball of the Season – and hosting that was a mark of high honour – everybody who was anybody coveted an invitation. Nobody would turn down such an invitation. The ballroom was packed with ladies and gentlemen of all ages and varying ranks. There were dukes and duchesses in one corner, and the plain Misses and Misters mingling among them. The place was a whirlwind of beautiful dresses in every size and colour, frilled as per the year’s fashions, produced in a flurry by fashionable modistes all over the town. Most of them had probably been designed for this very ball.

Isolde’s dress was a rare exception. It was a muted canary-coloured silk, plain in comparison to the other frothy confections swirling around, and she’d worn it last Season. It still fitted, it was comfortable, pretty enough, and not so out of fashion as to be shocking.

Isolde hadn’t seen the point in commissioning a horde of new gowns. She had plenty of dresses already.

She was beginning to regret that decision. A few curious glances were thrown her way. The gentlemen, of course, would neither notice nor care that her dress was last Season’s. They glanced her over, and she saw a flicker of recognition on their face.

The Ice Queen. There she is, here for another Season. What for, I wonder?

She even spotted a few men who’d made her proposals in previous Seasons or been determined suitors. They all averted their gazes immediately.

The ladies, on the other hand, mostly recognized her out-of-fashion dress, and tittered behind their hands. She saw mammas firmly steering their debutante daughters away from her – a friendship with such a determined spinster might ruin a young lady’s chances in the marriage mart.

Isolde’s cheeks stung, and she tried to keep her head up and pretend as though she didn’t care.

“Izzy, I behold a few acquaintances of mine yonder," James murmured softly in her ear. "Would it be too much trouble for you if I were to procure a chair for you and take my leave to converse with them?”

Isolde did mind, dreadfully so. James, at least, was earning smiles and nods and congratulations from passers-by. Without him, she’d just be another sad old spinster.

“Certainly not. And pray do not trouble yourself to procure a chair for me; I shall find one for myself.”

“Thank you, dear,” James said with a smile, gaze already distant. He patted her on the hand and went ploughing into the crowd.

Isolde was left unmoored for a few minutes, until a waving hand caught her attention. Relief swept over her, and she began to push her way across the room towards a bespectacled young lady with a wild head of brown hair.

Lady Viola Appleton was a year younger than Isolde. This was her third Season, and she looked set to be a spinster, too. They’d been firm friends for years.

“There you are,” Viola exclaimed. “I have been searching high and low for you.”

“I’m glad to find you, let me assure you,” Isolde muttered, slipping her arm through her friend’s. “The Ice Queen comments are persisting for another year.”

Viola tutted sympathetically. “Oh, that’s horrid. Still, at least they’re talking about you. Nobody ever seems to notice me. I sat right next to a great crowd of gentlemen, and not one of them glanced my way. I’m fairly sure I heard one of them call me plain.”

“How awful. Point the gentlemen out to me, and I’ll try and spill wine down their expensive silk waistcoats.”

Viola blinked. “How do you know they were wearing silk waistcoats?”

“Just a notion. Come, let us procure some lemonade and secure ourselves a few seats. The dancing will start up soon, although I doubt I’ll be asked.”

Viola sighed. “You could be asked, if you were a little more encouraging. You’re ever so pretty, Isolde.”

“Beauty fades,” Isolde said firmly. “And the gentlemen will always consider the eighteen-year-old debutantes to be prettier than a woman of my age, regardless of their actual looks.”

“Well, you don’t want to be associated with those gentlemen, do you? There might be somebody worth meeting in the crowd this year. Always expect the unexpected, Izzy. I read that in a book.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe it,” Isolde responded, smiling wryly. “People are disappointing, and nothing ever is as it seems to be. Now, speaking of books, I simply must tell you about the most thrilling book I’ve begun reading. I’m only halfway through, but already…”

The ladies disappeared into the crowd, talking eagerly of books, and the musicians played harder than ever, delicate stringed music sweeping over the crowd and echoing throughout the heated air.

***

Clayton felt the urge to put his hands over his ears.

“I wish they’d stop with that wretched screeching,” he complained. “All I can hear is endless chatter and those cursed violins.”

Lucas took a sip of his wine, and eyed Clayton unsympathetically. “What did you expect? It’s a ball, after all.”

“Humph.”

“Pray, allow me a moment to express my thoughts to you. You really must reconsider this wager.”

Clayton’s jaw tightened. “Do give over, Lucas.”

“No, I’m serious. That fool Simon should be ignored at the best of times, and a wager like this – well, I shall appeal to your vanity. What are you going to do if this young lady falls madly in love with you?”

He sniffed. “The Ice Queen? She will not.”

“She may well do. Your success depends on her treating you favourably. You could destroy your own reputation, to say nothing of hers. This is not a gentleman’s wager, Clayton. You know, I know it, and…”

“Indeed, most agreeable, most agreeable, but I have acquiesced now, have I not?” Clayton drained his glass of champagne. It was, he had to admit, exceedingly fine vintage.

Lucas gave an exasperated sigh. “Do you think of no one but yourself, Clayton?”

He grinned. “Certainly not. Who, pray tell, could hold greater significance to me than my own self?”

“You’re a fool.”

“At least I like myself.”

Lucas flushed and opened his mouth to argue. Before he could speak, however, a familiar figure, skeleton-like in black satin, materialized at Clayton’s side.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” Simon said breezily. “I thought you’d taken to the countryside or something.”

Clayton wished he hadn’t drunk all of his champagne. That way, he might have had something to dash in the man’s face.

“Go away, Simon.”

“I do hope you aren’t reconsidering our wager,” Simon remarked, yawning. “I’d hate to have to pass the word around that the famous Lord Henley is nothing more than a craven fool.”

Clayton grinned at him, displaying an array of white teeth in a way he knew to be unsettling. He knew it was unsettling because he’d practised it in the mirror.

“Fear not, Simon. I haven’t forgotten, and nor am I reconsidering.”

Lucas bit back a curse. Clayton ignored him.

Simon narrowed his eyes. “Then why aren’t you talking to her? Our delightful Ice Queen is here tonight.”

“The difference between me and you, despite the obvious,” Clayton remarked, setting down his glass and straightening his cravat, “is that I don’t allow others to hurry me along. I do things in my own time. If you’ll excuse me, both of you, I need some air.”

Leaving a dissatisfied Simon and a stony-faced Lucas behind, Clayton slipped off into the crowd. Lucas’ comments had twinged his conscience a little, a state of being which Clayton tried to avoid as best he could. Still, there was nothing for it. A wager was a wager. Perhaps he ought not have agreed to it, but the fact was that he had.

Lady Isolde Belford, the infamous Ice Queen, had better look out.

***

Viola’s mother, a middle-aged widow with a haggard face and dwindling funds – which probably explained her eagerness to marry off her daughter – had descended upon them, whisking Viola away to dance with somebody. Isolde had taken a few turns about the room, trying to look cool and collected as Elizabeth Bennet might have done, but really it wasn’t working.

Eventually, she gave in and sought out her parents.

Not your parents.

Oh, do be quiet.

Beatrice was chatting to a selection of friends, and Isolde stood by her side and tried not to look bored. The dancing had started, and her dance card was empty so far. Plenty of ladies and gentlemen eyed her as they went by, but nobody made a move to speak to her.

Infamy was not enjoyable, so far.

Isolde was stifling a yawn when somebody tapped her elbow, making her jump.

“I do apologise for the informality, Lady Isolde, but I simply had to speak to you,” drawled an unfamiliar male voice.

Isolde blinked up at the man who’d spoken. “Oh. I… I’m not sure that’s proper.”

The man grinned. “Come now, Lady Isolde. We know each other well enough to have moved past proper and improper, have we not?”

She clenched her jaw. “Lord Raisin, I really must…”

“Oh, George!” trilled Beatrice, having disentangled herself from her conversation and leaping headfirst into the situation. “How lovely to see you here. I heard that you were in Spain?”

“Indeed I was, but it’s fine to be home.”

Lord George Raisin was about forty, and the years had not been particularly kind to him. His hair was not grey, but it was resolutely thinning, and his jowls seemed to hang lower each year. He had been married twice and subsequently left a widower both times and had a collection of children up at some country estate. He was wealthy, he was titled, and he was respectable.

He was also looking for a third bride.

Despite not being the most handsome man in town by any stretch of the imagination, there were plenty of ladies present that would be happy to catch a man such as Lord George Raisin as a husband.

Unfortunately, he had his mind set on Isolde. He had petitioned Richard and Beatrice several times for their permission. They’d reluctantly given it but pointed out that he had to secure Isolde’s agreement too.

She was not going to give it. He’d proposed twice, not taking no for an answer, and she had been obliged to spend most of her previous Season determinedly cutting him, which caused quite the scandal.

It did not help the Ice Queen comments.

And here the man was again, beaming, freshly tanned from the Spanish sun, with a look of determination in his eyes. Isolde’s heart sank.

“I have come to inquire if you would care to engage in a dance,” Lord Raisin said, with the placid confidence of a man not accustomed to hearing the word no.

And, of course, Isolde couldn’t say no. To refuse a gentleman’s offer to dance for any reason would mean that she wouldn’t be permitted to dance at all that evening. It was also rather frowned upon.

Besides, Beatrice was watching closely.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Isolde made herself smile. “Well, if you insist, Lord Raisin.”

He beamed, her sharp tone entirely lost of him. “Excellent! Shall we?”

I’m going to have to try extra hard to lose him this Season, she thought unhappily, reluctantly allowing the man to lead her onto the dance floor.

The current dance was a brisk cotillion, to Isolde’s relief. The waltz would be danced here – and no doubt in all but the strictest households this Season – but she did not want to spend the next set in Lord Raisin’s arms. Dancing was dancing, in Isolde’s opinion, and people were gradually coming round to the idea that the waltz wasn’t really that shocking. Still, Isolde felt that there was something intimate about the dance. So far, she’d avoided waltzing altogether. Gentlemen saved the waltz dances for ladies they were extremely fond of, or ones they had hope of marrying. Needless to say, nobody had asked her.

But Lord Raisin might, she thought, with a frisson of worry. I really shall have to say no, then. I’ll say I’ve twisted my ankle. I’ll have to sit down for the rest of the ball, which will be disappointing, but better than the alternative. There will be other dances.

And Lord Raisin will be at those dances, too.

Her heart sank into her dancing slippers.

The dance slowed enough for the two of them to speak, and Lord Raisin seized his opportunity.

“I am surprised to find a lady as beautiful and well-bred as you still single, Lady Isolde,” he commented, with what he doubtless thought was a rakish smile. “What luck for me.”

Isolde coloured. He’d never have dared speak so openly to her if Beatrice was around, but the middle of a dance gave people the opportunity to speak freely. One could always claim to have been misheard, what with all the noise and chaos of the dance floor.

“I don’t intend to marry, Lord Raisin,” Isolde said, as firmly as she could.

If he can speak freely, so can I.

Lord Raisin frowned ever so slightly.

“Well, some ladies do say that, I suppose. But you really must settle down eventually, Lady Isolde. Do you want to be a spinster, ridiculous and alone all your life?”

She bit her lip. “That’s a rather hurtful thing to say, Lord Raisin.”

“But it’s the truth, isn’t it? I wager your dear parents don’t know about your idea. Shall I tell them?”

Isolde’s eyes flew up to Lord Raisin’s face. His expression was placid, but there was a hint of malice in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Is that a threat?”

He gave a throaty chuckle. “Goodness, you ladies and your dramatics! A threat, indeed! No, I only think that one’s family ought to be privy to such an important decision. I daresay they’d have something to say about it.”

“Gentlemen choose to remain bachelors all the time.”

“That’s an entirely different thing, though, is it not?”

Isolde did not think so. She bit her tongue, though – the dance was nearly over. When the musicians played their last strain, she was relieved to step away. Applause broke out around them, and Isolde made a wobbly curtsey, intending to hurry away before he could say anything else.

Naturally, things did not work out that way.

“Pray, allow me a moment, Lady Isolde, whilst I procure for you some refreshing lemonade,” he said briskly, taking her arm. She was obliged to let him tow her along, back to a smiling Beatrice.

“It’s good to see you dancing, dearest,” she whispered under her breath, when Lord Raisin hurried away towards the refreshment table.

“I don’t like him,” Isolde hissed back. “He’s going to keep me cornered until he can safely ask for a second dance, just like he did last year. I’m going, Mama.”

“Don’t be silly. Look, he’s on his way back already. You’ll stay, Isolde.”

Isolde shook her head, pulling her arm away from her mother. A drift of cool air raked through the room, and she automatically turned her head towards it. A set of wide French doors stood open, letting in the breeze.

If she could get out, she could hide in the shadows somewhere. Yes, it was humiliating, having to cower out on the balcony of the first ball of the Season, but she’d been cornered by the shockingly dull Lord Raisin before, and did not care to repeat the incident.

“Isolde! Listen to me!” Beatrice cried, already losing her daughter in the crowd.

She glanced over her shoulder. Lord Raisin was making his way towards her, with a glass of lemonade in each hand and a determined expression on his face.

It was now or never, then.

Isolde plunged into the crowd, desperate to get away.

A little too desperate, perhaps.

Her dress, which was really designed to be worn with a pair of dainty ankle boots, was a fraction too long for her when paired with flat dancing slippers. In fact, Isolde had been kicking away her skirts all night.

She remembered this, belatedly, the instant she stood on her own hem and went lurching forward.

Isolde’s own momentum worked against her. Her arms flailed, but there was nothing within arm’s reach to grab onto, except for other people, and they all moved hastily aside. So she was going down, about to smack face-first into Lady Juliana’s waxed and polished floor, in front of all of Society during the first ball of the Season.

Just perfect.

And then Isolde slammed face-first into a firm, masculine chest, no doubt belonging to some poor fool who hadn’t moved away quickly enough.

Her cheek slid against a silk waistcoat which felt remarkably expensive, and she heard a pained grunt from somewhere above her.

He staggered backward, a pair of arms coming up to grab her reflexively, and for one awful second she thought they were both going down.

The only thing more humiliating than falling over at the first ball of the Season, Isolde decided, was dragging somebody else with her.

But he steadied himself, and therefore steadied her. There was a faint slop as champagne began to run down the aforementioned fine silk waistcoat.

The whole interaction could only have lasted a second, perhaps at the most, but it felt more like an entire lifetime.

Staggering backwards, Isolde blinked up at her unwitting saviour.

None other than the infamous Viscount Henley looked down.

“Oh,” he said. “Hello, my Lady. Are you quite well?”

“I’m fine,” Isolde said, more snappishly than she should have. She took in the growing dark stain on the man’s waistcoat. “Oh lord, I made you spill your drink on yourself. I am so sorry.”

The viscount blinked down at his sodden waistcoat. “I shouldn’t worry about that. My valet has gotten worse things than champagne out of my clothes.”

Isolde opened her mouth to ask what those worse things were, but decided against it, closing her mouth with a snap.

She glanced around, wishing people would stop staring. A little circle of gawkers had formed around them, whispering loudly to each other. In the background, Lord Raisin stood beside Beatrice, both of them staring in stony disapproval.

Naturally, Beatrice did not approve of Viscount Henley. No sensible mamma would.

She’s not my mamma, though.

“Since my champagne is now gone,” Viscount Henley drawled, setting aside the empty glass, “perhaps you’d favour me with a dance instead?”

She blinked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I think you heard me clearly. Why, is this dance already taken?”

Isolde thought of Lord Raisin, waiting for her. “No.”

“Well, then.”

The viscount abruptly leaned forward, coming far too close, and Isolde got a good whiff of his cologne. It was sharp and sweet, coming off him in gusts like breaths. She tried not to breathe in.

“People will stare less if we go and dance,” he murmured. “Best take their minds off it.”

Isolde swallowed hard. She could hear the strains of music starting up already for the next set. It was, to her horror, a waltz.

What choice do I have?

“Very well,” she said stiffly, taking his outstretched hand. “Very well, let us take to the dance floor.”