Chapter Four

It was, Isolde decided fairly quickly, a huge mistake.

The Viscount Henley was well-known. He was a charmer, a gambler, a drinker, and a notorious rake. He consorted with the most unsuitable people, and just retained enough respectability to be admitted to the finest places in the land.

Here, for instance.

Everybody knew that the viscount was a terrible flirt and had led on far too many young ladies (and their mammas, by extension), and ultimately slipped away. There was to be no Viscountess Henley anytime soon, it seemed.

Isolde was not often invited to the sorts of parties where the viscount might make an appearance. She wasn't interesting enough, apparently, and that suited her just fine.

Naturally, a man could not achieve the sort of reputation that the viscount had without being reasonably good-looking. And he was certainly handsome. If one liked that sort of thing.

"You seem remarkably serious, Lady Isolde," the viscount drawled, taking Isolde in his arms as if he danced the waltz every day of his life.

Well, perhaps he did.

"I'm a little shaken," she said, more severely than she'd intended.

He grinned, flashing even white teeth with pointed canines. It gave him a wolfish look which suited him, irritatingly enough.

"Shaken to be dancing with me, or because you ran right into my arms?"

"I did not run into your arms," Isolde corrected sharply. "I stumbled. I must beg your pardon; it was an unfortunate accident."

"I know, I know."

He was entirely too close. Isolde made a mental note never to dance the waltz again. She was on eye level with the viscount's cravat, a blood-red ruby winking out of its depths. It was a nice cravat, impeccably starched and well-tied. She kept smelling wafts of his cologne, and it almost seemed to smell different every time. It was difficult not to keep sniffing the man.

Isolde resolutely kept her eyes trained on that cravat pin. No need to look up at the man's face, not at such a scandalously close distance.

The viscount's face was certainly a well-known one. Lots of ladies swooned over him, both debutantes and women who should know better. He had a well-featured face, thick, glossy dark hair, and a pair of remarkable green eyes. The sort of face people enjoyed looking at, which was undoubtedly how he'd come to be known as the greatest rake in London.

Isolde didn't think that he was the greatest rake in London, but he had to be somewhere on the list.

"You're still very serious, Lady Isolde. Are you not comfortable with the waltz? I'd suggest we stop, only it might occasion more talk."

She clenched her jaw at the amusement in his voice. "I'm quite fine, I assure you. I'm a woman who knows her own mind."

"I'm sure you are. Was it Lord Raisin you were fleeing from, by the way?"

Try as she might, Isolde could not keep a flush from rising to her cheeks.

"Yes," she admitted, since it seemed silly to lie. "He is set upon marrying me and will not acquiesce to my refusal."

"How tiresome. I wish you the best of luck as you continue to evade him. You seem entirely capable of such a thing."

The dance picked up a little speed, and Isolde was relieved to fall silent and concentrate on her steps.

"I'm afraid it is normal to exchange a few pleasantries right about now," the viscount said after a few moments, managing to sound almost regretful. "We could talk about the dance, if you like, or the ball. Those are fairly comfortable, general subjects. If you're tired of small talk, might I suggest a little gossip?"

"Gossip? I don't gossip."

"Really? How sad for you."

"What do you mean? Gossip is harmful, everybody knows that."

Abruptly, the viscount spun her around. The dance called for it, but Isolde found herself a little taken aback anyway.

"Depends what you are gossiping about," he said drily, grinning.

Isolde had the oddest feeling of being permanently out of breath, even though the dance was not really that taxing. She hoped against hope that it was just the viscount's cologne, or perhaps an attack of apoplexy. A fever coming on, perhaps.

Either way, she felt uncomfortable. A knot had formed in her gut, something too close to excitement for her liking. More than once, she'd dragged her gaze up from the viscount's cravat pin to his face, and every time she did so, she found him looking at her. Smiling.

It was an odd, inscrutable smile, as if they were sharing a joke that nobody else knew. He was handsome, and Isolde was tired of pretending that he wasn't. She'd never seen eyes so green.

And what does he see when he looks at me, I wonder? A silly old spinster, a clumsy one at that, put out of breath by a simple waltz? I daresay he'll laugh about me to his friends.

This thought made a flare of anger go through her, and she clenched her jaw. She looked him dead in the eyes, determined not to look away this time.

"I prefer books to gossip, Lord Henley," she said firmly. "If that's all the same to you."

"Not at all the same, but equally enjoyable," he conceded. How did the wretched man know just what to say?

Oh, and why was the dance not ending?

She gritted her teeth as they spun around faster and faster, the room blurring around them. Isolde caught glimpses of familiar faces in the crowd – Beatrice, stone-faced, with Lord Raisin nowhere to be seen, Viola's worried face, blurs of jealous and surprised young women, gentlemen dandies raising quizzing glances to look at her.

Or perhaps they were all looking at the viscount. That would make a deal more sense.

And then the music stopped, and the dancers jerked to a halt. It was an ungraceful ending, and Isolde could have sworn there was a pause while the others came to terms with the fact the dance was over. Then the customary applause and laughter broke out.

She couldn't breathe.

At least, she could breathe in the sense that air was going in and out of her lungs, but the tightness in her chest only increased.

The viscount gave a deep bow, bending at the waist. He glanced up at her as he straightened, a knowing, thrilling smile on his face. It sent an answering thrill through Isolde's chest, and she did not like that. Not one bit.

"Thank you for the dance, Lady Isolde," he said smoothly. "I hope we'll meet again."

"I hope not," Isolde responded, before she could think twice about whether it was a wise thing to say. Not waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and marched across the floor towards the still-open French doors. She half expected the viscount to follow her, but when she glanced over her shoulder, he was gone.

*********

Clayton ignored the curious stares sent his way. It was nobody's business, for heaven's sake. It was fairly clear that nobody else was asking the Ice Queen to dance. What man would deliberately court humiliation and inevitable rejection? Only somebody as self-assured and thick-skinned as Lord George Raisin would even try. It was clear that Lady Isolde's fourth Season would be a difficult one. Nobody would want to be her friend. She would be invited to balls, but only because of her family and her status. No man would court her, the debutantes would be told to avoid her, and she would slowly but surely pass out of Society's notice.

Perhaps she'd like that, he thought, unbidden. Society's notice is hardly a good thing.

It was plain she did not want to be followed, so Clayton let her go. A start had been made.

Lucas had been watching from the sidelines during the dance, his expression reproachful and firmly disapproving, but Clayton was trying to ignore that. His friend was now nowhere to be seen. The card room, perhaps?

A hopeful debutante smiled nervously at Clayton, but he ignored her. They hadn't been introduced, and the rules were always stricter with girls newly come-out. Besides, there'd be a guard dog of a mamma behind the girl somewhere, and it wouldn't do to be seen to be breaking the hearts of debutantes again. More trouble than it was worth.

Besides, his mind was full of Lady Isolde. She had not liked him, that much was plain. She hadn't enjoyed the dance and had hurried away as soon as she could.

Ice Queen, indeed, he thought grimly.

And then Simon, the wretch, was beside him again, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Well done, old friend, well done!"

"We are not friends," Clayton muttered. "Get your hand off me."

Simon did not move. He was grinning. "That was an excellent start. Waltzing with the Ice Queen indeed! She's never waltzed before in public, you know."

An unnamed feeling nipped at Clayton's stomach. "What, never?"

"Not that I know of," Simon was already losing interest, scanning the crowd for more interesting people. "But the wager isn't over yet."

"Hush, fool! Don't talk of it here."

"I'll talk of it where I like. One dance isn't enough. You must win her heart, my dear viscount. There must be no doubt."

Clayton shrugged his hand away. "I'm having second thoughts about this wager."

"Why? Because she didn't fall into your arms?"

"Lucas thinks it's ungentlemanly, and perhaps he's right."

Simon grinned. "Well, if you want to call off the wager, you certainly can. I won't prevent you. It'll be good to know that the charming, perfect Viscount Henley has a flaw at last. Cowardice is a rather serious flaw, of course, but still. None of us are perfect, eh? Rather ungentlemanly to call off a wager, but if you think you're going to lose…"

It was a rather obvious bait, but Clayton snarled anyway.

"Oh, do be quiet. I have no intention of calling off our wager. She did indeed dance with me, did she not? I am certain we shall meet again."

"So am I," Simon answered, still grinning. Clayton longed to knock the smile off his face. "I can't decide what I'd like to see more. The haughty Ice Queen humbled, or you failing to intrigue her. She thinks she's better than us gentlemen, you know. It would be nice to see her ground into the dirt a little. She richly deserves it. If anyone can, I suppose you could manage it. You know, however this wager works out, I think I'll be happy. Fifty pounds well spent, I'd say."

With one last clap on Clayton's shoulder – purposefully hard – Simon turned and strolled away into the crowd, whistling under his breath.

Clayton felt oddly dirty, as if he hadn't bathed for a week. Shuddering, he turned on his heel and moved away towards the card tables. He could hide there until it was socially acceptable to leave.

*********

The cool night air did wonders for Isolde's composure.

She leaned on the stone wall circling the balcony, closing her eyes tilting back her head to let the breeze get at her neck. The heated air in the ballroom had made her break out in a sweat, and her heart was still thundering from it all. Also, she kept seeing the viscount's handsome, knowing face whenever she closed her eyes.

It would be so much easier if he were ugly. I could ignore him then. Simply wipe him from my mind, like wiping down a slate.

But he was not ugly, and Isolde's mind refused to wipe clean. She couldn't stay out here forever, of course. Beatrice would come looking for her, or James. Of course, this was James' first ball since his tour ended. He would get besieged by friends wanting to reconnect, ladies wanting to be introduced, and gentlemen and ladies of all ages wanting to hear his stories of travel. He was probably having a good time and would not want to leave early.

Lord Raisin hadn't come after her, and that was something. Perhaps he'd finally given up.

Far from feeling relieved, Isolde only felt a crushing emptiness. Nobody had bothered to speak much to her at that ball. Even Viola had danced more than her, which meant that she, Isolde, was stuck on the sidelines while her only friend was on the dance floor.

It's for the best, Isolde reminded herself.

Many of the details about her mother had not been shared. Apparently, Dorothy and Beatrice had had similar come-outs, enjoying the Season just as Isolde was. Their paths had diverged when Dorothy eloped.

Did my mother feel like this? Isolde wondered bleakly. Did she stand on a balcony and will her heart to untwist? Did she fall in love with a rake?

Not, of course, that Isolde was in love with the viscount, but he was handsome, and she was drawn to him, and that was a bad start. She'd wondered, often, whether her father had courted her mother. How had the elopement come about? Was it not eligible to marry her, or did he simply have no intention of marrying her at all?

She shuddered. Had Viscount Henley enticed silly young ladies away from their homes, too?

Either way, once Dorothy had left her home in the company of whatever man it was that made her heart beat faster, her fate was sealed. Her illness, caught somewhere in the gutters, was what had ensured she wasn't strong enough to survive childbirth. Whatever man stole her heart had signed her death warrant too.

He must have been a rake. A decent gentleman would never have done such a thing. A rake just like Viscount Henley.

Isolde breathed deeply, opening her eyes. She felt a good deal more composed now. If the viscount had come out to talk to her then, she'd have given him a piece of her mind.

Then somebody cleared their throat behind her, and Isolde thought for sure that she had been followed.

She whipped around, and immediately relaxed.

"Oh, it's you, Viola. What are you doing out here? It's cold."

"I could ask you the same question," Viola responded. "Are you faring well?"

Isolde managed a smile. "Yes, of course I am."

Viola didn't look convinced. She didn't know, of course, about Isolde's parentage. That was too great a secret to share with anybody. But she knew that Isolde had a revulsion of rakes and flirts, and therefore knew that she'd just danced with the biggest rake at the party.

The truth of Isolde's parentage explained why Beatrice was always so keen on respectability and doing things properly. Standing alone on a balcony certainly did not count as doing things properly.

"A lady must never let her guard down," she was fond of saying. "No matter where she is. A lady is made of glass, and a single mistake can shatter her into a thousand pieces, never to be put back together again. She must always, always be a lady."

"But about the men?" Isolde recalled asking on one occasion. "Aren't they meant to be gentlemen?"

Beatrice had grimaced at that. She reached out, smoothing back a lock of Isolde's hair, tucking it behind her ear. "They should, my darling. They should. But they don't always act properly and it is we ladies who bear the consequences."

"That isn't fair."

"No, it is not. But that is how the world is, and you must never forget it."

Isolde bit her lip, her aunt's words echoing in her head. She certainly would not forget it.

"You should retire indoors," Isolde said firmly. "Your mother will wish for you to dance to your heart's content."

"My dance card is only half full, despite Mama's best efforts," Viola answered, smiling wryly and holding up the card in question. "I have some time."

Isolde didn't bother arguing further. Viola took up a place beside Isolde, the two women resting their elbows on the stone parapet and looking out over the dark garden. At this time of night, only a few lumpy shapes could be seen, flowerbeds and shrubs all melting into one. The driveway snaked by below, lit by countless tapers and braziers. At the end of the night – or at the beginning of the morning, rather – the carriages would come trundling down that driveway, with ladies and gentlemen climbing in and rattling off to their homes and their beds as the sun came up.

"I wish I'd been there to help you," Viola said abruptly. "You shouldn't have had to dance with that man. Everybody knows his reputation."

"Perhaps, but it was that or spend another evening with Lord Raisin."

Viola winced. "At least you know what Lord Raisin's intentions are."

"I know what Viscount Henley's intentions are, too," Isolde shot back. "He's bored. He wanted to dance, wanted to flutter his eyelashes at a lady – any lady – and I was the closest. Perhaps he relishes the challenge. Debutantes aren't that hard to impress, but I've seen four Seasons and not much interests me anymore."

Viola eyed her friend. "And were you?"

"Was I what?"

"Were you interested?"

Colour rose to Isolde's cheeks. She was grateful for the dark to cover it.

"I certainly was not," she responded firmly. "He was a good dancer, and that is all the good that can be said about him."

"He's handsome, too."

"What is the purpose of this, Viola? Would you want me to care for a man like that?"

She was getting too sharp. Isolde could hear the edge in her own voice, a tartness which one should not use when talking to one's only friend. Viola bit her lip and looked away.

"I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," Isolde muttered. "I don't know why I'm taking out my anger on you. I certainly didn't expect the viscount to ask me to dance, and you know how I feel about waltzing. But it's done now, so I'll collect myself and go back inside."

"Lord Henley might want to talk to you again."

"He won't," Isolde said, with absolute surety. "Don't worry about that. I'd bet a hundred pounds I'll never see the man again, and it would be a hundred pounds well spent."

Viola giggled at that, some of her worry fading away. "Well, at the very least, we know that you shouldn't wear that gown again. People will be talking about your little trip for weeks, I'm afraid."

"I know," Isolde said, shaking her head with a sigh. "I know."

Arm in arm, the two ladies turned to face the ball once again.