Chapter 7

7

Isabella wore her new velvet gown for Mrs Singleton's rout party. It had long sleeves, which were now securely à la mode for evening wear – it had been an excessively cold and miserable summer followed by a cold autumn, and gooseflesh could never be fashionable – but it was, like all her other new formal gowns, cut quite low across the bosom. It was a rich, dark brown – that sounded dull, but Blanche and Eleanor assured her that it was most certainly not; the colour complemented her skin and hair, they confirmed, and with it she wore a necklace of gold and smoky quartz which Ash had bought for her in York not long after their wedding because he said it matched her eyes. When she'd worn it for him, she'd paired it with gold silk, or white (or on one memorable occasion nothing at all), but she had not dressed in chocolate brown as a young married woman and was surprised how well it suited her. She felt older, sophisticated, experienced even. It seemed appropriate; it gave her strength.

It gave her strength, at least until she saw Captain Winterton entering the room with his family party, which included, of course, Cassandra, the woman he loved so hopelessly. The Countess of Irlam had also chosen to wear a long-sleeved gown, but hers was a glorious, shimmering shade of sea-green silk, against which her short hair was a bright flame. She was wearing emeralds, her animated little face was alight with amusement, and she had a gentleman on each arm: her tall, dark husband – Isabella had heard him described as excessively handsome, but she had no eyes for him – and the Captain. Suddenly her own brown velvet felt irredeemably dowdy, and her necklace mere trumpery stones. A moment ago she had felt rather dashing; now she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was plump, frumpish and ridiculous. Whatever had possessed her to wear brown?

She was engaged in an entirely frivolous conversation with a gentleman – with, in fact, her second candidate, whose person didn't seem to be creaking as far as she could hear – but she was making only mechanical replies to his remarks because she was watching over his shoulder, his allegedly padded shoulder, as Mrs Singleton greeted her guests and the Captain was presented to her. He bowed over her hand, and as he straightened to his full height she smiled up at him; their hostess for the evening was as short as Isabella herself, but not frumpish in the least. She , though an older lady, was elegant in pale green, with diamonds. Isabella didn't have any diamonds, or emeralds, and had not previously regretted their absence in the least.

Luckily, Isabella's companion in conversation didn't seem to require that a woman responded intelligently to his constant stream of chatter; it was enough that she agreed enthusiastically with him whenever he paused the flow for a second for that express purpose. She was with some small part of her brain rapidly reconsidering his status as first reserve; if he jabbered ceaselessly like this during intimate congress or any other kind of intimacy, he would give her the headache, which was scarcely part of her plan. But the larger part of her brain was still occupied in observing the Captain and his companions.

Another couple stood with the Singletons to receive their guests: a fair, handsome man, whose classically regular features were rendered more individual by a nose that had obviously been broken at some time in the past and mended badly, and a tall, voluptuous, dark-haired woman who was plainly his wife. Isabella had heard somewhere that Kate Silverwood was of Italian descent, and could believe it to be true now that she saw her. Never in her life had she felt more pasty, uninteresting and sadly English by comparison. Lady Silverwood was wearing a beautiful ruby necklace and had a truly magnificent bosom upon which to display it. Matching earrings glowed and sparkled against her dark curls. And her gown was velvet too, but it was flaming red. (Isabella was beginning to hate with a deep passion the very thought of the colour brown, which she would never wear again as long as she lived.) Lady Irlam had embraced her friend, and they were moving aside now to engage in animated conversation, leaving their husbands to chat easily together.

This left Captain Winterton at a loose end as the Singletons greeted another party of guests, and with a little spark of pleasure which she refused to examine more closely, Isabella saw that he was moving through the throng towards her. He greeted her companion courteously but perhaps a little stiffly, and before she knew quite what was happening he had extricated her with ruthless naval efficiency and was drawing her apart to stand in a little alcove, partially sheltered from the rest of the company by a large Grecian urn.

‘I thought the creaking might be wearing on your nerves,' he said with a perfectly straight face.

‘I wasn't aware of any creaking, I must admit. But that could be because he never stopped talking for long enough to let me hear it.'

‘He is a terrible rattlepate, it's perfectly true, along with all his other faults. I really do think you should consider removing him from consideration. Even if you can overlook all the padding he'd have to remove, which I am sure would take a tedious amount of time, imagine him afterwards droning away while you were…' He trailed off provocatively, and Isabella could not repress a little snort of amusement, since she had been thinking exactly the same thing not a moment since. ‘Quite,' he said. ‘You can't cross things off your list if you've fallen asleep mid?—'

‘Thank you,' she said repressively. ‘I believe you've made your point.' Curiously, now that they were more or less alone together, her earlier pangs of insecurity had dissipated. She knew that he was irrevocably devoted to Lady Irlam, and she could perfectly understand why, for she was lovely, but as he looked down at her, Isabella, with that teasing light in his eyes, she could be confident that he didn't find her dowdy. There was no need to burn the brown gown just yet.

As if he echoed her thoughts, he said abruptly, ‘You are in high bloom tonight.'

‘I was just wishing I had not worn brown – such a dull shade when all the other ladies look so glorious and colourful. I feel like a sad little sparrow among tropical birds.'

‘Nonsense,' he said. ‘Sheer nonsense. You are nobody's sparrow. You look… edible. Touchable. Your lovely fair skin against the dark velvet is having a most extraordinary effect on me.'

There could be no doubting his sincerity. She blushed, and as she felt the heat race across the pale skin he had so fervently described, she saw that he was watching its progress intently; there was a tinge of red across his own cheeks now. A little silence grew between them, electric with possibilities.

She said briskly, ‘There is to be music soon; apparently Mrs Singleton is famous throughout the ton for her musical parties. And I am told that Lady Silverwood, her sister-in-law – that's the tall lady in red with the magnificent… rubies – is renowned for her performance of operatic arias in Italian.'

‘Oh good,' he said, sounding anything but enthusiastic. ‘Opera.'

She sighed at his slow-wittedness, but then, he was still looking at her as though he wanted to eat her up, so perhaps that accounted for his failure to catch on to her meaning. ‘There is a music room with seats set out for the audience, I understand, but there is to be a great crush and some guests will have to stand at the back.'

Amusement lit his face again as he understood her. ‘And we are to be among these less fortunate guests?'

‘We are. So we can then slip out…'

‘I look forward to it,' he said. ‘Eagerly. I am sure you have reconnoitred the terrain well in advance, and chosen the perfect spot.'

‘I have.' She had. ‘Let us part now, sir, and I will come and stand near you when the music begins. When I leave the room, you can follow me in a discreet fashion.'

He bowed, and she left him, hoping that her flush had subsided so that nobody would notice anything amiss. Edible, indeed. They were, she realised, flirting, and though it could lead to nothing lasting, it was undeniable that she found pleasure in it. There was nothing wrong with that. She knew she must savour every moment, and store up memories against her lonely future.