The Notorious Dashing
Viscount
Preview
Chapter One
“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner…You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
Isolde let out a long, slow breath, cheeks puffing out. She hastily read to the end of the chapter, sparing a few moments to reread a passage or two to ascertain that what she’d read was correct, then closed the book.
Well. Well.
There was a reason that this newest novel, intriguingly entitled First Impressions, or as some were now calling it, Pride and Prejudice, was causing such a stir. No wonder the esteemed author kept her identity a careful secret.
Isolde, for her part, was thrilled. Why should the brilliant, charming, and fascinating Elizabeth Bennet accept the – admittedly wealthy – hand of Mr. Darcy, who said that she wasn’t beautiful enough to tempt him? Isolde had chafed more over that insult than the fictional Miss Bennet had herself, she thought.
The book was only halfway through, too! Isolde knew already, though, that it would end with Elizabeth Bennet marrying someone. Mr. Darcy intrigued her more than the rest, despite his boorishness. Stories always ended with the heroine either happily married or tragically dead. At least Mr. Darcy was simply an awkward man, instead of a rake all ripe for reforming. She hated those books. Isolde had torn Pamela in two towards the end, full of rage for the awful man the poor titular Pamela had married. What a silly girl.
She leaned back with a sigh, tucking her feet up under her. The afternoon was wearing on, and still there was no sign of the guest they had hoped for. Isolde’s spot in the window seat afforded a decent view down the drive. The Belford townhouse was in the centre of London, although one would never have thought it to look at the lush gardens and long, winding drive, well-raked by diligent gardeners every day. They were working now, picking their way through the undergrowth, inspecting the waxy, perfect blooms coming up through the earth.
I hate gardening, Isolde thought miserably.
The Season was just starting, and until it got into full swing, there wouldn’t be much to do in town. For her part, Isolde preferred to stay at home and read. There were so many books to read, and more novels being produced every day. Pride and Prejudice was one of her favourites so far, and Elizabeth Bennet easily a favourite heroine. Isolde’s book club were all going to love her. She would certainly suggest that the circulating library stock more of that author’s books.
The rumble of carriage wheels on gravel jerked her out of her reverie, and Isolde blinked, leaning forward. A hired hackney cab, its dull black sides splattered with mud, was making its way up the drive. A familiar face peered out through the window, and Isolde gave a strangled shriek.
Leaping to her feet – Pride and Prejudice slid off her knee and landed with a thump on the carpet, but she hardly noticed – Isolde went racing out of the library, skidding along the carpeted hallway outside.
“He’s home! He’s home!” she shouted to no one in particular, then leapt down the stairs, fully intending to rush out and greet her brother.
Not your brother, needled a voice at the back of her mind, making her smile falter.
But then she was outside, and James was right there, handing up a handful of coins to the cab driver, flashing that white-toothed grin that was even more remarkable now that his skin was so well-tanned.
He turned to smile at her, and Isolde threw herself at him.
“Steady on, steady on, little sister!” James laughed, catching his balance. He wrapped his arms around Isolde, lifting her full off the ground and swinging her around. “It’s good to see you again, I can tell you that.”
He put her down, and Isolde wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.
“We were starting to think you weren’t coming. You were meant to be home three days ago.”
He winced. “Indeed, I encountered a series of misfortunes during my travels – carriages with splintered wheels, inclement weather, and the like. Yet, I have arrived at last, and I eagerly anticipate being warmly attended to. I bear gifts, of course – a gentleman cannot embark on a Grand Tour without returning with tokens of appreciation, can he?”
“I place no importance on gifts, especially now that you have returned. Do come in, do come in. Mama and Papa are out, so I shall have you to myself for a few hours.”
Towing him by the hand, Isolde gestured for the footmen to collect James’ things, and pulled him into the cool darkness of the hallway.
James, never one for measured silences, chatted incessantly as he stripped out of his heavy travelling coat, hat, and gloves. The butler smiled benevolently as he waited to receive the items.
“If I may say so,” old Sinclair intoned when a pause came, “we below stairs are all very glad to see you returned safely, Lord James.”
James beamed. “And I am most pleased to return, Sinclair. Please convey my fondest regards to all.”
The butler bowed and melted away. He barely spared a glance for Isolde. The older servants, the butler and housekeeper, both seemed to treat her a little strangely. Distantly, perhaps, compared to the way they treated James.
It made sense now, of course, and the knowledge burned in Isolde’s chest like a trapped fire. The family portrait loomed large in the Great Hall, above the spot where James stood, fixing his thick mouse-brown hair in the mirror.
In the portrait, the resemblances were clear. James had his mother’s eyes – flinty grey, large and clear and fringed by black eyelashes, with firm brows set over them. He had his father’s mousy hair – which was likely to thin in later years, but for now was thick and strong – and his father’s sharp jaw and aquiline nose.
And then there was Isolde.
The painting had been done six years ago, when Isolde had just turned seventeen. She had a round face, a roses-and-cream complexion which, while fashionable, did not match the olive skin of her father and brother. Her hair was blonde, refused to curl, and she had blue eyes, downturned at the corners.
Pretty, yes, but the family resemblance was never marked.
“I found a painting of her, you know,” Isolde said, gaze drifting past her brother. “In the attic. I didn’t take it down, but I know it’s there.”
James followed her gaze and frowned. “You mean, a painting of Dorothy?”
“Hush! Somebody might hear.”
He sighed. “People know that Mama had a sister, Izzy.”
“Yes, but they don’t know…” she swallowed the words. “They don’t know the rest of it.”
“And they never will,” he said, reassuringly. She wished she could believe him.
“Come, let’s go to the library. I want to talk to you about something.”
“This place hasn’t changed a bit,” James remarked, running his finger along the spines of a row of books. “You have, though. You’re prettier than ever.”
Isolde snorted. “Oh, please. I’m three and twenty. This will be my fourth Season, and people are only ever interested in the young debutantes. Believe me, that suits me fine.”
James narrowed his eyes. “You’re a Belford, remember. You’re Lady Isolde Belford, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Belbrooke. Remember that.”
“I can hardly forget it,” she muttered, picking at her dress.
“I think you are forgetting it, though.” Crossing the room, James sank down beside her, reaching out to take her hand. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”
Isolde bit her lip hard. She felt silly baby tears pricking at her eyes and blinked furiously. Elizabeth Bennet would never cry. Pamela would, though, and look at what happened to her.
“I had an argument with Mama, about a month ago,” she admitted at last. “A bad one. It’s about the Season. She says that she and Papa have had quite enough of my dilly-dallying, and it’s high time I was settled. She said that this will be my last Season, and if I know what’s good for me, I’ll choose a nice man to marry. There will be consequences if not.”
“Consequences? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. She may be harbouring any number of thoughts, I expect.”
“You read entirely too many novels. They shall merely send you to the countryside, where you may dwell in tranquil repose among your books.”
“I like London. I like my friends, and my books, and my circulating library – which is a revolutionary idea, by the way – and I don’t want to go. All the men in town are purely awful.”
“They can’t all be awful,” James pointed out. “I’m here now.”
“Yes, but that’s different. They’re all rakes or dead bores. There’s nothing in between.” She paused, tilting her head. “Except for the old men who want a third or fourth wife, and don’t realise how ridiculous they look pursuing the young women. Ugh, that’s who I’m going to marry, isn’t it? Some lecherous old man with about ten children who will all hate me on sight. Oh, James, what am I going to do?”
She dropped her head into her hands, and James slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.
“There, there, you poor dear. I shall speak with Mama and Papa and ascertain what course of action may be taken.” In the meantime, why not take their advice seriously? We both know Mama can be brusque, but she has your best interests at heart. Ladies do get married, you know. Why not do this Season properly? You always seem a little… well, a little distracted. Not really looking for somebody to marry. What about if we change that? I’ll be there, and we can choose someone together.”
Isolde shook her head drearily. “I don’t want to get married.”
A flash of annoyance clouded James’ handsome face. “Don’t be silly. Of course you do. I’m ready to get married. Perhaps we can look for spouses together.”
She sighed. “It’s different for you. You’ll be the Duke of Belbrooke one day. You just finished the most marvellous tour. Do you have any idea how envious I was, perusing the accounts of your adventures in the letters you dispatched home? It felt like a form of torment. I have no desire to be wed, and at the conclusion of it all, I find myself… I am…” she trailed off, face colouring.
James didn’t understand. With the best will in the world, he never quite seemed to understand the way Isolde felt. It didn’t seem to matter how much she explained it.
“At the conclusion of it, what?” he pressed, tilting his head. “What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m afraid they’ll find out,” she hissed, low and quick, glancing furtively at the library door as she did so. It remained modestly closed. Of course, the servants could all be gathered around the keyhole, listening in.
James flinched. “Oh. Well, they won’t. How could they?”
Isolde didn’t answer. For a moment, she was no longer three and twenty years old, in the library with her older brother. She was eighteen, on the cusp of her first Season, frisking downstairs to the parlour with the intention of showing her parents just how well a particular dress looked on her.
*********
The mint-coloured silk had been the perfect choice, of course. Isolde hummed to herself, admiring the way her skirts swished around her legs. It was a grown-up dress for a proper adult. Perfect.
It was late, and the lights were mostly out downstairs, aside from a few strategically placed candles. The parlour door was cracked out, warm firelight streaming out into the hallway. She could hear her parents’ voices in there, talking to each other. They usually spent a few hours together each evening before retiring. Isolde was comfortably aware that her parents loved each other, which was rare enough in Society.
Pausing in front of a long mirror in the hall, Isolde inspected herself one last time. The shadows made her look older, her figure a little fuller than her spindly eighteen-year-old frame. She had no gloves on, but one could imagine. Isolde smiled coyly at her reflection.
“Hello, my Lord,” she whispered. “Why yes, I would love to dance.”
And then her father’s voice raised a little higher, making her jump.
“You must be mad, Beatrice. You cannot be suggesting what I think you are suggesting.”
Isolde crept closer to the door, holding her breath. She could hear the sound of pacing, and imagined it was her father, walking up and down, up and down in front of the dying fireplace.
“I’m not saying we tell him right away,” Beatrice’s voice replied. “But Isolde is a pretty girl, and I imagine she will want to marry for love. And why should she not? The gentleman of her choice, whoever he may be, has a right to know the truth.”
“And so we must risk everything? No man would take her once he knew the truth.”
Isolde clapped a hand over her mouth. What secret was this? What was happening?
“Don’t speak of Isolde that way, Richard. It’s unbecoming, and untrue.”
“I am not being cruel,” Richard said, voice lowered. “I care for Isolde, of course I do. But Society simply does not tolerate these things. Secrecy is her only chance at an ordinary life.”
“But a man who truly loves her…”
“That love will wither away as soon as he knows the truth. No gentleman would wed himself to a bastard, no matter how pretty she is, or how wealthy her uncle and aunt might be. Certainly not a bastard who’s spent her life living as the trueborn daughter of a Duke and Duchess.”
This time, Isolde exclaimed aloud, a strangled gasp that was loud in the following silence. There were hurried footsteps, and the door whisked open.
Lord Richard Belford and his wife, Beatrice, stood there. The Duke and Duchess of Belbrooke respectively. They looked guilty, horrified, and angry. For a few moments, nobody spoke.
Isolde felt sure it had to be a joke. At any point, they would break into smiles and laughter, shaking their heads at the look on her face.
They didn’t.
Beatrice spoke first, in the end.
“Oh, my darling girl,” she whispered. “You were never meant to know.”
*********
The secret which Isolde was never meant to know was nothing new. In fact, it had probably played out over the country countless times over the centuries.
Beatrice had married well, while her younger sister had eloped with some man or another. He had not married her. Only a year after Beatrice gave birth to their son, James, the disgraced Dorothy Fairwood had arrived on their doorway. Sick, thin, alone, unwed, and pregnant.
She hadn’t lived through the pregnancy. Isolde had wondered, more than once, whether her life would have been different if Dorothy had lived. But she hadn’t, and the duke and duchess had made the decision to take Isolde in as their own.
It was easily done – a few months away, a hint of a pregnancy, then a return with one’s new baby.
But the fact remained that Isolde was not a Belford, and she was not legitimate. No respectable gentleman would marry such a woman.
“I can’t get married, James,” she repeated quietly. “It would be wrong.”
The rumble of carriage wheels sounded outside. The Duke and Duchess must be back. James was glancing over his shoulder, already distracted.
“You must, Isolde. It’s the only way, I’m afraid. You must.”
Chapter Two
A tray slipped from a footman’s gloved hands. It was empty, thankfully, just a silver platter designed for carrying drinks, but it made an awful clatter, nonetheless.
Everybody at the table jumped, with one exception.
Lord Auric Camden, Earl of Wrenwood, turned cold eyes on the footman in question. The footman – a young man, probably a new hire – visibly trembled.
“Careful, lad,” the earl grated.
The footman gulped, nodding rapidly. He snatched up the tray and made a speedy exit.
Clayton let himself breathe again.
It had been many years since his father had tried to hit him, but that wouldn’t prevent him from turning his rage onto others.
Eliza spoke up, as she often did. “It was an accident, Auric.”
Her marriage to Auric had never made sense to Clayton. Eliza was a woman of middle years, staid and sensible, and seemed to get as close to managing Auric as anyone ever would. They weren’t in love, naturally. They weren’t happy but they managed well enough. She was no thin, delicate damsel like Clayton’s mother had been.
Best not to think on that.
Clayton snatched up his wine glass, taking a long pull. It was weak stuff, nothing like the good port he would get at his club. White’s was the best, and Clayton had long since convinced himself of the simple fact that he deserved the best.
“Can I have some wine, Clay?” whispered a small voice at Clayton’s elbow.
The children were sitting at the table with them tonight, a rare treat that seemed to have them both in fits of terror at doing something wrong.
Amelia sat opposite, looking as panicky as an almost-thirteen-year-old girl might in the presence of overbearing adults. Little Edward, however, was only nine, and was generally well shielded enough from his father’s temper to only have a moderate terror of the man.
It was Edward who requested wine. Clayton lifted a sandy eyebrow, looking down at his little half-brother. The wine swirled around the glass.
“You won’t like it.”
“I might,” Edward insisted. “I can’t know unless I try, can I?”
Clayton inclined his head, acknowledging this impeccable logic.
“Your Mamma might not like it.”
“She might not notice. You’re in the way, you see. You are so large.”
“Perhaps I am not large, but you are merely small.”
Edward reflected on this new information. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “Will you let me have some wine, now?”
Clayton considered. “Perhaps a small sip, then.”
Edward’s face brightened. Before anything could be done, however, Eliza slowly and leisurely dug her elbow into Clayton’s ribs.
“I think not,” she said sweetly, never once glancing his way.
Clayton grimaced. “I beg your pardon, Edward. It seems not.”
The boy looked crestfallen. “I see. Well, thank you anyway, Clay.”
“You aren’t old enough for wine,” Amelia piped up. Edward angrily asserted that this was not so, and the children began a spirited exchange across the table. Until Auric spoke again, of course.
“That’s enough,” he grated.
There was silence immediately. Eliza stiffened, almost imperceptibly. Clayton set down the wine with a clack.
“It’s rare enough that our gracious Viscount Henley – my own son, mind you – honours us with his presence. You rarely come home, boy. What have you to say for yourself?”
Clayton held his father’s eye steadily. “My estate requires work, Father.”
Auric gave a snort. “Don’t try and fool me. I know what you’re doing. Flirting with ladies – some respectable, most not – and drinking yourself into a stupor. If your mother’s fool brother saw fit to leave you his estate and his title, that’s his concern. Run it into the ground if you want, I care not.”
Clayton had inherited the title of Viscount Henley, along with his uncle’s large estate, on the event of the man’s death. Uncle Henley, as Clayton had known him, had stopped visiting once his sister died. There had apparently been some letters sent, from the uncle to the nephew, but Clayton had never received them. They’d almost certainly been reduced to ashes in the grate of Auric’s study. Best not to think of that.
The gist of it was that Clayton was a rich man. He had been since he was nineteen and had spent the past seven or eight years enjoying himself and avoiding his father.
Unfortunately, if he wanted to see Amelia and Edward, he couldn’t avoid the man forever. Annoyingly, Clayton found that he did want to see his wretched little half-brother and half-sister, and so here he was. Enjoying a delightful family meal.
“Thank you, Father,” Clayton answered evenly. “Tonight has been wonderful, but I fear I must take my leave.”
“Do as you will,” Auric snapped. “The children are going to bed anyway.”
Edward, who had only just started on his dessert, opened his mouth to argue, but a frantic glare from his sister made him close his mouth again. The children obediently hopped down from the table, with Eliza rising to see them to bed. Tossing his napkin on the table, Clayton rose too.
“Don’t forget my birthday, Clay,” Amelia whispered, as they shuffled towards the dining room door together. “You promised me a present.”
“I shall not forget.”
In the cool hallway outside, Clayton turned towards the door, but a hand on his arm stopped him.
“Auric is right,” Eliza said quietly. “You live a reckless life, Clayton.”
“You sound jealous, my dear step-mamma.”
“I am not. You ought to be married. You ought to settle down.”
“My uncle never did.”
“And see what a mess was made of his estates when he passed.”
Clayton grinned, an expression he knew would make him look wicked in the dim hallway light.
“Forgive me, but I don’t much care what happens when I die. It’s not as if I’ll be around to witness it. Can ghosts feel shame, do you think?”
“Stop it. Your father intends to talk to you about this sooner or later. He wants to see you married.”
“My father holds no sway over me.”
Eliza tightened her jaw. “Don’t be too sure about that. Think on what I’ve said, Clayton. Please?”
“Of course I’ll think about it,” Clayton lied. “Do excuse me, step-mamma. My club is calling.”
Eliza sighed heavily. “Are you ever going to grow up?”
He grinned, dancing towards the door. “Not if I can help it.”
*********
White’s was abuzz with energy. The night was well along, and with the Season just starting, so everybody was coming to town. Clayton shouldered his way in and stood on tiptoes, trying to peer over the heads of other gentlemen to spot his friends. He caught sight of his own reflection and paused to adjust his hair.
It was important not to delve too deeply into dandyism, but Clayton was entirely too handsome not to know about it. Ladies fluttered at him, and gentlemen either wanted badly to be his friend or hated him on sight. Both made for interesting evenings.
Clayton knew from portraits and his own hazy memory that he resembled his mother, and probably Uncle Henley, too. He had thick dark hair, so brown as to almost be black, and a pair of shockingly bright jade-green eyes, set in a square, handsome face. His collection of features was the sort of thing one might see in a Romantic painting, or perhaps engraved in marble.
Either way, Clayton knew he was handsome, and was rather proud of it. His father might have kept his mother from him for all those years, but he couldn’t change the fact that her face lived on in her son.
Smiling grimly, Clayton turned away from the mirror, and ploughed on through the crowd.
A grating, high-pitched voice caught his attention.
“Now, here it is – fifty pounds to anybody who can melt the heart of the infamous Ice Queen! You cannot do it, I wager.”
Clayton paused at that, peering at the knot of men to his left.
They were the usual crowd – rakes, gamblers, second and third sons who longed to be noticed by their fathers, even for the wrong reasons. The men were all deep in their cups and were listening and laughing with the man that Clayton disliked most in all the world.
Excepting, of course, his father.
Mr. Simon Dudley came from trade and hated the fact. Clayton had once joked that the chip on his shoulder was so deep that it was a wonder his arm did not fall clean off, and perhaps that was where their animosity had started.
Simon was thirty years old, taller than Clayton but not as handsome, with pale skin and a petulant mouth with a desperate love of gossip and scandal. He was rumoured to have killed a man in a duel and had never forgiven Clayton for revealing that rumour to have been started by none other than Simon himself.
He’d lingered too long. Simon glanced his way, and his eyes narrowed.
“Ah, Lord Henley. What a pleasure. Will you drink with us?”
“I’d love to, but no, I have other engagements.”
Simon snorted. “What engagements?”
Clayton smiled winningly. “I am engaged to drink elsewhere. Anywhere else, really.”
That won him a few titters. Simon scowled.
“Well, well, you heard my wager. What do you say? Could you melt the Ice Queen’s heart? You must know her. A pretty enough girl. Rich, with excellent family. Three Seasons have come and gone and she’s turned down every single suitor who came her way. And there were plenty, might I add, most of them entirely eligible. Turned them down firmly, may I add. It’s odd, is it not?”
“I’m not sure how it concerns me,” Clayton drawled, affecting boredom. “The lady’s business is her own.”
“What about the fifty pounds, though?”
“I don’t know about you, Simon, but I do not require fifty pounds to make my fortune.”
Simon pursed his lips, tilting his head. “You don’t accept my wager, then?”
“I certainly do not.” Clayton craned his neck, trying to spot an acquaintance – any acquaintance, really. He couldn’t exactly cut Simon in the middle of White’s. There were rules, after all. It was a gentleman’s club.
Simon drew in a breath. “Oh. Oh. I see what it is.”
“Do you really?”
“Ye-es, I do. You’re afraid that the great Lord Henley, with his great charm, would be refused by a chit of a girl.”
Clayton scowled. “There are dozens of women who would marry me at a word. I don’t mean to brag, Simon, but I have conquests aplenty. Why on earth should I bother with a woman who doesn’t want me?”
Simon leaned forward, grinning, elbows resting on the wooden counter in front of him. There was a puddle of spilled brandy there, and it soaked into the elbow of his jacket. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Why? Well, because I say you cannot do it, of course. I say you are all talk and no action.”
The chatter had died down in the club, to Clayton’s chagrin. More people were listening, mostly because it was Simon and Clayton – famous enemies – who was going head-to-head.
“This may shock you, my dear sir, but I don’t care for your opinion any more than I do the Ice Queen’s. I imagine that if I applied myself, I should be able to attract her attention, but why would I want to do that?”
Undeterred, Simon chuckled.
“I put it to you, Lord Clayton Henley, that you prey on silly, feeble-minded debutantes and jolly widows, and a conquest of any difficulty at all is entirely beyond you. You cannot melt the Ice Queen’s heart any more than we can, but if you do not try, you can keep up this façade of pretending you could, if you wanted to.”
Clayton’s fingers curled tight around a brandy glass. He wasn’t entirely sure who had pressed it into his hand. He drained it anyway, tipping back his head, the liquid burning down his throat. It shivered through his veins, making him feel warm. He could see Lucas now, pushing through the crowd.
A little too late, he thought sourly. If I’d seen you earlier, wretch, I might have excused myself and gotten away from Simon’s nonsense.
It was too late, of course. Simon was waiting, grinning, for Clayton’s response. His cronies were too, and a good number of interested gentlemen.
Wagers like this, which hinged on attracting the attention of a lady, were generally frowned upon and considered ungentlemanly, especially by the older generation. That didn’t stop them from being made.
“Very well, then,” Clayton answered brightly, setting down the glass and pushing it away. “I accept your wager, Simon. The terms?”
Simon’s face lit up. “You have until the end of the Season to win the Ice Queen’s heart. It must be obvious – no getting her to smile at you and calling it a success. If you succeed, fifty pounds for you. If you lose, well, you have plenty of money to lose, do you not?”
“More than enough,” Clayton snapped. “Done.”
“I look forward to the beginning of our wager,” Simon said, grinning delightedly.
Clayton sneered, turning on his heel and marching away.
What on earth have I gotten myself into?
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.”
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“The Notorious Dashing Viscount” It will be live on Amazon soon…
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This Post Has One Comment
Sounds like this will be quite interesting, neither wanting to marry, with others wanting them too. I look forward to it’s release.
Roberta