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 richlydeserves 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 crushingemptiness. 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.”
