Isolde’s cheeks burned. “How many times must I say it? I’m content to be single.”
“People change, Isolde. The window for women closes rapidly, you know. In a year or two you’ll be considered ineligible for all but the oldest bachelors, and what if you change your mind about marriage then?”
“Oh, what if, what if. I grow weary of such musings. I shall not jeopardize my happiness on a gentleman who may prove to be akin to… to… to Lord Wrenwood,” she whispered, her voice descending to a near hush.
Viola bit her lip. “Lady Wrenwood went into her marriage with her eyes open. By all accounts, she needed a rich man to settle her late husband’s debts, and she got one. And she got the consequences that came with it.” She sniffed, turning away from the roses. “We all must face the consequences of our actions.”
Isolde frowned. “What are you talking about? Has something upset you?”
“No, no, not at all. I hear that Lord Raisin called on you today. How did that go?”
Isolde opened her mouth, intending to ask where Viola had heard that, but decided against it.
“Mama wants me to marry him, I think,” she muttered. “I can’t.”
Viola sighed. “You ought to think about your future, you know.”
“Ugh. That’s what Mama said. I don’t want to marry, Viola, and nobody will change my mind on that matter.”
They walked together, following the downward slope of the garden towards the house. Laughter and chatter rose up around them. A few snide looks were thrown Isolde’s way, and the whispers reappeared. She clenched her jaw and tried her best to ignore it. There would be whispers, at least until some new scandal happened for everybody to talk about.
Not that Isolde’s dance with Viscount Henley was a scandal. It was just a dance, and if everybody had been concerned with minding their own businesses and talking to their own friends, instead of imputing motives to the Viscount and her, then perhaps…
“Oh, lord,” Viola breathed, stopping dead and grabbing Isolde’s arm. “He is here, after all.”
Isolde opened her mouth to ask who he was, but the words died on her lips.
A tall, masculine figure strolled out of the open Frenchdoors, glistening Hessians making no sound on the well-swept courtyard.
Viscount Henley paused, hand on one hip, and surveyed the gathering. He was wearing a pale green suit with a shockingly blasé cravat, not exactly suitable for a garden party.
He did not appear to care. His gaze raked through the crowd, missing nothing. Isolde shrank back, even though she was fairly sure she was too far away from the courtyard for him to see her properly. And there was a statue in the way.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Isolde groaned. “If I speak to him, everybody will talk about it. If I don’t speak to him, everybody will draw conclusions about that, too. I just want this whole thing to die.”
“Well, it won’t die, not yet, at least. And you can’t stay up here all evening,” Viola pointed out pragmatically. “Come, let’s go down together.”
Chapter Eight
Isolde’s heart, much to her horror, sped up. Her palms grew sweaty, and she forced herself not to wipe them on her skirts.
They couldn’t very well scurry off to the corners of the garden again – the meal would be starting soon. Besides, people had noticed Isolde.
More to the point, they had noticed Isolde and the Viscount.
Swallowing hard, she strode forward, not waiting for Viola to tow her forward. Best to get it over with.
Dozens of eyes followed her, hands coming up to muffle murmurs that she had no desire at all to listen to. The ground levelled out under her feet, and she was on the courtyard again. Conversations had dwindled away, leaving a pocket of silence around Isolde.
And then, horrifyingly, the Viscount noticed.
Don’t look at me, Isolde prayed. Pray, disregard me as I shall strive to overlook you, good sir, and we shall navigate our acquaintance with the utmost ease.
She glanced up, despite herself, and their eyes met.
A shiver ran over her skin, despite the warmth of the afternoon, and the lazy sun.
This, she thought bleakly, would be so much easier were he not so handsome.
