“Perhaps,” he conceded, “but where is the fun in that?”
She shot him a hard look, and his smile widened, revealing sharp white incisors. They had reached the table, and Isolde saw with a jolt that he’d effortlessly led her directly to her place. She saw her own name written on a piece of card in impeccable copperplate.
“Enjoy the rest of the evening, Lady Isolde,” he said, sweeping a flourishingly low bow. Despite herself, colour rose to her cheeks.
“And you,” she mumbled, distinctly ungraciously. Across the table, Beatrice’s eyes were boring into her. Viola had disappeared somewhere. Conversation was muted, and Isolde would have bet her dowry that the majority of it was based upon her.
Then the Viscount thankfully slipped away, and Isolde breathed out, dropping with an unceremoniously thump into her chair before the footman could come forward to seat her.
She didn’t have much chance to catch her breath. A haughty young woman with dark hair and a permanent sneer sank into the seat beside her, and a man on her other side.
“Forgive me,” he said, voice low, “but we aren’t introduced. An oversight on the part of our hostess, I imagine. To save us ignoring each other, perhaps we might glance at each other’s name cards, and pretend we are old friends?”
She glanced over at the man, a fairly ordinary looking fellow of about thirty. His name card read Mr. Simon Dudley.
“Mr. Dudley,” she said aloud. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Likewise, Lady Isolde,” he said, smiling wryly. “What a coincidence, for us to be seated together. Do you know, I believe we have a mutual friend, now I come to think of it.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, one Lord George Raisin. Fine chap, is he not?”
“Yes, very fine,” Isolde lied neatly.
Mr. Dudley grinned widely. “I think you and I have a great deal to talk about, Lady Isolde.”
Before she could ask him what, exactly, he meant by that, dinner was served.
*********
Clayton swallowed down a bite of anger, drumming his fingers on the wood of the table.
He had not been seated near Lady Isolde, or indeed on the same table. She was across the courtyard, sitting by Simon Dudley, of all people.
“Eliza,” he murmured, leaning close to whisper in her ear, “Why on earth did you seat Lady Isolde by Mr. Dudley?”
His stepmother, distracted by giving an order about the soup, glanced briefly at him. “What do you mean? I don’t believe I did, they aren’t introduced.”
“The scoundrel must have exchanged the place cards," Clayton seethed. "Just wait until I lay hands upon him.”
The footman disappeared, bearing a vast tureen of steaming soup, and Eliza glanced worriedly at her stepson.
“What on earth are you talking about, Clayton? I hope you don’t have a tendre for that Belford girl. The gossip column said that…”
“Oh, don’t pay any attention to that gossip. I dragged her onto the dance floor, and I can assure you she only agreed because she was obliged to.”
Eliza blinked, baffled. “Well, then, why should you care ifshe sits beside Simon Dudley? He’s a decent man, although I doubt he would be interested in her. His taste runs to debutantes, if I’m not mistaken.”
Clayton shook his head. “It’s of no consequence.”
Eliza eyed him out of the corner of her eye as if she were not convinced, but then another footman appeared with another query, and her attention was diverted. Clayton took the opportunity to get up from the table. He wasn’t much hungry in any case.
Crossing the courtyard in several long strides, Clayton could not have said what propelled him to look back. His gaze sought out Lady Isolde without ever intending to.
She was looking at him.
Simon was talking to her, with that insufferable confidence of his, but she wasn’t listening. Her head was turned, facing him.
