With her mother distracted over various bolts of fabric, Isolde had a moment or two for herself. She was standing on the pedestal before the mirror, ready to have countless fabrics, ribbons, hunks of thread, and pieces of lace held up to gauge its effect on her complexion and colouring. And then there were the measurements, the arguments over style and cut, and theusual tug-of-war argument over a frothy, frilly dress (Beatrice’s choice), and something more simple and practical (Isolde’s choice). It would take hours.
Isolde’s mind, however, was not on her new dress. She kept replaying the events of last night’s literary salon in her mind.
As always, the meeting had stretched on into the night, the hours slipping away like minutes. Most of the company took turns to stand and address the others on the virtues of their chosen book. There were discussions, games, and even a few lectures. At times, there would be long periods of silence, during which they would browse the shelves, fetch more tea, or just read the books they’d brought.
It was delightfully peaceful, thrillingly loud, and perfectly controversial.
As soon as the literary evenings were over, Isolde found herself looking forward to the next one, and downcast that she would have to wait a little longer.
The viscount had been… well, she wasn’t sure how to describe him.
Her worries about him embarrassing her after she’d vouched for him seemed almost laughable now. He’d been a delight. He’d stood up and talked about Pride and Prejudice, making the others laugh. His insights were good, clever, and real.
He’d even coaxed a smile out of serious Lord Bell, who’d gone around anxiously checking on the candles and fire all night, terrified of a blaze.
Maria had invited both the viscount and Lady Wrenwood for the next salon on their own merit and made no secret of expressing to Isolde how greatly she had admired the pair of them.
All of this left Isolde feeling… well, odd.
Sitting next to the viscount hadn’t been the ordealshe’d half-expected. He was jovial and friendly, talkative and intelligent. Seeing how her friends reacted to him and liked him so much made Isolde feel that maybe – just maybe – she’d been wrong about his rakish ways.
A man who appreciated the Lady Author of Pride and Prejudice couldn’t be all bad, could he?
Abruptly, Beatrice was at her side.
“Lord Raisin is outside,” she said, a touch breathlessly. “I must warn you, Isolde, I intend to invite him for dinner tonight.”
“Mama, no! Please.”
“I won’t hear it,” she insisted. “He’s a good man, and you ought to give him a proper chance. Wait here.”
Before Isolde could say a word more, Beatrice was gone, scuttling out of the fitting room and leaving Isolde alone.
Not alone, actually. In the newfound silence, she could hear two of the modiste’s assistants talking in low voices behind a red velvet curtain.
“That’s her, is it not?”
“Shh! She’ll hear.”
Isolde considered coughing, or saying something, or simply moving away, so that the two women would know their conversation was not private.
Before she could do anything, the first woman spoke again.
“Oh, don’t worry about it, ladies never hear a thing going on around them when there’s ribbons and lace to look at. It’s her, the Ice Queen. The woman the gossip columns are going mad over.”
Isolde stiffened, breath catching in her throat.
“Pretty, isn’t she?”
“Pretty enough, but not young enough,” the first woman muttered. The clear sound of sharp scissors through silk filled the air. Isolde’s hands fisted in the material of her skirts.
“I heard she’s out to catch an earl.”
“Nah, it’s that viscount, the one with the bad reputation.”
“Do you think they’ll make a match of it?”
“I doubt it. She’s too old and supposed to be a regular bluestocking.”
