“I don’t want a man I can manage. Besides, there’s a streak of spite in him that I don’t like.”
“Spite?” James blinked down at her. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Isolde thought back to the Ice Queen comment, and Lord Raisin’s mulish resentment on their curricle ride home. She said nothing, however. There was no point ruining the evening, and James was looking forward to the trip to Vauxhall, after his time abroad.
“I have always maintained that I have no desire for matrimony,” Isolde murmured. “Was I not heard?”
“It is far more advantageous for young ladies to enter into matrimony, you see. When dear Mama and Papa are no longer with us, you shall find yourself in a far less prosperous situation than to which you have grown accustomed.”
“I won’t be poor, James.”
“No,” he acknowledged, “But you shan't inhabit the same circles you are accustomed to. Spinsters do not, you know. I recall stating my intent never to wed, do you remember? We both vowed to remain single for the entirety of our lives and to pursue adventures. Yet, I perceive now that such notions were but the folly of youth, Izzy. I recognise that I must eventually marry and I cannot say it distresses me overly much.”
“Pray, tell me, James, how shall your existence transform upon your nuptials?” Isolde retorted. “It shall not, that I assure you. For me, everything shall be transformed. I harbour no aversion to the concept of matrimony, yet I would wish to wed a gentleman whom I… well, one that I genuinely desire to marry. Someone possessing intellect, kindness, and captivation, a manwho draws me to him rather than repelling me.”
James was silent for a moment, and Isolde almost thought that she’d reached him.
“That is all very well, Izzy, but you have tarried too long. You no longer possess the same options you once did. Pray, allow me to speak harshly, but it is for your own benefit.”
“Fortunate me,” she murmured. James carried on as if she hadn’t spoken.
“The simple fact is that you don’t have much choice beyond men like Lord Raisin. Not now. Men who would have fallen at your feet a couple of years ago will now no longer notice you. You’re a bluestocking spinster with a reputation as an ice queen, and no respectable gentleman is going to risk their pride and reputation in courting you. Not whilst there are demuredebutantes to pursue. You have assumed a tone of haughtiness for far too long, Izzy. And as for this entanglement with the gossip columns and Viscount Henley...”
“There is nothing afoot between that gentleman and myself!”
“I know, I know,” James placated, patting her hand. “But lots of people read those columns and believe what they find there. It’s not your fault.”
Isolde turned away, aiming her stinging eyes at the darkness. “You make it sound like it’s my fault.”
“You need to think about the future,” James continued doggedly. “Lord Raisin has pursued you for a couple of Seasons now. He must truly have a deep affection for you, do you not agree?”
While Isolde was thinking up a reply, they stepped through the gates and into Vauxhall proper.
She hadn’t been lying when she told Lord Raisin she’d been here before – several times, at least – but every time, the Gardens took her breath away.
They were beautiful in the daylight, full of rolling meadows, delightful little walks, and flower beds, but at nightfall, the place transformed entirely.
Food stalls crowded the pathways, as did the entertainment. There were Punch and Judy shows, tightrope and slack-rope walkers balanced high above the heads of the crowd, singers, dancers, musicians, fortune-tellers, and more, all smiling and trying to catch the eyes of passers-by.
There was a low wooden platform set off to the side, where musicians played for people to dance. A woman swept through the crowds with a small brown monkey perched on her shoulder, and a man sat on a low wall with a colourful parrot balanced on his knee, which squawked and chattered at passers-by.
The main pathways were well-lit and busy, but there werenarrower, darker pathways, leading off into the woodland or through high shrubs. It was generally best to avoid those pathways, as one never knew what one might find. Less refined couples hurried off to the darker pathways, giggling at each other, arm in arm. Isolde bit back a smile and turned away.
There were one or two familiar faces in the crowd, acquaintances mostly, but Isolde paid them no mind. Vauxhall was a busy place, and popular enough that one could expect to meet a few friends.
And then Isolde saw them, and stopped dead, jerking on James’ arm.
He blinked down at her. “What is it, Izzy?”
“I…” she swallowed hard.
There, just across the courtyard, stood none other than the viscount himself. He seemed to look even taller and broader in the crowd, his hat hanging from his hand, his waistcoat a vibrant pink-and-blue creation.
As if her gaze was magnetism, he glanced to his side. He saw her at once.
His stepmother, Lady Wrenwood, stood beside him, along with Amelia and another little boy. Lady Wrenwood followed her stepson’s gaze and nodded at Isolde.
She nodded back.
