“Allow me to present my betrothed,” Isabel said with a bright smile, looking at Amy rather than him as though it were her reaction that counted. “This is Mr. James Fletcher. And this is Miss Amy Bridwell, to whom I have taken an instant liking. I am sure we are destined to be good friends this season.”
Amy’s face had gone white except for two bright spots of coloron her cheeks, and her delicate throat bobbed as she swallowed. He almost wished he had told her about his engagement that morning to save her from the shock she was so obviously suffering from now. He had been too surprised at the sight of her to do so.
Amy darted a look at Isabel, then brought her regard to him and curtsied. “A pleasure, Mr. Fletcher.”
She would pretend she did not know him, then? It was probably for the best, for Isabel was a woman of passion and knew how to show jealousy if she felt it. He bowed and murmured something in reply, he did not know what.
“Mr. Fletcher solicited my hand in marriage two weeks ago.” Isabel turned slightly when Morry joined their conversation, and her smile slipped. Morry and Isabel did not get on well together, which bothered James even though he could understand it. They had nothing in common.
“Yes, I had the fortune to secure Miss Prexley’s hand,” James said to no one in particular, and then privately considered that it was probably the most idiotic thing he had ever uttered in his lifetime. He dared to glance at Amy, but her expression was curiously blank.
“Oh,mustyou look so dour when you say such a thing?” Isabel replied with a teasing pout. James couldn’t muster a proper response to her flirtation. After a brief pause in which she seemed to be waiting for his reaction, Isabel gestured to Morry with reluctance. “This is Mr. Moreau. And this is Miss Bridwell.”
“How do you do?” Amy curtsied, her voice so low as to be almost inaudible. James risked another glance at her.
“Miss Bridwell,” Morry replied with a bow. An awkward silence ensued, and after a speculating look at James, he quietly drew Isabel into a stilted conversation. James knew his friend’s effort was for his own sake.
Three young women—two of whom he vaguely recognized—moved to join them. When one of the newcomers faced himdirectly, full recognition dawned. But of course he should have expected to see Amy’s sisters at the ball, for she would not have come alone. It was just that Amy had driven all other thought from his head. Hannah was easily recognizable, for she had been fifteen when he last saw her. Marianne was less so, for she had only been twelve, but those thick spiraling curls could only belong to the youngest Bridwell. He had scarcely the time to register what their added presence might mean when Hannah stopped short in recognition. She stared at him, openmouthed.
“James Fletcher!”
Marianne released Miss Ferrin’s arm and stepped forward. “Oh, itwasyou. Amy and I thought we saw you in the hotel when we first arrived, but I decided that it could not be. But is this not the most wonderful thing for us all to be reunited? We used to see you so often in Charing back when you and Amy were inseparable.” She curtsied with a dimpled smile. “How we’ve missed you.”
Aaah, blast! What am Ito do now?James forced his lips to curve upward, hiding his confusion with a bow. No ready answer came to his tongue.
Marianne’s words, innocently spoken, condemned both James and Amy for their subterfuge. Amy’s face had gone from pale to a deep red, and James felt his own cheeks flush as every gaze centered on him. He turned desperate eyes to Isabel, who would surely not appreciate this development. He knew her enough to knowthat. Her smile became fixed in place, and her eyes glittered.
“It appears I had no need to perform the introductions, then.” Isabel’s posture was rigid, her voice icy. “One of you might have told me.”
“I apologize.” Amy spoke before he could take the blame. “I should have let on that I did indeed know Mr. Fletcher. But ours was such an old acquaintance, and we were very young. I could not even be sure he would remember me.”
“It was the same for me.” James was quick to reassure Isabelas Amy looked away. “It has been many years since we last saw one another.”
“Oh?” Isabel’s smile turned brittle. “How many?”
“Six,” James replied promptly—too promptly. He had not even needed to count them to be sure. The fact could not have escaped Isabel, and she went still. He found himself holding his breath.
“Hecertainly has not forgotten.” A whispered voice came from behind, alerting James to the fact that they had drawn an audience.
Isabel tilted her head in the direction of its speaker, then turned back again.
“Well,” she said brightly, “six years is indeed a long time. You will see how generous I am, for I will encourage you to invite Miss Bridwell to dance the first set so you might become reacquainted and catch up on those lost years.”
“That will not be necessary,” James said, and Amy added her own protests.
“Oh, but I insist,” Isabel replied in a firm way that alarmed him. He had truly offended her. Ignoring everyone else, she turned to Hannah and Marianne. “Come. Let us take a seat on the dais and have a glass of lemonade. I am eager to hear more about your sister’s friendship with my betrothed.”
The words chilled James. This was a disaster. His eyes sought out first Isabel, who refused to meet his gaze, then Amy, who wouldn’t hold it, and finally Morry. His friend smiled sympathetically.
“You may as well dance,” he murmured. “It will break up this happy little reunion.”
James saw the sense in that ironic utterance and realized his safest course was to do as Isabel bid. She could not be reasoned with when upset, he knew from experience. Amy could—if his memories of her matched her current temperament.
“Miss Bridwell—” he began, overcoming his hesitation.
Isabel turned back, holding the younger Bridwell ladies bythe arm. “You had best hurry, Mr. Fletcher, for you will miss the dance if you do not.”
He returned an uncomfortable smile, then brought his gaze to Amy. “I hope you will do me the honor of joining me in the first dance.”
