*
Isabel had seenLord Lymington from the stairs. He was virile-looking and athletic, and he wore a very well-cut coat, as of course a lofty lord would. He had dusky blond hair, the sort that would lighten in the summer sun and darken again over the winter as if it changed its mood to suit the season.
His jawline was strong, his eyes, she thought blue though she was at a distance. His complexion was tanned, as men found themselves when they spent most of their time on horseback rather than hiding inside a carriage.
Their eyes met. Lord Lymington saw her. And he smiled at her.
She had no idea the eldest son of a duke could ever be so handsome. How was it possible that such a man remained unmarried? He was an Adonis come to life.
“Lady Isabel,” the duchess said, meeting her at the bottom of the stairs, “I knew I could depend upon Madame LeGrange and her exquisite taste—that dress suits you very well.”
“It is the most beautiful dress I have ever worn,” Isabel said with simple honesty.
“Come, I will introduce you to everybody.”
They made their way into the drawing room and Isabel fairly quaked. She was not usually nervous about meeting new people, but Lord Lymington… He was stirringly handsome and he just might, if she were not an absolute fool, be her future.
Lord Lymington stepped forward. Oddly, the duchess had Isabel’s arm and it almost felt as if the lady attempted to steer her away from him.
“You must be Lady Isabel Beauford,” the lord said. “Your neighbor, Lord Bertridge, wrote me that you would come and charged me with looking out for you when I could.”
“Did he,” the duchess muttered.
“Did he?” the lady next to him said, sounding strangely petulant.
“That was very kind of Lord Bertridge,” Isabel said. “And of course, any assistance you would offer would be greatly appreciated, Lord Lymington.”
Isabel was not quite certain what she’d said wrong, but it had been something. There was consternation on both the lord’s and the duchess’ face, while the lady standing nearby covered her mouth and snorted.
Had it been presumptive to thank him before he’d actually done anything?
“My dear,” the duchess said hurriedly, “this is not Lord Lymington. This is Mr. Vance.”
Isabel’s heart dropped. He was not Lord Lymington. Why was he not Lord Lymington? Why had she assumed he was? Most of all, why must this beautiful man be Mr. Vance? Unsuitable, new to theton, Mr. Vance?
“Excuse me, I am sorry, Mr. Vance. I do not know why I assumed…”
Mr. Vance had recovered himself quickly and said cheerfully, “On no account should you trouble yourself over the mistake. I find I do not experience it unpleasant to be taken as the eldest son of a duke, rather than the lowly eldest son of a recently arrived barony.”
“Indeed,” the duchess said, looking not as cheerful as Mr. Vance. “Lady Isabel, this is Miss Rightstone.”
Isabel curtsied, as did the lady, though it seemed a rather shallow effort.
The duchess led her away and her embarrassment should have lessened after Mr. Vance’s genial brushing off of the mistake, but it seemed every minute that went by only compounded the feeling. Especially when she considered that Miss Rightstone was all too likely to repeat the story.
It had been very stupid to assume she knew who a person was before being told. His looks, his manliness, his…something, had clouded her mind and that was very stupid indeed.
The duchess brought her to one grouping of people after the next. She had of course already been introduced to the ladies of the society, though their lords, excepting the duke, were unknown to her until now. They were all pleasant gentlemen.
Then, there was Lord Jeffries, who appeared to be a particular friend of Lady Redfield’s. She met Viscount and Viscountess Rembly, Miss Rightstone’s parents. He was courteous enough, but there was some sort of unpleasant undercurrent to the viscountess.
Isabel thought the lady must be on edge regarding having a daughter coming for a sixth season. She could not remember her own mother, but she had seen other mothers in her own neighborhood get almost fretful in considering their daughter’s future.
The last gentleman she met was, much to her surprise, the real Lord Lymington. He was a hulking sort of individual with a doughy face and a bit of a paunch. He would have been the last gentleman she would have singled out as a future duke. Of course, she did not know any young gentlemen destined for a dukedom, so it had only been her preconceived notions.
After her curtsy, Lord Lymington said, “I was just telling Lord Featherstone about a horse that keeps throwing a shoe. I really think he’s doing it on purpose. Horses, you know.”
“Goodness,” Isabel said, as she could not think what else to say.
