Chapter Fifteen
Isabel gazed roundin some confusion at the dozens of people who had either fallen on the ballroom floor or were currently on their way to that location. Medieval ladies struggled with their head pieces gone askew, men in dominos became twisted in their capes, a milkmaid rolled over a bishop, a jester staggered and fell on an abbess, a magician landed in the lap of a splayed Cleopatra, and Lady Mendleton’s doll sailed overhead, landing on a sultan’s fez.
Amidst the chaos, Isabel thought she suddenly spotted the culprits of this bizarre circumstance.
Lord Jeffries crawled toward one of Lady Redfield’s wooden shoes, which was just now situated some distance from the foot it was meant to be on. The lady herself was on her hands and knees, staring at it as if she could will it to come back to her.
“Sorry everybody!” Lord Jeffries shouted.
The fellow grabbed the wooden shoe and got it back on the foot it had so recently abandoned. He struggled to his feet and proceeded to pull Lady Redfield to her own feet. They staggered and weaved off to the refreshment room together.
Goodness, Lady Redfield and Lord Jeffries had taken down half the ballroom.
The dancers, some shocked and some amused, depending on how they had been affected, began to get to their feet. Some rearranged themselves back into order and worked to determine where they’d left off dancing. Others appeared to have their fill of the activity and limped off the floor.
“I think it was their shoes,” Lord Lymington said. “Too coincidental for both people to fall down at the same time while they were both wearing strange shoes. It had to be the shoes.”
“I believe you are right,” Isabel said, willing herself not to laugh. Poor Lady Redfield—the duchess would have steam coming from her ears.
They carried on with the dance, though the looks on other people’s faces gave Isabel the idea that Lady Redfield’s and Lord Jeffries’ shoes would be alongside the appearance of the Bow Street Runner and Lady Mendleton’s doll as a topic of conversation on the morrow.
As she was contemplating how the duchess would take it, Lord Lymington did an abrupt about-face in the conversation. He began discussing the letter to his mother, and then his estate, and then his costume. It seemed these things were all somehow related, though Isabel was not at first clear how.
Then it became far more clear.
“My mother wants me to marry, she’s very set on it. So, Romeo. Right?”
Lord Lymington did not come out and ask for her hand, but he was leading up to it. Isabel had begun to become adept at unraveling the lord’s unique way of expressing himself. It probably helped that she’d had so much experience unraveling her father’s own unique way of talking. A proposal was definitely where Lord Lymington was going.
“I did not tellyourduchess, but I’ve heard back frommyduchess already,” Lord Lymington said, looking very pleased with himself. “She and the duke will come to Town in a fortnight. You know, to look things over.”
By things, Isabel was certain it was herself to be looked over.
“After that I guess I’ll go to Hertfordshire!” Lord Lymington said, alluding to a meeting with her father.
This had got very serious far more quickly than she’d thought possible. He’d made some sort of declaration to his parents and now they would come to meet her.
It was hard to know what to think of it. It should not be hard, it was what she wished for. But it was hard to take in all the same.
On the one side, a marriage to Lord Lymington would fulfill all her requirements. His estate was on safe ground, and she would have the protection of a vast network of well-established and powerful relatives.
As for the lord himself, it was very unlikely that he would ever bring disaster down upon her head. He was no Melburton, she could not imagine him ever violent. He did not seem a gambler or to drink to excess. His worst vice would likely be buying too many horses. And then talking about them. And the weather.
He was a cheerful sort of fellow and, while he did not touch her feelings in the slightest, she liked him as a friend well enough.
On the other side was her stupid heart. How self-indulgent she was becoming. How lacking in discipline and logic and good sense! How absurd that she should wish for all that Lord Lymington could provideanda man that made her heart beat faster.
The truth was, that man did not exist. She would have to choose, to prioritize. She could not have everything she wished for.
Isabel had been silent as Lord Lymington lumbered her around the floor. She imagined herself far into the future. How would her life have been? How did it all turn out? Why could she not be told for certain—this way is your only course?
She would not be told, though. The future was a mysterious and shrouded thing, only to be guessed at. It seemed either way she went, she would leave a regret behind her.
What would she regret more? Following her heart into a possible disaster, or following her head and leaving her heart behind?
Isabel took in a deep breath. She knew. Finally and with surety, she knew what she must do.
*
