For a moment, the music, the chatter, and the sound of glass and china stopped. A moment of perfect silence enveloped her. She didn’t hear that right. Anthony wanted to courther? Why hadn’t she understood his intentions?
So the waltz was the first step before announcing their engagement. No, he would ask her first, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t give the announcement in front of everyone… goodness, Helen, Mother.
She shook her head. “It can’t be. Anthony is supposed to marry Helen.”
“And Napoleon was supposed to stay in exile. Yet he escaped and invaded Europe again.” The Dowager fanned herself slowly. “He likes you against my better judgement.”
Isabella’s legs threatened to give up. Her breathing sped up. Anthony wanted to propose. First, she’d never thought about marriage seriously, and second, Helen would be distraught. Isabella had doubted Anthony wanted to marry Helen, but she hadn’t guessed he wanted to marryher.
Well, she’d felt a connection with him, but his wish to marry her came as a surprise.
The whole affair was her fault. She shouldn’t have talked to him in secret. Blast it all, Mother had been right. She should have stayed silent like a freshly caught criminal.
“It’s all wrong. I can’t be his duchess. I simply can’t.”
“I agree. Being a duchess requires some qualities an inexperienced woman like you doesn’t have.”
“I agree, too. I shouldn’t be a duchess. I’m not prepared for that.”
“Good. At least you know your place.” The Dowager gave her another assessing glance. “You have a…bubbly personality and are very pretty. I’m sure you’ll find a suitable match. Are you going to refuse my grandson’s proposal then?”
“Ah…” Her first instinct was to say yes, but, again, just like a criminal who asked for a solicitor before talking, she should have a word with her mother. She didn’t want to cause Helen or her family any more trouble, and a sharp refusal would likely do that.
Besides, she would soon have the chance to talk with Anthony alone. She wanted to discuss the matter with him first before making any decisions.
“I see.” The Dowager surveyed the ballroom. “I guess a ducal match is a ducal match.”
“No, it’s…” Silence. She ought to be silent.
“For goodness’ sake, girl, straighten your back,” the Dowager said. “Chin out. In the remote possibility you might be a duchess, you must learn to behave like one.”
“Yes, madam.” Isabella did as told.
“Come with me.” It was an order.
She reluctantly followed the Dowager to the edge of the ballroom. The music and chatter grated on her nerves now.
“Just in case Anthony persisted in courting you and you agreed to become a member of my prestigious family…” The Dowager knew how to lighten the atmosphere. “I want you to look at everyone as if you were judging them, because you actually are.” She surveyed the crowded room.
Isabella fiddled with her hands, wondering why she hadn’t stayed home to re-pot the crocuses.
“Open your fan,” the Dowager said. “So you’ll stop fidgeting like a five years old.”
Isabella opened her fan, but it nearly slipped out of her fingers. She snatched it before it hit the floor with a clumsy move. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“You know, cats use their tails to express their opinions. We use our fans. And cats and duchesses have a lot in common.” The Dowager snapped it open with a dry, precise gesture that reminded Isabella of a sword master. “Look at the girl over there, the one in the blue gown.”
She followed the Dowager’s stare. A young woman was laughing out loud while talking with a gentleman.
“She laughs so loudly she’ll crack the glass. Unacceptable.” The Dowager moved her fan very little while staring at the girl.
As if summoned by the stare, the girl turned towards the Dowager, and their gazes locked. The girl’s smile vanished as she stopped laughing, her cheek reddening.
“Done.” The Dowager nodded.
“Goodness,” Isabella said. “You didn’t need to go to the girl or use your voice.”
“It’s the power of a duchess. When you’re powerful, people will feel your stare.”
