“Like magic.”
“It’s better than magic.” The Dowager tilted her chin towards another corner. “It’s a matter of will. That gentleman over there next to the window.”
Isabella ran a glance over at the man without finding any flaws in his behaviour. He didn’t speak too loudly, his glass was perfectly held between his fingers, and his smile was polite but not too flashy.
“I don’t see what the problem is.”
“The first button on his waistcoat. It’s almost undone, dangling on a thread. Once he starts dancing, the button will fall on the floor and open his waistcoat. Inappropriate.”
“Maybe he doesn’t realise his waistcoat has come loose.”
“That’s even worse. What sort of gentleman isn’t aware of his clothes getting undone?” The Dowager pinned her duchess glare on him, her fan twitching with small movements.
And surely enough, the man glanced around until he met the Dowager’s unforgiving stare. He was flustered and started checking himself until he touched his waistcoat. Next, he excused himself and left the group, a hand on the loose button.
“Crikey,” Isabella whispered.
“Don’t use that expression,” the Dowager said. “It’s a duchess’s duty to make sure everything is right and proper in the room.”
“It’s impressive.” Terrifying, but impressive.
“You try.” The Dowager tilted her fan towards a dancing couple. “Look at those two. She’s practically sagging against him as if she were fainting. He enjoys the physical contact obviously, judging by his daft smile. Open your fan and stare at them from over the rim while thinking about scolding them for their absolute inappropriateness.”
Inappropriateness. Isabella couldn’t even think about that word without her brain tripping.
She flipped the fan open, trying to imitate the Dowager’s expertise, only to hit her bottom lip hard with the sharp edge. Her lip throbbed.
She winced. “Ouch! Absolute agony! I think I cut my lip. I can taste blood.”
The Dowager pinched the bridge of her nose. “Dear, dear, dear.”
“I think I’m bleeding.”
“Duchesses are like soldiers. Blood doesn’t affect them. So stop whining. Duchesses don’t complain, nor do they get discouraged. They take action.”
She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Yes, I’m bleeding. I think I might faint.”
“For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together.” The Dowager gestured for her to come. “Follow me. And don’t let the blood stain your gown.”
She swallowed blood, and her stomach churned.
As the Dowager strode along the corridor, the servants hurried to make room for her, bowing at her passage. She barely glanced at them.
“In you go.” The Dowager ushered Isabella into a lady’s room.
She sat on the stuffed stool in front of a mirror. Her lip was swelling. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise to me. You should apologise to yourself.” The Dowager opened an elegant cabinet and took out a white cloth and a glass jar. “We need to work together if we want this arrangement to work.”
Possible but unlikely arrangement.
The Dowager sat in front of her. “Let me see.”
She released her bottom lip, forcing herself not to wince again.
“It’s just a tiny cut.” The Dowager applied a clear salve smelling of mint on Isabella’s injured lip. She was surprisingly gentle. “The cream shouldn’t sting, and it’ll stop the bleeding immediately. The swelling will diminish, too.”
“Thank you.”
The Dowager exhaled, giving her another assessing glance. “I want you to think carefully about your answer when Anthony asks you to marry him.” She took Isabella’s chin gently. “Our choices are rarely easy. A duchess’s choices are always hard. That’s your first choice to make.” She rose in a swish of satin and lace. She paused at the door. “I don’t hate you, Isabella. I’m just sorry for you.”
She closed the door behind her, leaving Isabella confused and smelling of mint.
