Page 26 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)

I sabella discovered that, now they’d decided on it, the day of the ball appeared to be coming around far more quickly than she’d thought it would.

Dora was reticent about it, of course, which was only understandable.

However, Isabella considered herself an expert at sweeping unwanted things under the proverbial rug, and told herself as firmly as possible that what was in the past was meant to stay in the past. Until she almost believed it herself.

She prided herself in being a great proponent of her old nurse’s adage—“there’s no use crying over spilt milk.” And as the milk had most definitely been spilled, and they could do nothing to change it, it was best to get on with matters and stop dwelling on it.

Don’t look back. That was her motto, and she had no intention of changing it.

Despite these self assurances, she was under no illusions about how Dora really felt, and even, although she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, harbored a few doubts of her own about the propriety of holding a ball so soon after Marcus’s death.

Even a duchess can sometimes worry about what people might say about her.

However, she dismissed these thoughts as soon as they surfaced and wasn’t about to share them with either Richard or Dora.

No. She would not allow herself or Dora, or Richard, to be influenced by the dictates of polite society.

And besides which, there was always the fact that if they invited their neighbors into their house it would surely imply they had nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of.

Wouldn’t it?

She had a lot of planning to do. Many things would have to be undertaken in order for the ball to run smoothly, some of which could be delegated to the servants.

Although things like the menu had to be approved, as did the choice of orchestra for the dancing, and the floral decorations for the rooms they would be using.

Isabella couldn’t recall when last anything like this had been held at Stourbridge.

She’d held a few dinner parties herself, but never a full-scale ball, of the sort she was fond of attending, and on occasion holding, when in Town.

She decided this would be different to anything she’d organized in the past.

It would be a joyous occasion, and she would make it so.

Marcus was gone. He could no longer threaten her happiness in any way.

Nor Dora’s, although, from her demeanor, you would have been forgiven for thinking Dora still thought he could.

She frequently had the sort of expression on her face that hinted at a fear of Marcus’s ghost waiting for her around every corner.

Pooh to that. Isabella was determined they would have the fun they so deserved after her ten years of being married to Marcus, and Dora’s lifetime of being his put-upon and bullied sister.

Resolved that the recalcitrant Dora would look the part, she finally succeeded in convincing her that she needed the suggested new gown, the expense be damned.

Richard, whom she was airily convinced she could twist around her little finger, would pay.

He might not know it yet, but he would. So with that in mind, the afternoon after they’d decided to hold the ball, she sweetly asked him if they could take the carriage into Newbury to visit Miss Chaloner’s dressmaking establishment.

Richard had spent the morning shut away in the estate office with Mr. Sanders, something Marcus had never done once to her knowledge, and she encountered him in the front hall on his way upstairs.

For a moment, despite having broached the subject the day before, she thought he might ask her why she and Dora needed new gowns.

Marcus would have, particularly towards the end, when he’d begrudged any penny he had to spend on her or his sister.

But he didn’t. Instead, he turned his so-un-Marcus-like smile on her and nodded as though it was something that gave him the greatest pleasure in the world, making her unruly heart give a little, not unpleasant, flip, for which it would need reprimanding.

“Why not. As you so astutely pointed out yesterday, I have need of some new clothes myself if I’m to host a ball, so I think I’ll accompany you.

If you don’t mind. You said there’s a tailor in the town who could oblige me, I think?

” His eyes twinkled with what could have been mischief, making him more attractive than ever, which only served to make Isabella all the crosser. “The one Mr. Sanders goes to?”

“Chalke’s. It’s perfectly adequate, I think you will find.” She couldn’t keep the snap out of her voice. Damn it. Why was it his niceness vexed her so?

He nodded, the corner of his mouth quirking in a half smile. “Splendid. I shall be quite happy to be perfectly adequate in a suit my land agent might wear.”

Was he laughing at her? She tried to frown at him, but that smile…

What was there about him that rendered him so annoyingly charming, even when she wanted to be cross with him.

Try as she might, despite his resemblance to Marcus, which daily seemed to be lessening, her anger just melted away at that smile. Most frustrating.

She nodded. “Just so. We will visit Mr. Chalke’s establishment as well.” Not that Marcus would have gone anywhere near him for his clothes. No, his had all come from his London tailor, Weston’s.

“That will suit me well.” Richard benefited her with another dazzling smile. He really shouldn’t be doing that. “We shall ride into town together, then.” His eyes narrowed as though he’d divined her intention. “And I suppose I should come into your dressmaker’s and pay?”

This time she had to smile back at him, firstly because his smile was so damned infectious, and secondly because he had it quite right.

“I admit, that was indeed what I was hoping. I had intended to ask her to send you the bill, but if you are the sort of gentleman who likes to pay his bills promptly, I’m sure she’ll be your friend for life.

” The cost of her gowns had been an ever-increasing bone of constant contention between herself and Marcus, but she wasn’t about to tell Richard that.

Nor did she feel that now was the right time to inform him that Marcus had left her penniless.

And besides which, with everything he’d inherited, including the money from her own dear papa, which should by rights have been hers, he could well afford some new gowns.

A lot of new gowns. She had no qualms about exploiting his generosity.

So, leaving the servants to begin working on arrangements for the ball, she and Dora, with Richard as their escort, had the carriage take them into Newbury to Isabella’s dressmaker, the accomplished Miss Chaloner.

Of course, they could have asked her to come out to Stourbridge, but, as Isabella so wisely pointed out, they could do with being away from the castle, and it wouldn’t all fall to pieces in their absence.

In fact, it would be a good idea to leave the servants to their preparations without fear of being interrupted.

The dressmaker’s stood halfway down Northbrook Street, several hundred yards from the office of Mr. Allsop.

The day was fine and warm for September, so the hood on the carriage had been down for their journey.

When it halted outside the establishment of Miss Chaloner, Jem, the groom who’d been riding on the back, jumped off and let down the step.

Taking this young man’s offered hand, with a smile guaranteed to keep him as one of her admirers even though he was only a servant, Isabella descended onto the pavement and surveyed the small-paned bow window showcasing Miss Chaloner’s wares with interest. Several attractive hats adorned the display, as Miss Chaloner had recently branched out into millinery.

Perhaps she would order one for herself.

That green bonnet would so suit her coloring, and her hair.

What a bore it was to have to always wear black.

On the spot, she determined to put an end to that forthwith.

Richard himself had said he was fed up with mourning and they should not be ashamed of holding the ball.

Well she, and Dora as well, would henceforth no longer wear this dreadful, boring black.

Richard nodded to Dickens, their coachman, and he and Jem took the coach off up towards the end of the street where there was room to turn it and bring it back facing the right way to wait outside the shop.

“I’m still not sure we should be doing this,” Dora whispered, her hand tucked into the crook of Isabella’s arm. “I feel as though everyone is staring. They must all know we’re in mourning just from looking at us. They probably all know who we are.”

Isabella glanced along the street. There were indeed a fair number of other people to be seen, going about their daily business, and some of them appeared to be surreptitiously glancing their way.

As if she cared. She patted Dora’s hand.

“They are of no importance, and besides which, they have no idea what color gowns we are about to order from Miss Chaloner, you goose. Whereas our gowns are of the utmost importance, unless you want to go to the ball in your dowdy old gown. And anyway, they are all looking at Richard, not us. No doubt more than a few are wondering about his looks and thinking they’re seeing a ghost come to haunt them.

Let them. What do we care? Come along.” And she whisked Dora in through the door, with Richard following.