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

I sabella Carstairs, the Duchess of Stourbridge, always made it her habit to arrive late at any social event she was invited to.

She liked to create an impression on the already present guests and the only way to do that was to make sure they’d all arrived before her.

So they could fully appreciate her theatrical entrance.

Tonight she was wearing black, something she’d been forced to do since the death of her husband, although, apart from the color, the appearance of the silk gown she’d chosen made no homage whatsoever to the duke’s loss.

It was lowcut, revealing the alluring curve of Isabella’s pert breasts, an attribute she felt ought not to be camouflaged beneath a somber fichu.

In fact, she’d taken the mourning color to extremes and was clad entirely in that shade from her dainty black kid slippers upwards via the ornate black silk gown and its overlaying of fine lace to her long black gloves and the black feathers that adorned her magnificent auburn hair.

Black pearls sparkled at her throat and had also been affixed to the fine netting that the black feathers sat amongst. All of this set off the pale alabaster of her skin to great effect—as it was intended to do.

If she had to wear black for a year, something she had no intention of doing, then for now let it complement her beauty. It did.

She paused at the top of the steps that led down into the ballroom of Bembridge House exactly long enough to make sure every eye was on her, before setting an elegant hand on her escort’s arm and descending with well-perfected languid disdain, the train of her gown sweeping the marble steps behind her.

Another reason for all eyes to be upon her was her choice of escort: Lord Rupert Wyndham, that epitome of elegance and toast of the ton , the man whose approval every mama sought to gain for their daughter.

The man society, and in particular the bejeweled old hens now watching her descend the staircase, believed to be her lover.

Let them think that. What did she care for their approval?

They’d made it quite clear when she’d married Marcus ten years ago that they thought her beneath their notice. Well, now they were all beneath hers.

If she’d deigned to glance to her right, she’d have been able to feast her eyes on Lord Rupert’s much admired Hellenic beauty from the top of his perfectly coiffured, falsely disarrayed curls down to the high points of his collar, his immaculately-cut, figure-hugging coat and his tight satin breeches.

However, she had no need to do so, for she’d already approved his turnout as her escort before they left Stourbridge House, when she’d received him in her boudoir.

“Stap me, Bella,” Wyndham now said, under his breath and leaning closer to her.

“If there ain’t a surfeit of ugly girls coming out this Season.

You’ll have to tell me if you spot a pretty face amongst them because I certainly don’t.

Faces like the backsides of those monkeys at the Exeter ’Change. Just like their mothers.”

Isabella smiled sweetly, despite her inclination to burst out laughing at this gross exaggeration.

Part of the reason she liked Sir Rupert so much was his acerbic wit and sharp-tongued descriptions of the people who flocked to fawn over him.

The same people who ten years ago had looked down their aristocratic noses at her when Stourbridge had chosen her, the daughter of a rich tradesman, as his bride.

“Surely there must be a few pretty girls here somewhere. I can’t believe that the poor queen will have to receive a parade of plain ones when the Season begins.

And such wonders can be done with hair and cosmetics if a girl has a clever maid. ”

“None so pretty as you, of course,” Wyndham said, as they reached the dance floor and Lady Brocklebank, their hostess for the evening, swept up to them.

“My dear Isabella, and Lord Rupert. How charming of you to grace my little gathering.”

That it was not a “little gathering” was obvious, as the ballroom was packed and a great deal of trouble had been gone to in order to decorate the house.

Chandeliers sparkled, an orchestra played, floral arrangements abounded, and anyone who had any claim to being anyone in Berkshire or Hampshire, or possibly even further afield, had been invited.

Lady Brocklebank was not someone who ever did things by halves.

Wyndham swept her a flamboyant bow but Isabella bestowed on her only the merest of curtseys.

She was a girl who never forgot a slight, and this woman had been one of her most vociferous and spiteful critics when she’d first assumed the mantle of duchess.

When Marcus had first become betrothed to her, even, as if that event had anything to do with anyone but them.

That he’d done so with an eye to the fact that not only was her father, in Marcus’s words, filthy rich, but that she was his only child, had not escaped any member of the disapproving ton, who themselves were frequently on their uppers.

Her wealth, combined with her having been the most beautiful debutante of that year, had not endeared her to them one whit.

And neither had their behavior endeared any of them to Isabella.

But she kept that fact well hidden. Most of the time.

“Maria, how charming you look,” Isabella lied, keeping that sweet smile she liked to affect stitched onto her face.

She flattered herself that she was very good at wearing masks.

In truth, Maria looked anything but charming, for she was a lady grown stout with age and the bearing of many children, many of whom had predeceased her.

Lady Brocklebank, whom experience had long ago taught Isabella was nothing if not gullible, preened as though she were a young debutante at her first ball.

“How kind of you to say so. My dressmaker in London has fashioned matching gowns for both me and Honoria. Lord Brocklebank’s clever idea.

He says we look like sisters, not mother and daughter.

You must know that she is newly engaged to be married to Sir William Cholmondeley?

She was quite the success of last Season.

Eligible young men came calling every day while we were residing at our London town house. ”

“How fortuitous for her. I wish her all the happiness I have derived from my marriage.” Lord Brocklebank must be as blind as his wife was gullible.

And Honoria must either be completely mad to be persuaded to dress identically to her mother, or sufficiently under her thumb to have offered no protests.

Isabella made a mental note to sniff out the unfortunate girl and see if she looked worse than her mother.

Not something one would think feasible, but then, if one thought that, one had not lain eyes on the young Honoria.

She had been presented at the start of the last Season, and it seemed with the right result, and this ball, no doubt, was an opportunity for her parents to show off their own success in marrying her off.

Weren’t there two more girls at home still, twins if Isabella’s memory served her, needing to make their debuts shortly?

Lady Brocklebank must be relieved to have got one of her daughters out of the way with such speed.

As Lady Brocklebank moved away, a puzzled frown on her face at Isabella’s last words, Wyndham leaned closer. “Let us hope that before the Season starts, someone will have instilled a modicum of taste into Maria’s dressmaker or her two younger daughters will be the the butt of every joke.”

Isabella raised her fan to cover her mouth in a vain attempt to suppress her laughter.

“I doubt it possible.” She fluttered her fan as a gentleman approached.

“Oh good heavens, it’s Lord Amersham. I fear he’s about to ask me to dance.

Quickly, Rupert. Lead me onto the floor.

I can’t abide the thought of that man pawing at me again. ”

With consummate dexterity, Wyndham whirled her out onto the floor to join the dance, which, as luck would have it, was a country dance performed by couples rather than in sets.

Isabella had the briefest of glances at Lord Amersham’s heavy-jowled, disappointed expression before she was engulfed in the crowd of lively dancers.

What a bore it was having to avoid suitors now she was a widow.

Not that she’d been short of them even before Marcus died.

Being married did not seem to be considered a barrier where love affairs were concerned.

And many men had shown a satisfying inclination to become her lover.

One of the reasons she kept Wyndham so close.

Her perfect undemanding escort. Let everyone think he’d succeeded where they had failed, when being her lover could not have been further from his intentions.

“You know,” Wyndham said, keeping his voice low as they came together a short while later, “now you are a widow, you could marry again very advantageously if you so wished and could bring yourself to offer some of your suitors decent encouragement, instead of just leading them on the way you do.”

She shook her head. “Not that one though. He might be a member of the aristocracy, but he sweats like a canal navvie at the least little exercise and his face when he dances takes on the color of a ripe plum. Most unattractive. Nothing is worse, I declare, than a man who has to keep wiping the moisture off his brow with his own sweat-dampened hands.” She gave a shudder.

“I manage to keep myself away from him as much as possible and have administered some cutting putdowns, and yet he returns, ever hopeful, as though he believes that one day I will give in to his attentions. Such is hope, I suppose.”

“Has he asked you to marry him?”

She twirled around. “I fear it would be impolite of me to reveal that.”