Page 33 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)

Isabella, well aware of the dimples that would be appearing in her cheeks because she’d practiced them often enough in front of the mirror, cast her eyes down in mock modesty.

“I did worry that people might think me fast…” She had to bite her tongue, for she well knew that was exactly what his galleon-in-full-sail wife would be thinking right now, and unable to say.

She was otherwise engaged talking to the Manvilles, but Isabella hadn’t missed how she kept casting her eyes in their direction.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” Brocklebank said, putting a hot and clammy hand on the exposed flesh of her upper arm and making her want to shake him off.

“No one could possibly think that of you. You’re far too young and pretty to have to stay in black too long.

” He had pudgy fingers and, for a moment, it crossed Isabella’s mind to wonder what it would be like to have those fingers fumbling with her in passion.

She controlled the impulse to shiver, and smiled instead, while out of the corner of her eye catching his wife’s frown deepening.

Satisfied, she leaned in close enough to whisper in the viscount’s ear, a strong smell of overly applied gentleman’s cologne nearly causing her to gag and cough.

“You might think that, but others here don’t share your opinion, I fear.

” Her eyes slid sideways in the direction of his wife, giving him no opportunity to mistake her implication.

What fun it was to stir trouble with those she disliked.

Dora would have scolded her for being so naughty, but Dora was not here.

His bushy gray brows met in a heavy frown. “Have no fear, my dear. I shall put Maria right about that.” Then he leaned closer, as well, his hot breath on her neck making her want to pull away. “In truth I think she is envious of your youth and beauty.”

Of course she was. Isabella let out a peal of laughter and all eyes turned her way.

“Is something amusing you, Your Grace?” Lady Brocklebank asked, her tone frosty.

Lady Dangerfield looked as though she’d swallowed a lemon.

Good on both counts.

Isabella managed to stop laughing as Richard and Dora came in with Colonel Jarvis, the elderly magistrate who’d dealt with Marcus’s death on that terrible day, and Sir Algernon and Lady Chase.

This lady was Verity, the oldest Brocklebank daughter, a scrawny old hen of a woman unlike either her stout parents or sturdy younger sisters, and in possession of a face like a withered prune.

They had been invited because they also were near neighbors to Stourbridge and, as Dora had so sagely pointed out, would have been offended had they been excluded from this select gathering before the ball.

Isabella met Richard’s eyes, and gave an eloquent shrug.

“Just an amusing anecdote dear Lord Brocklebank was telling me about one of his tenants. Nothing anyone else would find amusing, I can assure you.” She shot him her most dazzling smile, which made his eyes widen, and a frown settle on his brow.

The suspicion that he might not like her flirting with Lord Brocklebank arose.

Good to that as well. No better way to keep a man interested than to show interest oneself in a rival.

Not that Lord Brocklebank could ever be considered a rival to anything or anyone.

The footman, Robert, carried a tray round, offering more ratafia, then retreated to stand at attention by the sideboard.

How boring this must be for him. Was he taking a surreptitious look at her, sideways, as she took another glass from the sideboard?

She flashed him an appreciative smile, just because she could, and was rewarded by the blush that suffused his face.

Dora sidled up to her. “If you will excuse us, Lord Brocklebank?” She kept her voice low as she drew Isabella to one side. “I didn’t know Lady Dangerfield was to attend.”

Isabella kept a smile on her face despite the wish to scowl.

“Neither did I. She must be visiting the Brocklebanks and that was why we encountered her in Newbury. I would wager she heard about the ball and decided to stay on and take advantage of their invitation out of pure spite.” She took a sip of her ratafia.

“If I’d known she was staying with them, I wouldn’t have suggested Richard should invite any of them.

And those girls…” She waved a hand in the general direction of the twins where Richard was politely engaging them in conversation under the self-satisfied gaze of their ever-hopeful mama.

Ten years ago, Lady Brocklebank had wanted Marcus for Verity and been forced to settle for a simple baronet as a son-in-law.

No doubt she fancied catching his successor for one of her empty-headed twins.

Not if Isabella had a say in the matter.

Lady Chase wafted towards them. Two years older than Isabella, Verity had been a debutante in the same year.

But she hadn’t aged well, and her sallow skin was dry and dull.

That was what churning out babies every year did for you.

How many did she and her husband have now?

Nine, wasn’t it? And by the look of it, another on the way.

Shocking, really, to be treated as some kind of brood mare by one’s husband.

Thank goodness Marcus had never expected that of her.

That was one thing that had been in his favor.

The thought was bittersweet though. Isabella couldn’t help a pang of sorrow for her own lost baby.

She so rarely allowed herself to think of the child nowadays, it was as if it had all happened to someone else or in another life.

She bit her lip as a lump formed in her throat.

If Marcus had married Verity instead of her, as Lady Brocklebank had wanted, would he now have nine children in the nursery rather than one dead baby in the family graveyard and perhaps not even be dead himself?

No, she would not think about her dead daughter.

Not here, anyway. Even after nine years, the memory was too painful.

“Your Grace,” Verity said, eyeing Isabella up and down as slowly as she could, with just the faintest of curl to her lip. “How very charming you look.”

That she didn’t mean a word of this was obvious. Isabella fixed that false smile more firmly onto her face. “As do you. Motherhood so suits you. I find myself quite envious of your complexion.”

Verity’s smug smile slipped. She was not such a ninny that she would not have known this to be tongue in cheek. She must see her reflection every day in the mirror. Motherhood, with such frequency, was doing her no good at all. “What a shame you don’t share my experiences of it then.”

The bitch. Although it was unlikely she knew about the dead baby. Hardly anyone did apart from Dora and the servants, and the pastor who had buried her, of course.

Isabella kept her smile rigidly fixed on her face. She’d spent a lot of time perfecting it in front of the mirror, as well as the dimples, determined no one should ever know what was going on behind her mask. “I am sure I’m quite glad not to have experienced everything you have.”

No. One child, one living child, would have been enough for her. One little girl who should have been nine years old by now, running and playing, laughing and singing. She deployed her fan as she fought not to think of that tiny coffin. This would not do.

From the ballroom came sounds of the orchestra warming up, and Atkins approached Richard, speaking into his ear.

More guests for the ball itself must be arriving.

Isabella seized the opportunity to escape.

“I’m sorry, Lady Chase, but duty calls. Dora and I must join Richard to greet our guests.

I’m happy to inform you that everyone we invited will be attending. All of them keen to meet the new duke.”

Too late for you to catch him, and your boring sisters won’t stand a chance.

She crossed the room to Richard’s side, laying her hand on his arm with delicate proprietary, certain all eyes were upon her.

Let everyone see she was in his confidence, that he was her friend, not theirs, and that she was the one in charge here.

To get to him, people would have to go through her, and she already had a fine wall constructed.

“Shall we go back into the hall, Richard?”