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eleven

T he darned ballroom was too brightly lit for Isabella. Not that she minded the light, but she couldn’t find a quiet dark place where she could remove her slippers and rub her sore feet. Her shoes were a menace and not made for human anatomy. One had to have the toes of a cat not to suffer in those shoes.

Anthony and Patrick had disappeared, and she took advantage of their absence to cross the ballroom and find a spot where she could rest. If she had to dance the waltz with the duke, she wanted to wiggle her toes first and let the blood circulate again, lest they fall off.

She sighed when she sat on a settee in a quiet nook. She would be quick and return to the ballroom in a moment. Relief swept through her when she removed her shoes. Sheer heaven. The cool marble floor was a blessing for her overheated, cramped toes.

“Isabella.”

“Gah!”

Upon hearing the Dowager’s authoritarian voice, Isabella jolted. The woman had to possess some uncanny power and be able to sense whenever someone did something inappropriate.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.” She hurried to stuff her feet into the shoes, ignoring the sting of pain in her toes. “My toes are incredibly warm and a little sweaty.” She shot up.

The Dowager’s eyebrows drew together. She and Anthony shared the same terrifying authority. But while Anthony had a kind heart, the Dowager was all harshness.

“Good gracious, girl. You don’t need to inform me of every little change in your body. There are things better kept to oneself.”

“Yes, of course. I was simply explaining why…never mind. I’ll return to the ballroom, Your Grace.” She dropped a curtsy, bobbing on her feet.

“I gather Anthony invited you to dance the supper waltz with him.” The Dowager raked a glance over at Isabella, likely not impressed by the bobbing curtsy.

“He did, and I accepted the invitation.”

“Tell me about yourself, Isabella. What do you enjoy doing in your free time aside from subverting the order in our country?”

The question shocked her. “Ah, gardening.”

The Dowager stopped fanning herself. “Gardening.”

“I love flowers and plants, and I’m studying the ancient art of flower arrangement. It’s fascinating, complicated, and requires a lot of patience and creativity.”

“It’s still gardening.”

“In a way, yes.” Where was her mother? That was a good moment to be taken away by a relative, friend, or natural disaster.

“What else aside from gardening?” the Dowager said.

“I love long walks, especially uphill. My father has an estate in the Lake District, and we spend the summer hiking up and down the hills.”

She fell silent at the horrified face of the Dowager. If Isabella had said she enjoyed eating dirt, the matron wouldn’t look about to faint as she looked now.

“Hiking. Why would anyone sweat to climb a hill?”

“The view,” she said. “Gorgeous.”

The Dowager exhaled, resuming fanning herself. “Heavens. Modern times. It could be worse, I guess.”

“You don’t approve, madam? My grandmother loved taking long walks in nature.”

“You’re perfectly free to enjoy yourself in whichever fashion you consider suitable, and, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t care about how you spend your free time. But these aren’t normal circumstances. I suspect my grandson has a keen interest in you. Very keen. He wishes to court you.”

Patrick. Isabella perked up. Where was her mother when a possible courtship was discussed? She had no idea how to navigate a marriage discussion. She had no idea if she wanted to, either.

“I believe Patrick enjoys hiking as well.”

“Patrick? I’m talking about the duke.” The Dowager frowned with the implacability of a warrior. “We wouldn’t have this conversation otherwise.”

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 court her ? 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 marry her .

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.”

“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.