Chapter 20
Isobel
The ball was like the dozens she had been to before. Men with varying degrees of confidence asked women to dance while parents and dowagers schemed for the most strategic matches. Women in gowns ranging from dandelion yellow to sky blue moved through the crowds to find the best spot on the sidelines—flowers in a garden, soon to be plucked.
Though Isobel often felt uncomfortable in large crowds of people, she hadn’t lied when she told Ved she found dances magical.
The mixture of colors, the perfectly decorated cakes, the shiny baubles and trays, the hundreds of bouquets and wreaths—they delighted the senses. Even the way all the dancers moved, a synchronous union of swaying bodies, was pleasing.
When she first debuted, Isobel had thought she would find her great love at such a lavish event. But what she’d found were gentlemen who moved for the sole purpose of furthering their station. Being a viscount’s daughter was the only reason she attracted suitors. They weren’t interested in anything she had to say or for how she saw theworld. She wasn’t sought after for her humor, her values. Not even for her form—wide hips and full bosom be damned.
For the way those men had treated her, they should have just courted her father and been done with it.
Isobel became adept at disappearing deep enough into the crowds that she could watch the dances but not participate. When her father and brother found her doing that, she took it even further, sewing secret pockets large enough to fit a book into all of her dresses and finding secluded areas to read in.
She’d never been caught.
She found herself wishing she’d brought a book with her this night. The afternoon with the Duke and Duchess had put a strain on her that she couldn’t fully shake. Her nerves were frayed, and even an event as beautiful as the one before her seemed duller because of it.
Clara, at least, looked resplendent in her dusky rose dress. Her brown skin was set aglow by the warm lighting, and the silver comb in her honey curls shimmered like a crown. It was interesting to watch the eyes of the young men take her in as they considered if they were worthy enough to ask her for a dance. Most were overconfident. Clara was hard to impress, but her dance card filled up quickly nonetheless. Despite her appearing disinterested, she took part in all the rituals with a grace Isobel had never borne.
Henry appeared beside Isobel, pulling her out of her head. Clearing his throat, he said, “I hope she doesn’t fall in love with the Pemberly boy.”
Isobel lifted a brow. The Pemberlys were an old Dorsent family that were the epitome of high society. “Why is that? He ranks lower, but he seems nice enough.”
“Mostly because I find his father insufferable,” Henry grumbled.
Isobel rolled her eyes. She had a feeling, though, that despite what he said, if Clara actually wanted Mr. Pemberly, Henry wouldn’t stand in her way. Especially because, up to this point, Clara had shown very little interest in any of her suitors. And she wasn’t short on them, either.
Isobel had done her best not to give away her feelings on any gentleman who danced with her or called on her. Mostly because, though she obviously thought a woman should be able to remain unwed if she wanted to, it wasn’t what Henry nor Hetty would have wanted for their children. Elizabeth had found an excellent match her debut Season and Henry undoubtedly was hoping the same for Clara. After losing Hetty and their parents, it made sense. He wanted her to be looked after when he eventually passed away.
And for that, she couldn’t fault him.
“What about Mr. Briggsly?” she asked as the aforementioned Briggsly, youngest son of the Earl of Markham, approached Clara.
Henry nodded. “I like himandhis family. Which, of course, means Clara is indifferent to him. Though”—he took a sip from his chalice—“I don’t think any of them are good enough for her.”
Did he also think Lord Richard wasn’t good enough for Clara? Is that why he hadn’t made them a match?
“There’s Lord and Lady Markham now.” He muttered a low “excuse me” and was off to make nice with the parents of his prospective future son-in-law.
She wanted to ask him about that afternoon and what he’d thought, but now was not the time to discuss the Duke and Duchess anyway. There were far too many eavesdroppers and gossip peddlers afoot.
Isobel had a moment of silent reprieve before two women and a man approached her. She sized them up and let out a softsigh. Speaking of gossips—Jane Barney, Sarah Barney, and Bernard Walsh. They were only a handful of years younger than her, but they somehow managed to play the games of society like experts. They cared far too much for rumors and hearsay, and she would venture that if one were to trace most gossip to its root, they’d find this devilish trio.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Mr. Walsh started. He always had his chin slightly tilted up, and Isobel wondered if anyone had ever told him it was possible to see all the way up his nose when he did that.
“For what?” Isobel asked as politely as she could muster.
It was Sarah Barney who answered. “Your fast engagement and even quicker wedding. We just received the invite this morning for next week.”
Isobel’s brows drew together, and she clasped her hands in front of her to keep them from fidgeting. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure I know what you mean. We are to be married at the end of spring.”
Sarah laughed, but it was a cold, humorless thing. “You’re marrying Lord Richard in exactly one week. His request for a special license was approved. Papa, who, as you know, is trusted by the Crown, told us before the invite even arrived. Didn’t you know?”
The other Miss Barney went on to say something, but her words were drowned out as the room narrowed in Isobel’s vision. Next week? She’d danced with him just a few songs ago, and he had said nothing to her. Not to mention, her own brother hadn’t mentioned anything. Her life would be overnext week?
“Miss Nott?” Mr. Walsh’s voice, laced with false concern, cut through her overwhelm. “Are you quite well? You’ve become awfully pale.”
