“Oh.” That was all Isolde could manage to say, as if the simple syllable could capture the ache in her chest.
It had scarcely been half a day, and she already missed Tristan with a vicious pang. This was the problem with loving her husband with her whole soul, she was coming to realize—when he was away, he took a portion of her with him, and she pined until that portion was returned.
Numbly, Isolde turned and followed her mother into the small drawing room, limbs heavy with fatigue. Fantasies played through her mind—seeking her bed, sleeping the afternoon away, cuddling Tristan when he returned, and filling her lungs with the scent of his sandalwood cologne.
Did she simply need more sleep? Or was she perhaps feeling a tinge of melancholy? Isolde had never been the sort to suffer from a depression of spirit, but so much had happened in recent weeks that a wee stumble would not be surprising.
Most likely, she simply needed a jolt of coffee and food in her belly.
The housekeeper was duly summoned, a pot of coffee and sandwiches delivered, and two hours later, they had composed a comprehensive list of everything that needed to happen.
Tristan still had yet to return. Isolde knew because she cocked an ear toward the entrance hall every time someoneopened the front door. But she hadn’t heard the comforting sound of his deep voice.
Exhaustion had Isolde stifling yawns.
“Mrs. Wilson will see to the food and decorations, as well as the hiring of additional staff,” Lady Hadley said after the housekeeper departed, shuffling their foolscap lists on the table where they sat. “You are most fortunate to be inheriting such a competent woman.”
“Aye,” Isolde agreed, her cheek resting on her palm. The coffee had helped somewhat, but her eyelids still sagged as if weighted with lead.
“I will have the haberdasher send over some ribbon samples so we may decide on trim colors for the flowers and chairs. The real challenge will be writing out the invitations.”
“Aye.” That was true. Ideally, all invitations should be hand-addressed by the hostess herself. Which, of course, Isolde would do. But as they wished the ball to be a crush, that meant a significant number to be written.
Maybe after a good night’s rest, Isolde would feel up to—
Snick.
The door opened. Isolde jerked upright as Lady Lavinia swished into the room.
“Oh,” she paused in mock surprise, hand pressed to her bosom, “I apologize for the intrusion. I didn’t realize this room was occupied.”
Truly, the woman should be a better actress if she wished to feign innocence. She knew perfectly well she was interrupting.
“May we help ye, Lady Lavinia?” Isolde asked.
Lady Lavinia looked around the room as if searching for a convincing lie to account for her intrusion, but then, with a small shrug, gave up the pretense entirely.
“Mrs. Wilson mentioned that there is to be a ball? Here? At Gilbert House?”
Ah. There it was. Lady Lavinia’s nosiness laid bare.
“There is. In just over three weeks’ time.” Lady Hadley clasped her hands on the table, the white press of her knuckles reflecting Isolde’s own frustration with this woman.
Lady Lavinia’s nose wrinkled. “Three weeks? Isn’t that a bit . . . ambitious, all things considered?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Lady Hadley stared at Lady Lavinia, her face politely bland. Unlike her foe, Isolde’s mother was an excellent actress.
The question put Lady Lavinia on her back foot, her expression faltering.
A smile tugged at Isolde’s lips. Her mother rarely entered the ring swinging as it were, but if anyone could bring out the haughty side of Lady Hadley, it would be Lady Lavinia. In Isolde’s experience, Lady Hadley could be terrifying when provoked.
Bless her mother for knowing exquisitely well how to play these social games.
Lady Lavinia rallied. “I have been hearing such . . . things about Town.” Her gaze deliberately flickered to Isolde, leaving no doubt as to the nature of saidthings. “I am merely surprised, is all. I would be devastated for you both if no one attended.”
Isolde sincerely doubted Lady Lavinia would feel anything other than glee if Isolde’s first ball as duchess were a disaster.
“I still struggle to understand your meaning, Lady Lavinia,” Lady Hadley repeated. “Please enlighten us as to the people andthingsthat are being said.”
