But the snot she had been trying her utmost to withhold made a liar of her, escaping her left nostril and gliding down her philtrum, before pooling in the seam of her lips. It was humiliating and disgusting all at once.
Ellie extracted a handkerchief and dabbed at Izzy’s nose and mouth in motherly fashion, drying up the detestable signs of her weakness. Her gaze was sympathetic, and it was all Izzy could do to hold still for her sister’s ministrations. She wanted to run away and hide. To bury herself beneath the covers in her guest bed and never emerge.
“You were reading the letter again, and you were weeping,” Ellie said quietly.
“Yes,” she admitted, for there was no point in continuing her charade.
“Neither the letter nor Mr. Penhurst are worth your time, your tears, or your heartache.”
Oh, Arthur. How could you do this to me? To us?
Izzy fought off another prickle of impending waterworks. “Tell that to my heart.”
At this very moment, she was meant to be in Paris, visiting the House of Worth, choosing the design and trimmings of her wedding gown. Instead, she was in her sister’s library in London, trying desperately to distract herself from her misery by losing herself in the social whirl of the Season.
A near impossibility when everywhere she went, the whispers and pitying looks, along with the occasional titter hidden behind a fan, hounded her. Everyone knew she had been jilted. Just as everyone knew Arthur would be marrying Miss Harcourt two months hence. The wedding of the year, the newspapers trumpeted with glee. An American princess had ensnared the youngest son of the Earl of Leeland, who had previously been promised to lady Isolde Collingwood. The gossips were positively atwitter at the spectacle which would unfold. Details were already being reported, including the diminutive size of Miss Harcourt’s waist: an impossible, gossamer nineteen inches.
Ellie finished dabbing at Izzy’s nose and considered her solemnly. “Come to Lady Greymoor’s ball tonight, hold your head high, and show that miserable scoundrel that you are far stronger than he could ever hope to be. You do not need him. Indeed, you are far happierwithouthim. He is a coldhearted scoundrel and a coward for sending you a letter to throw you over for another. Truly, you ought to pitch that letter into the fire, darling.”
She sighed, fear and worry tying her stomach in knots. “You know I cannot attend, Ellie. Arthur will be there, and so will Miss Harcourt.”
It would be the first time she had crossed paths with Arthur since his defection and the first occasion upon which she had ever set eyes on Miss Harcourt. Privately, Izzy hoped the woman was larger than a stout old milk cow—even if reports of her waist suggested otherwise—and that she sported a hairy mole on her chin and brayed like a donkey when she laughed. Izzy knew such thoughts were beneath her, that she was meant to forgive Arthur, to carry on with her life.
But from the moment she had first set eyes on Arthur Penhurst, she had known in her heart he was meant to be hers. His father was her father’s oldest, dearest chum. Izzy and Arthur had met over country house parties as they grew. She had been twelve years old when Arthur had smoothed a lock of hair from her cheek as they had been climbing a pear tree at Talleyrand Park, and she had fallen in love.
Arthur, two years her senior, had taken longer to arrive at the same conclusion. It had not been until she had reached eighteen that he had begun to notice her as a woman. Even then, it had required more time for him to pursue her as a suitor. They had spent two years in stolen moments and a flurry of exchanged letters while she waited her turn to wed. As the oldest sister, Ellie had married first, securing the Duke of Wycombe as her husband, out of necessity rather than desire. However, the irony of it was that Ellie’s marriage had turned into a love match while Izzy’s love match had turned into nothing more than treachery and a heart that had been dashed to bits.
“Nonsense,” Ellie was saying now, slipping a comforting arm around Izzy’s shoulders. “Of course you can attend the ball. Do you think I enjoy such silly spectacles? Naturally not, but we must all endure that which we do not prefer for the greater good now and then. There is only one way to stop the wagging tongues, and that is to show everyone you are not as devastated by Mr. Penhurst’s jilting as they suppose.”
If only that were true.
“But I am, Ellie.” Her lower lip trembled against the ominous portent of more tears. “I am completely and utterly ruined. I loved him quite desperately. I do not know how I shall ever be happy again.”
To her shame, her voice broke on the last admission. Why continue the pretense that she was not utterly miserable when her sister had seen through her ploy with instant ease? She had not even been beneath Ellie and her husband’s roof for one night—the rest of their family having returned to Buckinghamshire for a brief time so Papa could complete his influence machine and the twins could begin the preparations for their comeout—and she had already shown her hand. This was why she never played at cards.
“You are not ruined at all. You are merely brokenhearted, as to be expected when the man you love jilts you for another woman while you have been planning your wedding,” Ellie corrected firmly. “But there is no better way to move past your hurt than to confront your fears. You will be glad of it in the end, and you will be able to move beyond the damage Mr. Penhurst wrought. One day, you will love again. I promise.”
Never.
Izzy could never,everlove anyone the way she had loved Arthur: fully and completely, as if he were the other half of her which had been missing. But she could not bear to speak those words aloud for fear that she would dissolve into tears once more.
Instead, she swallowed down the lump of desperation rising in her throat. She would attend the ball, but only because Ellie wanted her to.
“Very well,” she relented. “I shall go.”
* * *
Lady Isolde Collingwoodwas completely and utterly soused.
From his place in the shadows of his friend Greymoor’s blue salon, Zachary Barlowe, reluctant new Earl of Anglesey, watched her retreat from the ballroom and knew it without a doubt. She tilted to the left, then stumbled to the right, before tripping on her hem and nearly spilling to the carpets. At the last moment, she righted herself and, with a hiccup and a bubble of laughter that sounded slightly hysterical, crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her.
He suppressed a sigh, not wishing to give away his presence just yet. Or at all, if possible. Watching over drunken innocents was decidedly not one of his proclivities. There was only one damned reason he had attended this cursed waste of his time, and it was because Greymoor’s mother had asked him to do so. Not a soul told the dragon of a womanno. Not even Zachary. Certainly not the marquess, who was hosting this elaborate affair solely for her sake.
True, there had also been the certain presence of Zachary’s preferred companion of the moment, Lady Falstone. Letitia was the lady who was meant to be joining him for a quick, forbidden tryst, not Lady Isolde. She had told him she would meet him here in a quarter hour. Given his ballroom-induced state ofennui, the prospect of her lush lips wrapped around his cock while their fellow revelers sipped champagne and danced the quadrille across the hall had been positively curative. He had not wasted a moment in finding his way here and settling in a corner-dwelling easy chair.
To say the least, the intrusion of Lady Isolde was unwanted. Irritating, in fact. He was already half-hard in anticipation of—
Ah, God. Was that the sound of feminine weeping echoing from the opposite end of the room?
