“Very well. Scold complete.”
She glanced past him at the little circle dissolving already into gossip and wagers. “I am not ashamed of riding as I was made to ride.”
“Nor I,” he answered, softer. “But I am ashamed of forgetting where we were.”
“You should not be ashamed for indulging in a passion,” Isla said.
“I am not.”
“Then horse-riding is not a passion?” Isla asked.
“It is a past-time.”
“One in which you invest time and heart. I saw the way you groomed that horse in your stables. With love and care.”
Edward could not deny it but did not want to concede to her. He walked in silence, hands clasped behind his back. The truth was that he had never felt more alive than that moment in which he cast off Ravenscroft and indulged in the simple pleasure of riding. Nor had she, for that matter. Even now the bright energy that had made her so alluring seemed to fade, as though his dourness had brought the real world crashing down on her again.
As it should be for both of us. We bear the weight or it crushes us. Ignoring duty does not help.
Chapter 6
The new gown refused to breathe. It cinched her ribs, lifted her bosom, caged her shoulders beneath a filigree of pearls that clicked softly whenever she turned her head. Alistair had ordered it from a modiste of high repute. The color, smoke-blue silk with a whisper of silver, was said to flatter a country complexion.
“It will correct,” the woman had assured, “what the country air has browned.”
Isla had smiled with all her teeth and said nothing. Correct. The word sat like a pin under the skin. Ravenscroft House blazed for dinner. Lamps glowed from every sconce. Candles climbed the mirrored walls. The entry hall rang with names and laughter.
Alistair handed their card to a footman and surveyed the stair with satisfaction. He had chosen a coat with new satin facings and a waistcoat fine enough to make him look solvent.
“Hold your head up,” he said softly, not unkindly. “You look very well.”
“I look like I cannot exhale,” Isla murmured.
“Pain is the cost of fashion,” he returned from behind a public smile. He gave her an encouraging glance that turned at onceinto calculation as a pair of gentlemen approached. He was introduced, they were important, and she watched her brother’s face assume the companionable gravity of a man reacquainting himself with hope. New friends, new favor, he took to it with the thirst of a man who had been lost in the desert.
To Isla, the dress was fast becoming an unwelcome microcosm of her life. It constrained her by forcing her into the shape society demanded and to the movements they demanded. She could not run or mount a horse in this ridiculous outfit. She could barely sit. What she could do was stand with perfect posture, to be admired by every man present, if he so chose.
Like a trophy to be won. Except I have already been claimed. So, I am more like a portrait to be pinned to the wall and stared at.
They were swept forward into color and sound. Beyond the ballroom, a crimson drawing room opened like a jewel box. The ton had gathered there, expecting the room to lend them some of its grandeur. Everywhere tongues moved and Isla felt their attention. It made her shoulder blades itch. Made her want to look over her shoulder constantly.
A footman presented champagne. She dared not drink; the bodice allowed no place for breath, let alone bubbles. She nodded, smiled, nodded, endured. Alistair had already found a knot of allies, talking earnestly and with many sharp, decisive hand gestures.
He is in his element. He barely even sounds like a Scotsman. He fits in perfectly. I wish I did, it would make this evening so much easier.
Where was Edward?
Not near the mantel, where a cluster of gentlemen discussed a bill in the Lords. Not beside the musicians, where ladies preened and the younger set laughed too loudly. Not by the threshold, where his rank might have stood comfortably and received the room. She felt him absent like a lack of warmth. Irrational.
He is not mine to find. I should not feel the void in a room from which he is absent. I am not a slave to a broad pair of shoulders and a handsome face.
After ten minutes that felt like hours, she made for the terrace. Cool air settled on her like a blessing. The garden below glowed with discreet lanterns. Rosemary and night-stock carried their quiet scent. She leaned against the stone balustrade and let the silk constriction loosen its fist fraction by fraction. Distant wheels moved on Grosvenor Square, somewhere a dog barked twice and fell still. Two women’s voices murmured from nearby.
“… pity, really. He was promised her since … oh, since they were children, it feels like.”
“Promised! You’re romantic, Anne. It was never formal. Only understood.”
“And now—”A rustle of silk—“that Highland girl. Carried through a ballroom in his arms like some …”
