Lord Falchester stepped closer than necessary. “You ought to concern yourself with matters more suited to your station, such as securing a future. A husband of standing would bring far more satisfaction than these little… diversions.”
“Your concern is noted.” Isabella’s jaw tightened as she watched him.
“Good,” he said, clearly misinterpreting her civility as softness, “then perhaps you might grant me the honor of calling upon you next week. I believe we might?—”
“No, My Lord. You may not,” she cut in before he could finish.
His face faltered. “I… I beg your finest pardon?”
She softened her voice, recalling that her father would want her to treat the man with civility. “I fear I am too busy with the Laurel Club this week. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said dryly and turned from him.
Her heart thumped with irritation as she crossed the room, weaving between clusters of guests until she found her father and Christine perched near a table of refreshments.
Christine lifted her brows, already sensing Isabella’s agitation. “Is everything all right?” she asked, and Isabella shook her head.
“I have grown quite bored with this event. Might we go home?”
Christine’s expression softened immediately while her father nodded, seeming relieved to leave before the night grew too long.
Chapter Eight
“Ishould give you a proper tour of Everthorne House then, Isabella,” Lady Kendrick declared with a pleased little hum, tapping her fingers against her hand lightly as she turned toward her young companion.
Isabella offered a polite smile, though she suspected, quite accurately, that this sudden insistence on a tour had little to do with necessity and more with Lady Kendrick’s fondness for prolonged company, which she’d only just discovered.
Isabella had arrived earlier that morning with her maid this time, answering Lady Kendrick’s request to arrive far earlier than the other Laurels, so they might prepare more thoroughly for the club’s second meeting. However, upon stepping through the grand doors of Everthorne House, Isabella quickly realized that the preparations had already been handled by staff. Footmen were already arranging chairs, the ballroom was impeccably aired and polished, and even the refreshments had been displayed extravagantly on one side of the room.
Lady Kendrick, naturally, pretended not to notice, and Isabella, unable to deny the older woman anything, accepted her fate with grace and a curtsy.
The halls were quiet and empty, the silence broken only by the soft echo of their footsteps, the farther they went from the ballroom.
As they walked, Isabella found herself appreciating the unusual silence of the house. She had seldom experienced it so still, mainly because she’d only come on days when the mansion promised fun.
But this morning, Everthorne felt gentle and unhurried.
“Do take your time, dear,” Lady Kendrick said, lifting her hand to rest it briefly against one of the ornate banisters. “This house is larger than it seems. Even I require rests between certain passages.”
Isabella slowed her pace willingly to match the older lady.
“It is a magnificent structure, Lady Kendrick. Far grander than I imagined.”
“Oh yes,” the older woman replied proudly, “this duchy has always been known for its exquisite charm. Second to none.”
A faint smile tugged at Isabella’s lips, and she nodded. Truly, the present duke was merely maintaining the standards the dukes before him had set.
The two ladies continued through hallways lined with winter-sunlit windows. Occasionally, they would pause near tapestries or ceramic art pieces, catching their breaths, before Lady Kendrick resumed her slow but determined march.
It was during one of these pauses that they reached a wall adorned entirely with portraits of the family.
Isabella’s gaze drifted naturally to the paintings, portraits of the duke and his father, noticing that they were exact copies of each other. It was fascinating.
There was another right next to it, of the duke, his father, and a woman whom she thought was the late duchess.
“She’s the late duchess,” Isabella said softly, eyes on the woman, whose hand is on the duke’s shoulder.
“Ah yes. My lovely gem. She died when Cassian was just a boy.”
Isabella’s chest tightened. They moved from that painting to the next row, which only included the duke and his father.
