The revelation sent shockwaves through Isabella, and a pulsing knot within her demanded to know more, but she held her tongue while her cheeks grew hot. Glancing over his shoulder, she spotted the duke from across the room. He stood exactly where she had left him, yet he now wore an angry scowl as he watched them dance.
“How long have you been friends with him?” Isabella asked, a brow raised in an attempt to divert the marquess’s attention elsewhere.
“Well, we were childhood friends before…” he paused, “the tragedy that befell his family. When he returned, we became joined at the hip.” His smile was stiffer than before as he let go of her waist and twirled, joining her again at her side as the couples eased the waltz into its final stages.
Isabella was nodding, but her focus was on the wordsbefore the tragedy that befell his family. She wanted to know more about it and about him. Did the ‘before’ have something to do with the scars on his back?
“If you don’t mind my asking, what was he like as a child?” She ventured a personal question.
The Marquess chuckled deeply. “I would say that the only similarity between him then and now would be his kind heart because I never recalled him having such a deadly look in his eyes,” the Marquess said, motioning behind her with a raise of his brows.
Confused, Isabella turned, following the marquess’s gaze, only to meet the duke’s cold and hard gaze boring a hole into the back of her head. His scowl had slipped into a scornful glare of disdain.
Her heartbeat quickened instantly, and startled, she pulled away from the marquess as if she had done something wrong.
“My Lady?” He stopped dancing, looking at her with a confused frown.
The orchestra stopped playing, signaling the end of the song as the guests erupted into applause.
Just in time.
Isabella breathed a sigh of relief as she curtsied. It would have caused a scene if anyone had noticed her abrupt halt. “Forgive me, My Lord, but if you would excuse me, I must get back to my family. Thank you for the lovely dance,” she apologized before turning without a response and leaving.
Moments later, Isabella found sanctuary near Christine, her bosom rising with the faint exertion of having escaped both the Duke and the Marquess with her composure intact.
Christine studied her with knowing eyes. “You disappeared quickly from your company,” she remarked.
“The Marquess is very talkative,” Isabella muttered, yet her eyes sought the duke who had turned away from her and was now talking to his friend once again.
What had the Marquess meant when he had said that the Duke wondered what to do with her?
“And the Duke?” Christine asked delicately, drawing Isabella’s thoughts back to her presence.
Isabella blinked. “He is an insufferable grump.” She lifted her chin.
Christine bit back a smile. However, Isabella kept her gaze fixed far across the ballroom where Cassian stood surrounded by a small circle of gentlemen. He appeared aloof, unreadable, visiblyirritated. She refused to admit, even to herself, how often her eyes strayed toward him.
The event continued, and Isabella managed to avoid Cassian for the rest of the evening, especially after he unexpectedly left early, striding out with a stiffness that made her wonder whether she had caused it.
She hoped she had not, but she feared she had.
Days later, Isabella arrived with little Ellie at the Everthorne townhouse as a model for garment making for the Laurels, and the Laurels welcomed her with immediate affection.
“Oh, what a precious little lady,” one whispered.
“She is lovely, utterly angelic,” another added.
Ellie blushed beneath the attention, her blue eyes sparkling.
“When I grow older,” she declared, “I wish to be a Laurel, too.”
Lady Kendrick clapped in delight. “And we shall await you eagerly, my little dear.”
The Laurels went into their garment-making with the help of a professional modiste Lady Kendrick had sourced.
“A dress is a statement,” the exotic lady with her thick accent began, then she paused, smirking slightly as she met the eyes of the ladies present. “I believe you all would know that better than I,” she teased, and the group laughed. “Though it seems easy, it never is. The art of garment making is sacred, and you will learn why.”
The moments that followed went by with different fabrics of multiple colors and textures flying about the ballroom, each lady pulling little Ellie toward them to get her exact measurements as demonstrated by the professional. Afterwards, poetry began.
