“No. She is right. We have every right to defend ourselves. To prove to the ton that we are not what they say we are and that we can do more than they think we can.” She drew a breath. “After tonight, I fully expect the Laurels’ numbers to grow tremendously.”
Cassian studied her, then nodded once, pressing the back of her palm to his lips. “If you say so.”
Their carriage slowed to a stop. Behind them, Lady Kendrick’s own carriage came to a halt, the older woman leaning forward eagerly in her seat, waving as though she had spotted long-lost family.
Darby Manor gleamed like a frosted jewel, bedecked in winter splendor. Pine garlands draped the banisters, snow-dusted florals adorned crystal vases, and hundreds of candles cast warm light against walls painted in creams and silvers. The ballroom was transformed into a winter forest—branches dipped in glittering frost, chandeliers dripping with glass icicles, and the scent of mulled wine threading through the air.
The moment Cassian and Isabella entered, heads turned.
No, every head turned.
A silent ripple spread through the ballroom. No one dared speak, but the curiosity, awe, and speculation were palpable. Isabella felt Cassian’s posture grow rigid, and she straightened her shoulders.
She could understand the stares of the people. First, there had been a whisper of a scandal, and then they were married, but this was also the first time Cassian had arrived at a ball at the right time without trying to hide himself first, and it was the first time in more than a decade that the people were looking at a Duchess of Everthorne.
Truly, the stares were overwhelming, but neither Isabella nor Cassian let that deter them as together, they approached Lady Darby, who glowed in deep amethyst silk, her smile widening at their approach.
“Your Grace, Your Grace,” Lady Darby said warmly, dipping her head to both. “Allow me to congratulate you once more on your nuptials. A finer match I could not imagine.”
Cassian bowed slightly. “You are too kind.”
Isabella curtsied, smiling. “We are honored to be here.”
Lady Darby’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “And I, for one, am greatly looking forward to the Laurels’ demonstration tonight.” She winked at Isabella.
“Lady Darby,” Lady Kendrick called cheerfully as she swept in behind them, “you look positively radiant. I am certain half the men in this room shall attempt to court you by night’s end.”
Lady Darby laughed. “If they are handsome enough, I shall not object in the least.”
After the brief pleasantries, Lady Kendrick tugged Isabella toward the far end of the ballroom. “Come, child. Leave the Duke to go to the smoke room or whatever cave he prefers. We must discuss the ladies.”
Cassian, relieved at the escape, bowed once more and slipped away toward the gentlemen’s smoking room. Isabella watched him go, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd, before turning back to Lady Kendrick.
“Are the ladies ready?” the older woman asked.
“Yes, they should be,” Isabella answered. “The Laurels practiced extensively. Everything should go according to plan.”
Socializing filled the next half hour; compliments, curious inquiries about the Laurels, and subtle stares from matrons and ambitious debutantes alike.
Then Lady Darby’s voice rang through the ballroom.
“Everyone,” she announced, tapping a flute lightly with a table knife, “may I have your attention? Tonight, we are graced by thepresence of the Foundresses of the Laurel Club, an assembly of brave ladies seeking refinement of intellect, strategy, and skill, as we all know. They shall now give us a brief demonstration.”
She gestured toward Isabella and Lady Kendrick, and the ballroom murmured.
The Laurels stepped forward, their dresses elegant but simple enough for movement. Isabella led them with steady poise.
But the whispers came almost at once.
“Fencing? Ladies?”
“How utterly improper.”
“Absurd.”
“No true gentleman would allow?—”
“They are all desperate for attention, I see.”
