"Oh yes. Lord Markham's son just arrived from that part of town. He said there was quite the commotion. A fight, apparently. And a woman was involved."
Isobel felt every muscle in her body go rigid.
"A woman?" The second voice rose with scandalous delight. "One ofhisemployees, no doubt. Those gambling house women are all?—"
"Lady Foster." Isobel turned, her smile fixed and brittle. "What interesting gossip you're sharing. Pray, do continue. I'm fascinated to hear what else Lord Markham's son claims to have witnessed."
Lady Foster had the grace to flush. "Your Grace, I, we were simply?—"
"Simply spreading rumors about my husband at a ball he's hosting?" Isobel's voice remained pleasant, but steel ran beneath it. "How very kind of you."
"We meant no offense," the other woman stammered.
"Of course not." Isobel set down her glass with deliberate care. "If you'll excuse me, I see my sister needs attending to."
She swept away, head held high, but she could feel their eyes following her. Pitying her. Judging her.
Poor Duchess. What did she expect, marrying the Mayfair Fox?
Joan appeared at her elbow, Lord Ashford trailing behind looking concerned. "Isobel, are you all right?"
"Perfectly fine," she spat through clenched lips. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Don't deflect." Joan lowered her voice. "I heard what Lady Foster said. About Andrew and some fight at the club."
"Gossip is rarely accurate." But Isobel's jaw was tight.
"Perhaps if we moved over there… " Lord Ashford began.
"No, it’s not appropriate.” Joan held Isobel’s hand. “You’ll only feed the gossip.”
Isobel wanted to argue. Wanted to demand a carriage and rush to Mayfair like Lord Ashford suggested, propriety be damned.
But Joan was right. Running would only feed the gossip. Make her look weak. Make Andrew look like a man whose wife didn't trust him to handle his own affairs.
So, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and turned back to face the ballroom full of watching, judging faces.
“Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe the musicians are preparing for the next set."
She walked back into the center of the ballroom, Joan flanking her like a guard. Lord Ashford followed, his presence a silent show of support.
The whispers intensified.
"Look at her, pretending nothing's wrong."
"Do you think she knows about the woman?"
"Poor thing probably has no idea what her husband really gets up to at that club."
Isobel smiled through it all, danced with Lord Ashford several times, and had pleasant conversations with guests who looked at her with barely concealed pity.
And with every passing hour, her worry transformed into something harder.
Anger.
Because once again, Andrew had chosen the Mayfair Fox over her. Once again, that deplorable club had taken precedence over their marriage, over the ball they were supposed to hosttogether, overher.
By the time the last guests finally departed, the sky was beginning to lighten with dawn.
