She looked up, staring through tears at the empty doorway. Her body pulsed from the inside with shimmering light. She sucked in a tearful breath.
“What a pretty ring,” said a voice behind her.
Isobel turned.
Lady Wendy Bask trailed in from the ballroom, shoulders slumped, silk wrap sagging halfway down her back.
Isobel snapped the box shut.
“Oh,” said Lady Wendy, “you’re crying too. Excellent.” A dramatic sniff. “I’ve reached the designated spot for weeping.”
When the younger woman moved closer, Isobel could see splotchy cheeks and spiky lashes. Her eyes were red. But why would Lady Wendy Bask be crying? Had her mother harangued her and demanded they leave? Lady Cranford had vanished from the ballroom after she’d been cut by the dowager duchess. Or perhaps Wendy was upset because she’d seen Isobel disappear with the duke. Did the girl feel proprietary after only an introduction?
Even as Isobel tried to guess the source of the girl’s tears, she found herself increasingly distracted by the close-up vision of her half sister. Here. Before her.
She had a small nose and bow lips that looked so very much like Isobel’s. The resemblance was undeniable. Her hair was blond, darker than Isobel’s by a shade. She was taller than Isobel (everyone was taller than Isobel), but something about the way she held herself was very familiar. Far too much about Wendy Bask felt eerily familiar.
Now the younger woman flapped a kerchief and blew her nose, watching Isobel over the top of the linen.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Isobel began, dropping the ring box into her pocket. “I was waiting for—” She wasn’t certain how to finish.
What honesty or civility did she owe this girl?
Could Wendy Bask truly have no idea who Isobel was? She appeared clueless. Young and distressed and a little bit self-involved. But clueless.
Isobel thought of that terrible day in the café, their only previous encounter. She had the vague memory of a sour child who’d stolen her father. In other words, her sworn enemy.
Isobel glanced at her again. The younger woman stared back with red eyes and an open, curious expression.
Isobel sighed and opened her mouth, trying to whip up that old resentment and envy. Instead, she felt... nothing.
Isobel was so very weary of being jealous and resentful, and Wendy Bask was innocent of their father’s crimes. Honestly, she looked like any number of Isobel’s fresh-faced clients—girls Isobel adored, girls for whom Isobel loved planning the holidays that would delight and enrich them.
“Was I weeping?” Isobel heard herself ask. “Forgive me. They were not unhappy tears. I’m... I’m waiting to be introduced to the duke’s family and the guests... as... as the future duchess.”
Resentful or not, Isobel wanted to make her attachment to the duke perfectly clear.
And it couldn’t hurt to practice saying these words.
“Are you?” gasped Wendy, stepping closer. “But this is wonderful news.”
It is?thought Isobel.
“Actually?” added Wendy. “I’ll say it:thank God!” She clenched her fists before her like a boxer and then jumped up and down.
Isobel watched this, totally disarmed. With everyhop, the skirt on Lady Wendy’s dress filled with air and expanded like an onion.
“Now perhaps my mother,” sang Wendy, “can stop hounding me about the duke. And I can stop all the preening and pawing like a mare.” She made a rather unladylike gagging noise and grabbed her own throat. “He’sso old—”
Now the girl gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, do forgive me. I’m certain he is the perfect age for... you.”
“Quite,” managed Isobel.
“I am Lady Wendy Bask, by the way, and one thing you should know—”
“How do you do,” said Isobel, her voice a little breathless.
“Oh yes, how do you do.” Wendy bobbed a curtsy. “One thing you should know about me is that I have no desire to be married—not to anyone. But especially not to an aging duke who lives with his mother and fifty sisters.”
