Lady Huntley shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Aha! I knew it!” Mr. Goodard turned to Lord Huntley. “Do you have any idea how devious your wife can be?”
“I’m beginning to have an inkling,” Lord Huntley murmured.
“If you ask me, I’m quite impressed with her patience and surprised she didn’t exact her revenge sooner,” the duchess said.
“Revenge?” Mr. Goodard looked well and truly stumped. “What on earth for?”
“Stand perfectly still, Louise,” Lady Huntley said in what was presumably meant to be an imitation of Mr. Goodard’s voice—a very poor imitation at best. “There’s a squirrel nibbling on your skirt.”
Isabella stared at the countess, as did everyone else in their small group, including Lord Huntley. It was as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see how the situation might unfold, each of them reluctant to speak for fear that doing so would put a rapid end to what had quickly turned into a most entertaining exchange.
Mr. Goodard gaped at her. “Are you serious? That was years ago, not to mention that you should have known better than to believe me.”
“You know that I have an innate fear of rodents,” Lady Huntley protested.
“But squirrels are so cute,” Isabella couldn’t stop herself from saying.
Lady Huntley gasped. “Cute? They are no such thing, Miss Smith. In fact, they are no more than rats with bushy tails! Remove the tail and I tell you, it’s a rat, and I abhor rats.”
“I see,” Isabella murmured.
“Nonetheless,” Mr. Goodard said, “you can’t possibly mean to blame me for stepping into that hole and breaking your ankle—that was entirely your own doing.”
“I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been frightened of a fictitious squirrel,” Lady Huntley said between clenched teeth.
“Well, you’ll be happy to know that your attempt to delay me from enjoying Miss Smith’s company was quite successful,” Mr. Goodard said. Lady Huntley finally smiled. “However, I am here now and only too happy to comply with the duchess’s desire for me to entertain Miss Smith for a while.”
Lady Huntley turned to her mother. “Mama, I’m not sure that would be a good idea.” She lowered her voice and added something else that Isabella failed to hear.
“Not to worry, my dear. Mr. Goodard has promised to be on his best behavior this evening.” The duchess pinned the gentleman in question with a dangerous stare. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Goodard?”
“It most certainly is, Your Grace.”
“There, you see?” the duchess said in her usual, gentle voice. “There’s nothing to worry about. Besides, it’s not as if we won’t be keeping an eye on him.” She wagged a finger at Mr. Goodard. “You’re to stay indoors where we can see you. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely,” Mr. Goodard said with a nod of confirmation as he reached for Isabella’s hand, placed it upon his arm and began escorting her through the crowd and toward the dance floor.
“I take it that your reputation leaves much to be desired,” Isabella said a short while later as she and Mr. Goodard stepped nimbly forward between the colonnade of expectant ladies and gentlemen who’d chosen to participate in the country dance.
Mr. Goodard smiled as he glanced down at her. “You are correct in your assessment, though the fact that you don’t consider my name to be synonymous with the devil clearly indicates that you must have led a rather sheltered life. Not fond of the City, Miss Smith?”
Isabella averted her gaze. “Not particularly,” she said. Thankfully, they were forced to part from one another and take up their respective positions at the end of the colonnade, preventing Mr. Goodard from prying further. Looking sideways, Isabella spotted the duke. He was saying something to an older gentleman, but then, as if she’d called his name, he turned toward her. His eyes met hers, and there was a hint of a smile behind them—nothing overt, but an inner warmth that flowed across the space between them.
Isabella gave herself a mental shake and returned her attention to her dance partner. He was strikingly handsome—too much so, no doubt—and yet Isabella felt no more for him than she did for Mr. Roberts, whom she was destined to marry. An awful acknowledgement, she told herself, since this made Mr. Roberts no more dear to her than a man she’d just met.
The duke, on the other hand ... well, she’d known him for an even shorter duration than she had Mr. Goodard if one considered that Mr. Goodard had made his acquaintance known to her first. But there was something about the duke that Isabella was finding hard to resist. It was an eagerness to know who he was as a person, what his childhood had been like and which experiences had made him the man he was now. A crazy sensation, she realized, but one she could not seem to rid herself of regardless of how much she tried to focus on Mr. Goodard’s handsome face instead. It was no use. Her thoughts invariably returned to the duke.
Isabella sighed.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Goodard asked as he stepped toward her, took her hands in his and spun her around while the other dancers waited for them to resume their places. “You don’t look as if you’re enjoying yourself, which is unusual, since ladies in my companyalwayslook as if they’re enjoying themselves.”
That brought a smile to Isabella’s lips. “I imagine you must be used to blushes and batting eyelashes wherever you go.” She made an attempt at a lovesick gaze. “Is this better?”
Mr. Goodard frowned. “Now you’re just mocking me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Isabella quipped as she gave him a sly smile. She accepted his hand again, and they moved past the other dancers.
