“How romantic,” said Lady Winston.
“Have you ever done that, Miss Smith?” asked Lord Winston. “Gone rowing on Flemmington Lake?”
What a relief that this was a masked ball, for Isabella could feel the heat rise to her face out of sheer and utter mortification. She’d always hated liars, and she hated herself for standing there now and being so blatantly dishonest with these people. Well, at least she could be honest about taking a boat out on Flemmington Lake. She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not.”
Lord Winston frowned. “Do you not swim?”
His question was rewarded with a sharp nudge in the ribs from Lady Winston. “What?” he asked his wife. “It’s a perfectly legitimate question in light of the fact that Miss Smith has never been out on Flemmington Lake before.”
“As a matter of fact, I quite enjoy swimming,” Isabella said. Perhaps she should have stopped there, but feeling the need for more honesty, she added, “And I’ve been in a rowboat before as well—just not on Flemmington Lake.”
It looked as if Lord Winston might have had more to say on the matter, but he was cut off by a petite, older woman who approached their small group with a “There you are, Winston. I was wondering what happened to you.”
“Mama!” Lord Winston stepped aside to give way to his mother. He then turned back to face Isabella. “You are acquainted with the Duchess of Kingsborough, of course?”
The Duchess of Kingsborough? Good heavens!
Isabella had never before longed for a quicker means of escape than she did right now. Her eyes darted from one individual to the other. “Then you are ... ,” she said, looking at Lord Winston. “And you must be ...,” she continued, her gaze shifting to Lady Winston. “I mean ... I ... er ...”
The duchess frowned a little and said, “I don’t believe I—”
“This is Miss Smith,” said Lord Winston. “Of Flemmington.”
The duchess’s frown deepened and she opened her mouth to speak, only to be cut off once again by her son as he said, “Such a delightful town, though it’s really a shame that Miss Smith has never been out on the lake.” He then changed the subject of conversation entirely. “Sarah, didn’t you mention that you were hoping to ask Mama for some advice in regards to the governess?”
Lady Winston nodded. “Indeed I did.”
“Right,” Lord Winston continued cheerily. He returned his attention to Isabella. “Are you interested in the subject of governesses, Miss Smith, or would you prefer to dance?”
There was no need for Lord Winston to ask twice for her to know the answer to that question, but how could she possibly say that she would rather dance than participate in the duchess’s and Lady Winston’s forthcoming conversation?
Thankfully, she was saved from saying anything at all by the duchess herself. “I shan’t take the least bit offense if you would rather dance,” she said with a kind smile.
“There,” Lord Winston exclaimed. “You have been granted permission by the highest authority.” He then performed a most elegant bow. “Miss Smith, would you care to dance the next set with me?”
Unable to keep from smiling, Isabella nodded and said, “I would love to, my lord—if your wife approves.”
It was Lady Winston’s turn to smile. “I do, Miss Smith, for my husband simply loves to make me dance with him to the point of exhaustion. I’m indebted to you for allowing me a moment’s reprieve.”
Lord Winston leaned closer to his wife and said, “Fear not, Sarah. The first dance of the evening has yet to commence, so I promise you that there will be ample opportunity for you to partner with me later.” He then winked at her, offered Isabella his arm and began leading her in the general direction of the dance floor, saying over his shoulder, “Oh, and don’t forget to tell Mama about Flemmington—I don’t believe she’s very familiar with it.”
As evenings went, this had to be the strangest. Two hours had passed since her arrival at Kingsborough Hall—a feat she’d accomplished, just as Jamie had suggested, with the help of her cousin Simon. He’d met her by the stables at a designated hour and led her through a back entrance that had bypassed the entire receiving line. None of the servants had stopped them to ask questions—they’d all been too busy attending to the many guests.
No more than half an hour after her arrival, Isabella had met not only the Duchess of Kingsborough’s son but the duchess herself as well. It was incredible. Yes, there had been a moment when Isabella had been sure the dowager duchess would call her bluff, but Lord Winston had averted that catastrophe with his enthusiasm for Flemmington. Heaven help her but she’d never talked to someone for so long about a place she’d never been to, never mind heard of before.
She regretted the lie, but what choice did she have? If she told the truth—that she wasn’t even gentry but merely the daughter of a carriage driver—they’d waste no time in tossing her out on her backside. Of this she was certain.
Thankfully, her appearance was serving to persuade them that she belonged, because however fantastic the gown she was wearing had looked in the dim candle glow of her room, it looked even more incredible now in the brightly lit ballroom. Heading toward the refreshment table after finishing yet another reel, Isabella was just about to pick up a glass of lemonade when a deep voice gave her pause. “You’re quite the success this evening.”
Turning slightly, she found herself gazing at a face more handsome than any she’d ever seen before. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her cheeks grow warm. “I ... er ...” He looked precisely like the sort of trouble her mother had always warned her to stay away from, and the fact that he’d approached her without being formally introduced to her first only confirmed this.
“Mr. Goodard at your service.” He smiled, and Isabella couldn’t help but admire his beauty. But then he looked beyond where she stood, frowned and muttered, “Blast!”
Isabella instinctively turned her head to see what had caused the outburst, only to find yet another gentleman striding toward them with quick determination. His gaze was intense, his mouth drawn tight as if ready to start a quarrel, his hair dark and slightly ruffled, and his cravat in severe danger of falling into disarray.
Isabella felt her stomach tighten. Of the two, there was no doubt that Mr. Goodard was the handsomer one, if one favored the more classical and well-polished features. But Isabella had had enough of that in the form of Mr. Roberts. She was sick of it, in fact. The man approaching, on the other hand, appeared to be everything Mr. Roberts wasn’t, and Isabella’s pulse quickened in response.
“I never would have imagined you’d stoop so low as to apply the Hampstead move—especially given the fact thatIinvented it,” Mr. Goodard said a bit too nonchalantly for Isabella’s liking, since the other gentleman in question looked eager to engage in an altercation.
