She didn’t need comfort; she needed control. She straightened her spine—like her father and grandmother had taught her—as she forced herself toward the front of the house, the roar of the already crowded ballroom ebbing out to meet her. Her guests demanded perfection.
And she needed to perform.
The chatter grew louder as she paused just outside the two-story paneled doors her father had specially commissioned, the crest he’d designed etched into the ebony-stained wood. He’d wanted something that would be permanent, proof that they’d been there, whether or not they were permitted to remain.
And now he was the one who was gone.
It contrasted with the floor-to-ceiling gilding inside the room, the architecture bigger and bolder than anything she’d seen before its installation when she was a girl or since. A signal from her father that not only did they belong, but it would take quite the feat to push them out.
Plastering her largest smile on her face, Isabelle stepped over the threshold as the doors opened at the sound of her name, her grandmother and Pena closing ranks around her. The arched ceiling with its frescoes and dotted windows exposed the starry night sky above as the golden chandeliers bathed her in light. No matter what happened, at least her family would put on a show.
Even the Duke of Sussex would be impressed.
Oh, how her father would’ve loved this: the lights, the food, the people, the promise of fun in the air.
But he couldn’t. And now she’d have to enjoy it all without him.
Swallowing a hard lump in her throat, she lowered herself in her most proper, practiced curtsy to the mass of guests lining the silk-tapestried walls. Each one returned the gesture, offering applause as well. “My grandmother and I are so honored to welcome you to our home to help us celebrate our continued good relations with our neighbors as we prepare ourselves to welcome a new member into our family,” she said. “I know we will be pleased with our decision, though it will be quite difficult, as we hold you all in high esteem.”
Her grandmother said a few additional words of welcome before introducing the troupe of acrobats and jugglers who’d serve as their entertainment for the evening. Isabelle squinted, working to find Aaron as a raucous cheer rang from the crowd—loud enough that the other woman began stealing glances at the gentile set to make sure they weren’t offended. But none of the assembled group were frowning, and the Duke of Sussex himself—Prince Augustus Frederick, the king’s younger brother and the most critical of their guests—appeared relaxed. A relief for sure. After all, there was only so much worry one could manage at once.
With another set of bows and curtsies, she and her grandmother retreated to their seats at the far end to watch the performances. They were joined by Sussex, the rabbis of the major synagogues, and a few select business acquaintances, including, unfortunately, all three of the Berab brothers.
Her breath hitched as she spotted Aaron weaving through the crowd, tossing three clubs—one at a time to give the illusion of skill—amusing and distracting guests with smiles and presumably a few jokes.
However, despite the talent of the main performers at the center of the room, she could not seem to stop staring at him. Because he might have already gathered more information, she reasoned. She twisted her favorite opal ring over her glove.
Patience. She needed to be patient. There would be time for her to decide. She had her own job now.
Turning to Rebecca, who had taken the seat to her left, still playing with Baron—who washerdog—she lowered her voice. “You’re useless, you know?”
“The job you’ve assigned me is keeping up appearances for the gentiles and enjoying the spectacle. I’m quite adept at both aspects,” Rebecca whispered back as Baron scrapped and settled upon her skirts. “Besides, you’re practically invincible. Not only are you charming and attractive with more money than God, you have your own henchman.”
“He’s only temporary. And doesn’t come cheap,” she murmured. She’d have to forgo the pearl earbobs she’d been eyeing for the past few months. At least until the rest of her finances and her marriage were settled.
“You were the one who offered him all your easily accessible funds.” Her friend sniffed. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the master negotiator.”
“I am, which is why there was no negotiation—I made a proposal and he accepted it. I assessed him correctly and offered him what he wanted.” Isabelle leaned in closer to the other woman, willing herself not to glance at Aaron and study how his face was now lit almost as brightly as it had been when he regaled the children with stories and sweets. Or worse, stare at the way his costume pulled tight against his body every time he threw and, more, bent.
“Who wouldn’t want two hundred pounds?” Rebecca had her eyes on the other performers as she spoke, her lips barely moving.
“It’s not the money—it’s what the money can offer him.” Isabelle clapped and smiled as a man in shocking yellow did a backflip, landing perilously close to her feet.
“That sort of money offers a great deal to many people.” Her friend rubbed Baron’s ears.
“True.” Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “But he wants more than mere material things.”
“Does he?” Rebecca itched her ear. “And how might you know that about a man you didn’t know existed before last Shabbas?”
“Master negotiator, like I said.” Isabelle glanced at the rabbis and their families, all enthralled with the jumps and leaps. Pleased with her and her family. No, the Liras couldn’t boast an impressive scholarly lineage, but they were important, damn it. And would stay that way. She’d make sure of it. That was why she was doing all this, after all. Well, that and to assist with the community’s advancement and protection and such.
And provided she obtained the perfect husband, she would succeed on both fronts. “I research and use the information I glean to make certain I get what I want, no surprises.”
“Clearly.” Her friend gave an enthusiastic clap as a man was tossed so high, he near touched the painted cherubs on the ceiling, grazing the largest of the dozen jeweled chandeliers. Her grandmother would not be pleased. Rebecca released a slow breath before turning to her again. “Which is why you definitely needed to know his opinion on kissing.”
“Yes. He’s a man and I’m going to marry one, and even if he doesn’t come with the necessary stature and accoutrements—thus, who better to ask?” Isabelle squeezed her hands together, sneaking another view at Aaron, who was now teasing an elderly guest, appearing to attempt some sort of flip, but then flopping on the floor in an exaggerated fall as the man whooped great belly laughs. With a broad, warm grin, he pushed back onto his feet, giving a bow to happy applause. She wet her lips. He was certainly quite a bit more . . . limber . . . than she anticipated.
“No, I don’t suppose you could ask Pena.” The other woman snorted, though Isabelle could not quite tear her eyes away to even glance at her friend.
