“No, I could not.” With all her will, she forced herself to gaze down at her gloves. One of the beaded buttons was loose. Twirling it, she worked to retie the thread. “And while I don’t expect love, like I said before, I would like physical compatibility.”
“And a synagogue custodian can assist you with that?” Rebecca’s eyes were on a man walking on his hands, technically superior to Aaron but without his inexplicable flair—at least to her untrained eyes.
“He’s smarter than people give him credit for. And if you ask me how I know, I’ll stab you with a hat pin. I have good sense in such matters. That’s all.” Isabelle cheered as the performer bowed. “I certainly wasn’t picturing kissing him.” On his lips.
On his neck.
Her companion said nothing, just patted her hair and snuggled the dog once more, her eyes now on Isabelle alone. Judging.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she hissed at the other woman. “My head will not be turned by anyone inappropriate. I will pick a suitable, useful husband. I promise.”
“Be careful,” Rebecca hissed in return. “You’re playing with . . . well . . .” She indicated a juggler—a real one—who was now holding a torch. “And I’m not sure you’re trained on how not to get burned.”
“You’d be surprised,” Isabelle muttered under her breath before turning and raising both eyebrows at her companion. “And if not, I have access to a great deal of water.”
“You did have plenty to amuse yourself with earlier.” Rebecca’s knowing look made Isabelle blush. “You’re determined—I’ll give you that. And no fool.” Her friend glanced to the side before dropping her voice. “It’s just, I—”
“Pardon me.” Her grandmother stepped between them and tapped Isabelle on the shoulder. “Prepare yourself. It’s time that you meet some people—clients and their favorites.”
Isabelle ground her back teeth to stop from grimacing. That was what she was there to do. Swiping her thumb one last time over the loose button, she nodded to her grandmother, readying herself.
Everything would turn out for the best. She’d choose wisely, and her life would be right again. She reached out to squeeze Rebecca’s hand, but her grandmother had already nudged her friend to the side.
She followed the older woman toward a line of men, only to start at a light tap on her shoulder. Before she could pivot, Aaron’s lips grazed her ear as he whispered, “You dropped this.”
Glancing down, she found her fan pattering against her elbow. “Thank you,” she murmured through the odd tingles that seemed to always rise when he was near. Robbing her of necessary focus. She snatched the object back from him.
“Good luck finding your charming prince,” he replied, distinctly smug, as he moved back into the throng, approaching a group of young men—two of which were on the list—with a bow, leaving her alone once more.
Not that she could object.
It was her time to shine and seize control of the life and status that were rightfully hers.
Aaron worked not to injure himself as he pretended to throw a juggling club, torn between listening to the third man on the list converse with a companion, and working not to glare at the back of Solomon Weiss’s head as Isabelle eyed him with interest.
A banker whose family had all but left the community, he was the boldest would-be suitor yet. The others had stayed within earshot of not only her grandmother but the rabbis. And they had kept a respectful distance.
But Weiss had somehow managed to maneuver the lady of the hour onto a gilded fainting couch beneath a large window and behind the dais. More importantly, out of her grandmother’s direct line of vision.
Setting down the clubs, he held his breath and darted behind a potted plant next to the couple. Not that he was curious about their conversation—he just needed to regroup for a moment to decide whom to spy on next.
After all, that was what he had been hired to do.
Still, he couldn’t help peeking through the leaves at his employer, who was sitting on blue velvet, her knee nearly touching her current suitor’s. His hand was perilously close to her arm, above the bare, tempting skin between her sleeve and glove. Reminding him of the other night and of how soft he’d imagined it would feel.
“So, Mr. Weiss, what did you think aboutWilliam Tell?” Isabelle flitted her fan away from her body, shielding her face and her actions from anyone but her guest.
Aaron froze. The opera had premiered at Drury Lane two springs prior, during his brief time on the West End streets. He’d sneaked into the wings for shelter during a downpour and been enthralled enough to return every night of the run. The story, along with his off-key humming, was now a favorite of the synagogue’s children.
And to think, while he’d been in the back, peeking out between the slats of an abandoned crate, she’d been in the front, in a velvet-covered seat, with a full, unobstructed view of the stage and all its magic. Though that wasn’t such a stretch. That was where she, unlike him, belonged. Where Weiss belonged too, probably.
“He was quite the historical figure.” The oblivious dandy’s eyes narrowed despite the practiced smoothness of his words.
Isabelle raised both eyebrows. “Yes. Quite an excellent choice for Mr. Rossini to use as an inspiration.” Her lip twitched, hiding her amusement.
Weiss blinked, realization flashing on his features. Good—perhaps he’d slink away now, properly humiliated, as he clearly was not worthy of her time and attentions.
But no such luck.
