eleven
The darned ballroom was too brightly lit for Isabella. Not that she minded the light, but she couldn’t find a quiet dark place where she could remove her slippers and rub her sore feet. Her shoes were a menace and not made for human anatomy. One had to have the toes of a cat not to suffer in those shoes.
Anthony and Patrick had disappeared, and she took advantage of their absence to cross the ballroom and find a spot where she could rest. If she had to dance the waltz with the duke, she wanted to wiggle her toes first and let the blood circulate again, lest they fall off.
She sighed when she sat on a settee in a quiet nook. She would be quick and return to the ballroom in a moment. Relief swept through her when she removed her shoes. Sheer heaven. The cool marble floor was a blessing for her overheated, cramped toes.
“Isabella.”
“Gah!”
Upon hearing the Dowager’s authoritarian voice, Isabella jolted. The woman had to possess some uncanny power and be able to sense whenever someone did something inappropriate.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.” She hurried to stuff her feet into the shoes, ignoring the sting of pain in her toes. “My toes are incredibly warm and a little sweaty.” She shot up.
The Dowager’s eyebrows drew together. She and Anthony shared the same terrifying authority. But while Anthony had a kind heart, the Dowager was all harshness.
“Good gracious, girl. You don’t need to inform me of every little change in your body. There are things better kept to oneself.”
“Yes, of course. I was simply explaining why…never mind. I’ll return to the ballroom, Your Grace.” She dropped a curtsy, bobbing on her feet.
“I gather Anthony invited you to dance the supper waltz with him.” The Dowager raked a glance over at Isabella, likely not impressed by the bobbing curtsy.
“He did, and I accepted the invitation.”
“Tell me about yourself, Isabella. What do you enjoy doing in your free time aside from subverting the order in our country?”
The question shocked her. “Ah, gardening.”
The Dowager stopped fanning herself. “Gardening.”
“I love flowers and plants, and I’m studying the ancient art of flower arrangement. It’s fascinating, complicated, and requires a lot of patience and creativity.”
“It’s still gardening.”
“In a way, yes.” Where was her mother? That was a good moment to be taken away by a relative, friend, or natural disaster.
“What else aside from gardening?” the Dowager said.
“I love long walks, especially uphill. My father has an estate in the Lake District, and we spend the summer hiking up and down the hills.”
She fell silent at the horrified face of the Dowager. If Isabella had said she enjoyed eating dirt, the matron wouldn’t look about to faint as she looked now.
“Hiking. Why would anyone sweat to climb a hill?”
“The view,” she said. “Gorgeous.”
The Dowager exhaled, resuming fanning herself. “Heavens. Modern times. It could be worse, I guess.”
“You don’t approve, madam? My grandmother loved taking long walks in nature.”
“You’re perfectly free to enjoy yourself in whichever fashion you consider suitable, and, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t care about how you spend your free time. But these aren’t normal circumstances. I suspect my grandson has a keen interest in you. Very keen. He wishes to court you.”
Patrick. Isabella perked up. Where was her mother when a possible courtship was discussed? She had no idea how to navigate a marriage discussion. She had no idea if she wanted to, either.
“I believe Patrick enjoys hiking as well.”
“Patrick? I’m talking about the duke.” The Dowager frowned with the implacability of a warrior. “We wouldn’t have this conversation otherwise.”
