Isolde knew she had not always made it easy for him to do his duty well. Shehadbeen half-wild after their father passed and might have walked a more gossip-worthy path if she had been left half-wild, but she had realized that it would only cause her brother and mother more heartache.Thathad been the true catalyst to her changing her behavior.
Deep down, there was still a sliver of rebellion in her, but now it was dressed up in a pretty gown and would never show its face around her family again.
“What of you?” Isolde swiped a glass of lemonade off a passing tray. “Should you not be seeking out marital prospects tonight?”
Vincent pulled a face. “All I intend to do, once you begin to toil through your crammed dance card, is to find the smoking room and enjoy cigars and brandy with Edmund.”
“Excuse me?” All the good cheer abandoned Isolde in a flash, halting right where she was walking, prompting a pair of young gentlemen to almost knock into her.
Even the likes of Lord Pomfrey were preferable to Edmund Connolly, the Duke of Davenport. Isolde prided herself on being amenable to most people, but she could not stand Edmund. She could not stand the way he behaved as if he were the most honorable, respectable, congenial gentleman to ever walk the earth, when it could not have been further from the truth.
Since the age of twelve, Isolde had decided to loathe him, for the crime of not being there for her brother when he needed a friend the most. Yet, he had expected Vincent’s loyalty and generosity and comfort whenhehad suffered the same grief and had never once thanked Vincent for it. Edmund had acted as if it were a reasonable expectation instead—something required, rather than something graciously offered by Vincent, who was the best of men. As such, he would not ask for an apology or a gesture of thanks himself; it had been up to Isolde.
Over the last six years, wherever possible, she had tried to force an apology out of Edmund for abandoning Vincent after the loss of their father, only to receive rudeness and haughtiness in return. At times, she might have deserved that, but still…
Eventually, her attempts had turned into a general distaste which she doubted would ever fade.
A grimace twitched upon Vincent’s lips. “There is no need for that tone of voice, Isolde.”
“Edmund is back? When? Were you planning to inform me, or were you waiting for me to bump into him?” Her eyes flared with irritation. Of all the people she hoped would attend her debutball, Edmund Connolly, the Duke of Davenport, had his name firmly in the bottom spot. If she never saw the man again, it would be too soon.
Vincent sighed, leading her to the side of the main ballroom, where they might have more privacy from gossipmongers. “He is my oldest and dearest friend, Isolde. I know the two of you have not always been friendly, but I had hoped that three years of distance might be enough for you to be civil in one another’s company.” His grimace became more pronounced. “Besides, dear sister, it is mostly your fault that there is enmity between you.”
“I was twelve,” Isolde shot back. “And trying to get an apology out of him for you, that you deserved!”
Vincent nodded slowly, having heard this argument many times before. “And he was mourning the loss of his entire family, thus in no mood for a girl’s tricks and schemes. He has never been able to eat strawberry tarts again after what you did.”
Clenching her hands into fists, Isolde had to fight to regain her composure. Even from elsewhere in the palace, Edmund was unraveling all of the hard work that she had done to become a respectable, polite young lady: the kind that could make her mother content.
“Hebehaved worse than I ever did after that incident,” she reminded her brother. “I cannot recall a single encounter since where he has not been utterly vicious to me. Why, I should sayit was a greater test for my ladylike manners than any lessons a tutor has taught me.”
Vincent hesitated. “He teased you a little, that is all. I do not think it was worse than what you did to him.”
“Of course not, because he is your dearest friend and, in your eyes, can do no wrong,” Isolde grumbled. “Honestly, I would like to seeyouwithstand such teasing. Then, you could deign to tell me how I feel.”
They were interrupted by the shy clearing of a throat, and, for an awful moment, Isolde feared that Edmund himself had crept up on them. Instead, she looked upon the bird mask and kind brown eyes of Colin Ward, Marquess of Fenton.
“Apologies for the intrusion,” he said, adjusting his posture. “I believe we are to dance the next set together, if you are still willing? Of course, if you are in the midst of something, then I shall return when it is more convenient.”
Isolde brightened, shuffling off her irritation like a heavy cloak after a walk in the rain. “Now is perfectly convenient,” she said softly. “My brother and I were just having a lighthearted quarrel about nothing much at all. It is assuredly a family’s prerogative to squabble now and then, forIbelieve it shows you care.”
Colin chuckled, gazing at her as if she were the most precious thing he had ever seen. She would have been lying if she said it did not feel good to be so admired, after all of the effort and determination she had put into being a refined lady of theTon.Anyone would have been pleased by the reward after such hard work.
“My brother and I never cease our quarreling,” Colin said, offering his arm. “If we ever did, I would think that something was wrong with him.”
Isolde laughed daintily. “Quite so!”
“I shall restore Lady Isolde to you after the dance, Your Grace.” Colin bowed his head to Vincent.
“There is no rush,” Vincent said slyly, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “If the compulsion should arise, and my sister is amenable, dancetwodances.”
Not content with letting her brother off the hook, Isolde leaned in to Colin’s ear. “He is eager to retreat to the smoking room before any lovely young ladies compelhimto dance. The poor soul has two left feet.”
Colin stifled a snort, turning his warm brown eyes on Isolde once more. “Meanwhile, I should hate to be in the smoking room—at least while you are still in the vicinity. Who would choose the company of gentlemen over the prospect of catching a glimpse—perhaps, even dancing—with the most beautiful lady in all of England.”
Remembering to be modest, Isolde made a show of glancing this way and that. “Where is she, Lord Fenton? Might you point her out so that I might witness this rare creature?”
He beamed at her. “We would have to find a mirror for that, Lady Isolde.”
