“I feel as if I am at a bacchanalia,” another woman—a friend of the first—said haughtily, and rather too loud, as if she wanted the entire ballroom to hear her disapproval.
“Did you attend many of those in your youth?” Edmund asked, unable to resist.
The group of four older women stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. Perhaps he had, but as he did not know how to remedy his predicament, other than to let time fade his thoughts of Isolde, there was nothing else to be done.
“Say, are you the Duke of Davenport?” one of the women asked, eyes narrowing.
“Guilty as charged,” Edmund replied, raising his glass of red wine to her.
The demeanor of the four women shifted in an instant, their disapproval and turned up noses transforming into cheery smiles and a bombardment of questions: Had he met their granddaughters? Was there a lady who had captured his attention yet? Should he not be thinking about taking a wife rather soon? They could arrange a meeting with this granddaughter or that granddaughter, if he would like them to?
“Of course, you are still young,” one of them said, “but that is of great benefit for children. My own husband was about your age when we married, and he?—”
She stopped abruptly, as if the ability to speak had suddenly been snatched away from her. Her mouth remained open, making no sound, her eyes widening with every passing second. But she was not looking at Edmund anymore; she was looking at something over his shoulder.
The other three ladies followed their friend’s gaze, their expressions matching hers within half a second.
Indeed, though the orchestra, attired in Roman-style garb, continued to play a pleasant tune for the dancers who had already taken to the floor, everyone else had fallen silent. Everyone staring at exactly the same spot. A few of the dancers—menandwomen—missed a step or forgot what came next, like the King himself had just wandered in.
Slowly, Edmund turned to see what all the fuss was about.
It was not the King, but a goddess, shimmering like starlight. The skirts of her evening gown moved like water reflecting the night, her skin as radiant as the moon, her honey-blonde hair appearing like spun gold, fashioned into a pearl-studded bun.
She wore it…Edmund’s chest clenched, wishing he had not purchased the gown for her. Not because it did not look exactly as breathtaking as he had imagined, but because it did. Madame Versailles was right: that material had been made for Isolde.
He had no doubt that it would make her the most sought after lady at the ball, for there was not a single gentleman who was not staring at her, visibly brimming with envy for the unknown husband who ended up with her. Edmund, despite himself, was no exception.
“Lord Mentrow, you are here!” Isolde cheered, grateful to find a friendly face among the crowd.
Noah, wielding two glasses of cloudy lemonade, bowed his head politely, a nervous smile on his face. “I would not have missed it. The Duke and Duchess always have such magnificent gatherings.” He offered one of the glasses to her. “I took the liberty, in case you were thirsty.”
“You are too kind.” Isolde accepted the drink and sipped it delicately, though she really wanted to down it in great gulps to slick away the tight, dry feeling in her throat.
She had known the dress might cause a stir, and her mother had not helped matters by chirping in the carriage, over and over, “Oh, you shall be inundated, my darling! You will not have a single spot left on your dance card and I daresay we shall have to purchase a whole bakery’s worth of cakes to appease the hordes of suitors who will come to call on you after this!”
In truth, she was not sure she liked the intense attention. She certainly did not like the prickly sensation that flushed her skin every time she realized people were staring at her and not looking away. Gentlemen, mostly, but there were a few sour looks from ladies, too.
“You look… beautiful, Lady Isolde,” Noah said stiffly, no longer the relaxed and easy presence he had been at Martin Thorne’s dinner party. “I mean, you always look beautiful, but… um… exceptionally so.”
Isolde took another sip of her drink. “Thank you, Lord Mentrow, but it is the dress that is beautiful. I am so fearful of ruining it that I hardly dare to move.” She eyed him, wondering. “Have you ever seen such fabric before?”
“I confess, I have not.” Noah moved to stand at her side, so they could better observe the guests who crowded the ballroom. Or, perhaps, he did not want to have to meet her gaze by standing in front of her.
It is not him. He did not send it.
“Are you here with friends or family?” Isolde prompted, uncertain of what had come over the Viscount. Did he not like balls? Was he just uncomfortable?
He cast her a shy, sideways glance. “I am alone, Lady Isolde. There was an agreement between my friends and I that we would meet here, but they have not yet arrived.” He paused. “And you?”
“My mother is just over there,” Isolde said, pointing her chin toward the woman in question.
The instant they had arrived, Isolde’s mother had somewhat abandoned her daughter in favor of soaking up the adulations. Lots of other mothers had rushed in to ask about the gown, celebrating Julianna Wilds for having such a beautiful daughter, and Julianna had been only too willing to accept the credit.
At that very moment, Isolde’s mother was regaling a small congregation with tales of Isolde’s intense education in the art of becoming a lady: making recommendations of books and tutors, bragging about all the suitors who had called at the house already, insisting that any young lady could become a success.
Pride comes before a fall, Mama,Isolde wanted to warn, but her mother was happy, and that seemed like reason enough to stay quiet.
“My friends are also yet to arrive,” she added, discreetly searching for Amelia, Valery, and Beatrice.
