Ryan brought Lady Jersey’s hand to his lips. “What can I say—ravissante!”
Sally tittered with delight. “I do so adore compliments from men in uniform. They sound…much more sincere.” She let out a brandy-spiced breath—which was shocking in itself since only the mildest drinks were served at the assembly. No doubt Sally carried a little flask in her purse, Isabel thought as she observed the cozy interlude. It certainly solved the mystery regarding how Ryan had managed to come by a voucher in the space of two days. He had his own patroness.
When Isabel felt Sally’s assessing gaze on her, she bobbed. “Lady Jersey.”
“Miss Aubrey.” Sally returned the gesture, but not without palpable antagonism. To Ryan she murmured, “I shall see you later, darling.”
“Or sooner.” He winked, and swept Isabel into the country dance.
Any illusion Isabel might have entertained regarding his potential as a future spouse was dashed this evening, for more than one reason. Ashby had been right to warn her off Ryan. Only it depressed her to know he had done so out of concern rather than jealousy. Her big brother.
Thankfully the dance was too lively to engage in conversation, and Isabel was spared the unpleasantness of dealing with the fallout of Ryan and Iris’s confrontation. Tonight Ryan was the enemy, but she’d still agreed to walk with him Saturday afternoon, and while she was sorely tempted to cancel their engagement, he was the only person who knew some of Ashby’s secrets.
Ashby. How many nights had she lain awake, envisioning herself gliding across the dance floor in his arms? She could almost imagine that the broad chest sporting the 18th silver and blue dolman jacket and the elegant pelisse swelling off the shoulder were his, not Ryan’s.
They weren’t waltzing, however, and as they stepped and turned, changing partners, Isabel came up against Lord John Hanson. They exchanged brief greetings and danced on to the next partner. She turned her head, curious to see with whom he was standing up.
“Louisa Talbot?” Both her friends looked horrified when Isabel reported the observation a while later. “Are you certain?” Sophie whispered in disbelief. “That dreadful creature everyone dislikes? Why in blazes would he want to dance with her?”
Isabel glanced at the far side of the ballroom, where a twittering circle converged around a white-blond head. Once upon a time, it was Ashby who held the title “Society’s most sought after bachelor.” Only in Ashby’s case, because he was sinfully irresistible, he was pursued not only by every ambitious mother’s debutante daughter, but by the mothers, the daughters, their sisters, and every other blasted female in sight. They all fancied him. Some of them had even gotten him—temporarily. “Perhaps he lost a wager,” Isabel said, shrugging. “Who knows?”
“I know,” Iris put in. “Louisa Talbot is as rich as Croesus. Her American father owned the largest tobacco plantation in the world. When he died last year, Louisa’s mother married her old sweetheart, Lord Larimore, who’d also been her longtime lover throughout her first marriage. Louisa got the entire inheritance. Her mother didn’t see a ha’pence.”
“Lord John stands to inherit his grandfather, the Duke of Haworth,” Isabel asserted. “Why would he chase an ugly, insipid, unpleasant woman for her money?”
“It’s difficult to ignore all that money,” Iris scoffed. “Prinny has been known to pay her a compliment or two, himself. Nevertheless, I hear that her American uncle is arriving next week and that he despises the English aristocracy. He’s coming to town to keep his niece from falling prey to an impoverished lord. Some say he’s already hired runners to dig up dirt on her beaux.”
“Louisa has beaux?” Isabel blinked. “She has trouble befriending her own persuasion, a fact which I find suspicious in itself.”
“There she goes again.” Sophie indicated the freckled insect loping cheerfully on the dance floor straight into the arms of…none other than Ryan Macalister.
Sophie and Iris were right, Isabel acknowledged. He was hunting for an heiress.
“Would you mind if we left early tonight?” Iris blurted. “Unless Izzy wants to have another tête-à-tête with Lord John, coax him into reading our bill proposal…?”
Isabel met Sophie’s knowing gaze. Their friend didn’t want to wait for the last waltz Ryan had imposed on her. The gentlemen of the ton knew that Iris’s dance card was an “ornament” and nothing more, thanks to Chilton. Ryan would cause a scene, and they’d had one too many scenes this evening. It didn’t take a genius to realize that Iris and Ryan knew each other well. How well and what the source of their mutual animosity was remained to be unraveled. The one good deed Ryan had unwittingly performed tonight was sidetracking Iris and Sophie from questioning her about Ashby. “We may leave whenever you wish,” Isabel replied. “I already made up my mind to speak to Lord John about our bill proposal at the Barrington ball tomorrow evening.”
“It is better this way,” Sophie concluded. “Let him fall in love with you first. Then, when he is too besotted to refuse, ask for his sponsorship.”
Isabel smiled. “Sophie, you are awful! How can you suggest I delude the poor man?”
“Perhaps while working your wiles on him, the Golden Angel will work his wiles on you, and instead of deluding, we’ll have a happy, socially conscientious couple.” Iris smiled.
Isabel narrowed her eyes. “Did Stilgoe put you two up to this?”
“No! Of course not.” Sophie shuddered.
“We would never collaborate with the enemy,” Iris reassured her as they headed for the doorway. “However, I fail to see why you are so averse to the concept of marriage. I know mine isn’t the best example, but Sophie was very happy with her George. Weren’t you, Sophie?”
“Very happy.” Sophie nodded glumly. “George was my strength. He took a poor Parisian opera singer and transformed her into a queen. He gave me Jerome. And I’ll tell you something else. If I’m ever so lucky as to find another man as wonderful as George, I won’t hesitate to say ‘yes’ again. I miss being married. There are several benefits to the situation.”
A dark bench and a certain heart-stealing hussar appeared before Isabel’s eyes. Letting out a sigh, she banished the image from her mind. “I’m not averse to the idea of marriage,” she said. “I’m simply saving myself for…the best candidate who comes along.”
“Look at the bright side, Izzy,” Iris said. “If the best candidate turns out to be Lord John Hanson, you will have the most adorable babies London has ever seen.”
A glorious idea exploded in Isabel’s mind. “Did you say ‘babies’?”
Chapter Five
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness.
—Lord Byron: Prometheus
“What
