by Tamara Gill
Isolde caught a glimpse into the gaming room where she spied the Duke of Moore at one of the tables, his brandy glass empty, his cravat untied and sitting loose about his neck. He looks disheveled and devilishly handsome. Damn him. “I’ve heard similar, but I cannot feel pity for either of them. They made their choice, and now they must live with it.”
Josh pulled her to a stop. “You’ve grown a backbone. Bravo, Sister.”
“I have, and it’s here to stay.” Yet the thought of Merrick being unhappy in his marriage made her uneasy. They had a child, after all. And no child wanted to grow up in a home where one’s parents did not respect or care for each other.
Her brother gained them both a glass of champagne, handing her one. “I must tell you something, if only to spare you the humiliation of finding out when you’re not properly prepared.”
Isolde took a sip, not liking the worry etched on her brother’s face. “What is it?”
His lips pursed. “Did you notice Her Grace was favoring her stomach when speaking to you?” He paused, and Isolde wondered what was so dreadful that her brother would struggle to find the words. “She’s pregnant with her second child,” he blurted.
Isolde’s stomach knotted at the thought of Merrick making love with her once best friend. It had tormented her for years, imagining the kisses, the sweet touches that had once been only for her. She shook the thought aside, needing to forget the past and all the hurt, for if she did not, she may as well pack her trunk and go back to Scotland, never to find happiness of her own.
“How lovely for them.” Suffering coated her every word.
Her brother steered her toward a window seat, partly secluded with ferns. “It’s not the duke’s.”
“What!” Isolde clamped a hand over her mouth. People turned to look at them, and she laughed as if her brother had said something amusing. The child isn’t his? “How do you know this?”
“I have my sources, and I know, without doubt, it’s not Moore’s.”
The thought of such a thing, of Leonora having a child with someone other than Merrick, was absurd. How could she do that to her husband? Especially when she’d seduced the duke right under Isolde’s nose. Why would the duchess seek comfort elsewhere? “Are you certain?” she asked, unable to believe such a tale.
“I am.” He nodded, a serious look on his face. “That blackguard deserves all he gets with the spiteful wench.”
Although Isolde didn’t like the harshness of Josh’s words, she understood her brother’s dislike of the couple. “Let them be, and let us get on with our lives. I don’t want to talk about them anymore.”
Josh pulled her to stand, and, spying their mother, started in her direction. “You’re right. Apologies, my dear. I’ll not mention them again. Tonight is for enjoyment, not rehashing of past hurts.”
“I heartily agree.”
The night, Isolde was happy to say, passed quite pleasantly from that point on. Josh introduced her to an array of suitable gentlemen, enough to make her head swim. All of them bowed, danced attendance to her, complimented, and flirted as much as they could with her mother present.
It was most diverting, and Isolde enjoyed the night more than she thought she would. Just after supper, she stood to the side of the room, watching her mother speaking to Josh and a young woman Isolde hadn’t seen before. She was a sweet, delicate little thing, yet her determined intelligent gaze spoke more than any words could. The girl had her sights on her brother, a duke, and no other gentleman would do. Isolde laughed when Josh came to the same conclusion. He looked like a trapped lion with its tail between its legs who wished to run away.
Taking a sip of champagne, she watched Alice expertly perform the steps of a quadrille with a handsome gentleman with dark, brooding features. Looking past her smiling sister, her gaze landed on Merrick, who was conversing with the hostess.
His body was slightly hunched to enable him to hear the short viscountess who was talking vigorously, waving her hands about with gusto. She took in the clean lines of his suit. The broad shoulders and a body that no longer belonged to a gangly youth, but to a man in his prime. He was so handsome, so attentive to the lady, that Isolde found herself smiling. How she longed to dance with him again, if only to feel the press of his body against hers. To have his large, capable hands upon her person, to make the breath in her lungs catch…
She forced herself to look away, locking away the crushing jealousy that plagued her. From the first moment she’d met Moore, so many years ago now, she’d known he was hers. He’d stolen her heart and soul that night, and she realized she’d never really received them back.
No matter how much she told herself and others that she had healed, she had not. She would have to remedy that and quickly, if she wanted to marry and move on with her life.
Chapter Six
Isolde’s days were filled with shopping, lunches, walks in the parks, and the occasional ride. Surprisingly, she found her friend Anne was an avid purchaser of all things pretty and expensive. The merchants on Bond Street would not forget them anytime soon. Being an admirer of shoes, Isolde fell in love with Harding, Howell & Co—an industrious store that catered to everything and any type of shoe a woman could want.
They’d almost bought out their supply of walking boots, riding footwear, and evening slippers. Her first week back in town was, in one word, delightful.
Today, Isolde spoiled herself a little by ordering a new riding ensemble and purchasing a fur coat. They finished off their shopping extravaganza in the perfumery shop where Isolde bought her custom perfume of roses.
The day out was one of the most fun and carefree Isolde could remember. And even their trip home had been amusing when they’d had to hire a hackney cab to follow their own carriage, just to fit all their parcels.
Her nights were filled with endless balls and parties. Isolde watched as her sister Alice was courted by the flattering Marquess Clifford. It was no use. There was no spark in her sibling’s gaze when she looked at the gentleman. Alice would not marry him, no matter how much he wished it.
It seemed her quiet word to her brother that he needed to allow the girls some freedom to form attachments had been heeded. It hadn’t hurt that Isolde also mentioned that should he not stop being so overbearing, he’d have them all living with him in his dotage.
“Lady Isolde, may I say how utterly lovely it is to see you back in Town.” The Marquess of Wardoor bent over her gloved hand, all elegant and refined. “It has been too long.”
Isolde curtsied a little. “Lord Wardoor, it is good to be back and to see you as well.”
He studied her a moment, smiling, and Isolde noted how changed he was since she’d seen him last. He had always been a tall man, only a year or so older than Merrick, and one of his closest confidantes, although she was no longer certain if that was still the case. His hair was cropped short and made his pronounced nose seem larger than it was.
“We’ve missed seeing you in Town. I do hope the rumors that are circulating are true, that you’re here for the Season.”
Isolde only just managed to hide the revulsion on her face that the ton were gossiping about her return, discussing her, perhaps even laughing at her inability to marry at the ripe old age of three and twenty years. “Yes, I intend to be in Town for some time, and will visit Dunsleigh before returning to Avonmore.”
Lord Wardoor took a sip of his brandy, motioning a nearby footman for another. “Ah yes, I heard you were living in Scotland. I always thought it a shame that we lost such a jewel with your leaving.” He threw her a consoling look, and she lifted her chin, not willing to be regarded as someone to be pitied.
“Tell me, my Lord,” Isolde said, quickly changing the subject, “are you married? I’m afraid my own Town gossip is most lacking.”
“Alas, no I’m not, but the Season is young.” He winked, and her eyes widened before she laughed at his gumption. “And I find what I’ve seen so far of the Season is much to my liking. More so than any
other year.”
Was Lord Wardoor looking at her to fill such a position? Heat rose on her cheeks at the thought, having never looked at him in that way. “I wish you all the best with your quest.” She studied him for a moment. He was handsome, even with his forthright nose, but there was no fluttering of her stomach when she looked at him. No tremble of fingers when he neared. Nothing at all. And yet, wasn’t that suitable for her? She wasn’t looking for love, after all. Friendship, trust, and respect were all she wanted.
“I thought Moore was lying when he told me you were back, but I’m thankful he was not. How providential that we’re both looking to marry before Season’s end.”
Isolde almost choked on her sip of wine. “I don’t believe I said I was after a husband, my Lord.” She smiled to buffer the censure in her tone. Thoughts bombarded her mind as to how he’d come to such a conclusion. Had Anne or one of her sisters mentioned it in a passing conversation with their friends? Or was he just guessing her presence this year was solely to find a husband…
He grinned. Maddening man. “Ah, but we know ’tis what all ladies are searching for, and you’re no different, even if you boast that you are.”
“I look forward to proving you wrong.” Isolde looked back to the throng and ignored the deep rumbling chuckle beside her and that she’d just blatantly lied to a gentleman’s face. It was none of his concern, in any case.
“Come, my lady. I hope I have not offended you. I’m only teasing, I promise.”
Isolde let him stand beside her for a little moment longer before she deigned to reply. “Perhaps you ought to make it up to me by partnering me with the next dance?”
He bent over her hand, grinning up at her. “Forward chit, are you not? Should I expect a proposal next?”
Isolde threaded her arm though his. “The dance will do just fine. Thank you, my lord.” And Lord Wardoor did dance divinely, even if those elusive butterflies never eventuated.
…
Three nights after Viscount Chudley’s soiree, Merrick fought the coiling anger that ate at his very soul as he watched Lord Wardoor dance attendance on Isolde. What was she thinking, allowing such a libertine to court her? With age, the man had only grown worse in his escapades; the number of whores he bedded, and how much coin he lost at table every night, worsened each year.
Wardoor would never be faithful, and surely Isolde had come to that conclusion. Or perhaps she did not care. Merrick wasn’t sure which thought worried him more.
Again and again he watched as Isolde was pulled onto the dance floor by not only his closest friend, but others as well, all of the fiends clutching at her waist, ogling her breasts that her gown fought to cover. They gazed at her like some sweetmeat ready to be gobbled up.
Bastards.
He closed his eyes, no longer wanting to see such a travesty. Isolde was no longer his. He had to let her go, even if such a thought threatened to buckle his knees. His fists clenched at his side before a bitter laugh brought him out of his misery. “Oh, my dearest husband, does the sight of your Isolde stepping out with others upset you? You look positively pathetic.”
Merrick covered her hand that came to sit on his arm, a serene front they had perfected early in their marriage. The ton was never to know that their marriage was in name only, if solely to keep their place in the society which Leonora enjoyed so much. “I see jealousy is your forte tonight, my dear. How it must vex you to see your once closest friend back in Town, especially since you have no one to steal from her this time. Whatever will you do with yourself?”
Leonora laughed, clutching at his arm as if they were enjoying each other’s company immensely. “La, you amuse me. I’ve already conquered Wardoor. Poor pathetic Isolde is no competition to me.” She sighed. “Perhaps I’ll take that sweet innocent Isolde and corrupt her. How fun that would be to see her become as wicked as me.”
A cold hard ball knotted in Merrick’s gut. The hell he would allow Leonora anywhere near Isolde, if he could help it. He caught sight of Wardoor, and his jaw clenched. Had the man really slept with his wife? It didn’t matter that the marriage was a loveless one, to think his friend could do such a thing was the worst betrayal. But then, he deserved such folly. After all, it was no different to what he’d done to Isolde the night before their wedding—despite the fact that Leonora had tricked him.
Merrick flicked a glance at Leonora and frowned when he noted the sly lift to her lips. “You lie.”
She shrugged, chuckling a little. “Oh, but he is a lovely specimen of a man, if not too much of a libertine, even for me.”
Merrick took a sip of brandy, wondering how his life had come to this. A pointless, empty marriage that was worse than hell. Leonora may be the daughter of a vicar, but she was the spawn of the devil.
“All of London is aflutter that the elusive Lady Isolde is husband hunting.” The amusement in her voice grated on his already frayed nerves. He didn’t want to hear about Isolde possibly marrying another. He’d rather die than see such a day. How selfish he was. Isolde deserved happiness and companionship. He ought to hope she would marry for love, not wish that she’d become an unmarried matron of the ton. Old, alone, and sad.
“But I can understand why she would be looking. It’s awful being her advanced age and still on the shelf. How mortifying.” She laughed.
Merrick looked at her with loathing. “You would refuse her the smallest amount of happiness. How can you hate her so much?” And how could he deny Isolde such happiness? She deserved every pleasure after what he had put her through. But he did not look forward to living through her quest for a husband. Isolde had been everything to him, and losing her once had been bad enough. It would be nigh impossible to live through it again.
Leonora looked at him, her eyes widening at his question. “Because it amuses me to do so. Isolde was always the most loved by all our friends. So sweet, so meek, so perfect.” The duchess made a repulsed face. “It made me sick to see you falling all over your Hessian boots to speak to her. I’m glad she’s now so desperate for a husband she would consider even Wardoor to fill the position. It makes me happy to see her so unhappy.”
Merrick cast his eye over Isolde and noted her laughing at something Wardoor had said. “She doesn’t seem unhappy to me.”
His wife smirked. “Oh, you’re so amusing to watch. I say, I’m glad Isolde is back in Town, if only to see you mourn the loss of her all over again.”
Merrick tightened his hold upon her hand, and Leonora gasped. “Do not push me, wife, or damn the scandal, I’ll divorce you quicker than you can catch a cab to the hells of London you love so much.”
She paled, and her smile resembled a snarl more than anything else. “You wouldn’t dare. For if you do, I’ll let it be known that William isn’t your son. It would ruin your heir and make you look like the biggest, most pathetic duke this country has ever seen.”
“It would ruin you, too, do not forget. And William is mine, and I will meet anyone on a field of honor if they state otherwise. With the protection of my name, the children will be fine.” Merrick pulled away, distancing himself from her, less he strangle the wench before the throng of guests, some of whom had taken an interest in their conversation.
Her mocking laugh this time sounded brittle even to his ears. “We will talk later, dearest husband.” She patted his chest and left.
“I sincerely look forward to it,” Merrick absently answered, not meaning a word.
Chapter Seven
A week later, the Worthinghams held their annual London ball. The night was everything Isolde’s younger sisters abhorred and their mother adored.
Isolde watched as Alice and Victoria tried to smile and converse pleasantly with everyone who came within hearing distance of them, but the crush was exactly that, a stifling crush that intoxicated one with too many differing fragrances.
A pang of sympathy filled her as Victoria paled to a shade whiter than her silk gown. She started toward her sisters; the poor dears really loath
ed Society’s rules and strictures—the what’s-done-and-not-done before the ton. Not to mention, the gentlemen who were skulking about their skirts looked less than ideal…
She came to stand between them, took both their arms, and excused them from their set. “Come walk with me a moment.” Isolde steered them in the direction she’d last seen their mother. “What’s the matter, my dears? Are you not enjoying yourselves this evening?”
Alice made an unladylike face. “I hate having to go to balls all Season long, but having to suffer at a ball of ours and be the center of attention is the worst type of agony.”
Victoria nodded in agreement. “It’s absurd, Isolde. Really, I would much rather be home with my horses and my dogs.”
They came to stand not far from their mama and turned to watch the throng of guests. “’Tis not so bad. Surely there are some eligible gentlemen who’ve captured your attention. If not the ones you were standing with.”
Victoria scoffed. “No, there are not. They all bore me to tears. I was almost crying, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I agree,” Alice said. “I wish Mama had listened to us and not made us have this dreadful evening. What I wouldn’t do to be back at Dunsleigh.”
“You cannot catch a husband cocooned in Surrey.” Isolde knew that better than anyone, and she certainly couldn’t lead by example, as she’d lost her betrothed on the very night before her wedding.
“Elizabeth took the last good gentleman of the ton when she married Henry.” Alice sighed. “When do you think we’ll get to visit her? I do miss her terribly.”
Isolde smiled, thinking of her elder sister who was very well situated in life and in love with dearest Henry. “I’ll talk with Mama. Perchance we can visit after Season’s end, but on one condition.”
Both Alice and Victoria’s eyes brightened at the prospect. “What condition?” they asked in unison.
“That you enjoy the Season as I have set out to do. Mama deserves more happiness such as what Elizabeth has bestowed on her. It’s time we, too, played our part.”