by Rose Gordon
“Just think, you can go to balls, soirees, and musicales.”
“Why would I wish to do that?”
“To reenter Society, of course,” Edmund replied offhandedly. As if she’d ever wanted to enter Society in the first place. “You can go to London for the Season to flaunt your money and at the end, you can snag an earl.” He winked at her to let her know which earl he had in mind for her to snag.
“Lord Kenton,” she began softly, “I know you hold me in high esteem. But you do realize there’s a significant age difference between us, do you not?”
He shrugged. “It’s of no account. Men are supposed to be older than their wives. It’s the perfect arrangement actually. See, we men get to have our bachelor freedom until we’re ready to settle down and take a wife, then we find a beautiful young lady like yourself and marry her.”
“And what does the young lady get from such a perfect arrangement?” Isabelle asked, cocking her head.
“A skillful lover,” Edmund said automatically.
Isabelle dropped her head to her hands and tried not to laugh. The idea of going to bed with him was not what young ladies dreams were made of. He wasn’t fat exactly, but he could stand to lose at least a stone or better. His hair was greying—or gone. It was easy to tell his face had been very handsome when he was young, but as he’d aged, time had left its stamp.
“You’d get a title, too.”
“I don’t care about titles, you should know that,” Isabelle said flatly, all laughter gone from her voice.
Edmund’s large hand rested on her shoulder. “I know,” he said softly. “Are you worried you’ll see him there? Is that what’s holding you back?”
Lifting her head, she met his gaze. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen him in so long.”
“You’re a strong woman, Isabelle. If he confronts you, just incline your chin, stiffen your spine and give him the cut direct. He doesn’t deserve the right to even look at you after everything he put you through.”
“You’re right,” Isabelle said with a confidence she didn’t feel. “He probably won’t be there anyway. Last I heard he was having a grand time cavorting around the continent.”
Edmund nodded. “See, nothing to worry about.” He pushed to his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see if my aunt can act as your chaperone.”
“You’ll have no trouble convincing her,” Isabelle supplied, shaking her head ruefully. For the past four years Mrs. Finch had tried every trick she could to get Isabelle to go to London. Isabelle suspected it was more so that Mrs. Finch would have a reason to participate in the activities and entertain a lover or two before it was too late, not so that Isabelle could find a husband.
“I know I won’t,” Edmund agreed smugly. He walked to the door and turned around. “Isabelle, I want you to know something.” He withdrew his right hand from his pocket and ran it through his thinning hair. “I know I’ve expressed interest in marrying you many times, but I don’t expect you to make a promise to me yet.”
Isabelle stared at him and licked her lips, thinking up a tactful reply. She’d never seriously considered marrying him before and hated feeling like she was going to tear his heart out by finding someone else.
“There will be other gentlemen—younger gentlemen,” he continued, looking decidedly uncomfortable, “I’ll not get in your way, Isabelle. If one of them strikes your fancy, I’ll retreat.”
Stunned, she stared at him. “Th—thank you, Edmund.”
“You’re welcome,” he said simply, shrugging one shoulder as if to say he truly didn’t care. Which was a lie. He did care. She knew he did.
As she expected, Mrs. Finch was more than willing to act as her chaperone and three months later, she now found herself being fawned over in an effort to make her beautiful for yet another suitor-slobbering, nerve-wracking, dreadfully uncomfortable ball.
“Lord Kenton has arrived,” Mary, the only true housemaid still in Mrs. Finch’s employ, said as she peeked her head inside Isabelle's bedchamber.
For a reason she couldn't explain, Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief. Lord Kenton may not be the most handsome or charming gentleman she’d ever encountered, but he was certainly someone who she’d consider a genuine friend. And as she’d learned over the past few months, tonight, just like every other night she attended a ball, she could use such a friend.
An hour and a half later, Isabelle was being spun around the dance floor in the arms of one of the most handsome gentlemen to grace a London ballroom. Not only was he handsome, young, and virile, but this particular duke was already married. How unfortunate she hadn’t come into her fortune a few years earlier and perhaps the Duke of Gateway could have been hers. Oh well, surely there would be others. She just needed to look around a bit and she’d find the right one. She was sure of it.
The music ended, and simultaneously so did Isabelle’s ability to feign enjoyment at being present at Lady Rutherford’s ball.
Not fifteen feet away dressed entirely in black except for his perfectly pinned snow-white cravat stood the one person on the planet who had the ability to make her laugh, cry, feel loved and hated all at the same time.
***
Sebastian Gentry, Viscount Belgrave wished he were anywhere else at the moment. In the past five and a half years he’d been chased by an elephant in India, stranded in a battered boat during a storm in the Channel, and nearly impaled by a bull’s horn as he was chased around a muddy ring in Spain. All three of those experiences seemed more pleasant than his current situation.
He glanced over to his friend Giles Goddard and was once again reminded of his many blessings. Giles was an odd sort who’d been dealt a difficult hand, to put it politely. Born to an elderly man who didn’t wish to keep him around after it became apparent he wasn’t destined to have the same sort of life as the others with his breeding, Giles was banished to Ireland and raised by nuns. If that wasn’t bad enough, he was slow to speak and often considered by some to be low of intellect. To say that Giles had an easy time of it would be an outright lie. And other than Giles himself, nobody knew that better than Sebastian.
The two had met five years ago while boarding a steam packet bound for Ireland and had become fast friends during the journey. They’d spent the interim touring the continent, neither having a care in the world for when it would be the right time to return to London. But when Giles received some sort of summons to return to England in the early spring, Sebastian decided it was time for him to return, too. He’d been gone long enough. It was time. Time to face his past and whatever demons lurked there.
But that wasn’t the reason he’d come to the ball, however. He’d come to the blasted ball because Giles had asked him to; and if there was one thing he’d learned from a chap as simple as Giles, you don’t break your promises.
“Do you see her?” Sebastian asked, leaning over to his friend.
Giles shook his head slowly then gave a pointed look in the direction of a potted plant.
“Capital idea,” Sebastian said. When they'd first met, Sebastian found Giles’ quiet demeanor quite odd. But after five years of carrying the majority of the conversation, he didn't think it odd in the least.
Together the pair lumbered over to the spot by the potted plant Giles had indicated with his stare. Standing along the perimeter of the room would allow them the position to search the room for a woman named Lady Cosgrove.
Not that Sebastian had the slightest idea of what she looked like, of course. He'd better leave locating Lady Cosgrove to Giles. Instead, he’d stand and wait quietly until—
All of the muscles in his body tensed, then fell slack as every drop of his blood made one final thundering round through his veins then drained to his toes. There, standing not fifteen feet in front of him wearing the fullest, light blue gown he’d ever seen was Isabelle Gentry, Lady Belgrave: his wife.
Chapter Four
Though her mind commanded her mouth to speak, she couldn’
t. She opened her mouth once, then twice, as if to say something, but nothing came out. The only thing she could do was to open and close her mouth like a fish. And stare. Yes, she could certainly stare.
He was taller and leaner than she remembered him to be. Broader and more angled, too.
“Good evening, Belle,” he said with a slight bow as he approached her.
Anger she knew she had, but didn’t expect to have surface, surged inside of her at his informal, almost friendly greeting. She tore her eyes away, spun on her heel and retreated across the ballroom.
She was such a fool.
At least she felt like one and had no desire to allow him to think her one; or make her into a bigger one.
Instead, she wouldn’t give him anything else to think of her.
Cutting him might be perceived by some—likely, himself included—a cowardly thing for her to do, she knew, but considering all the vile things that had befallen her during the year after their ‘marriage’, it was the best she could do. At least to her mind it was. Spurning him as he’d spurned her was fair, was it not?
On their way back from Scotland, they’d been involved in a terrible carriage accident. One that left the coach in shambles, the coachmen dead, and her unconscious.
She obviously didn’t recall how long she was unconscious, but she’d been alone when she awoke some weeks later with intense pain in her back and both hips. Pain that was so sharp and crippling that something as simple as breathing made her cry, which only brought about more pain.
And through it all, Sebastian who’d been her friend far longer than her husband, was nowhere to be found.
True to his word as soon as they’d climbed back into the carriage outside the smithy’s, he’d orchestrated their annulment and was gone. Never once did he call upon her or even ask how she was while she was recovering. Just gone.
Hurt and anger bubbled up inside of her. She hated him. Absolutely hated him. And his having the nerve to appear so devilishly handsome out of nowhere and speak to her as if nothing had happened between them was too much.
“Miss Knight.”
Isabelle started and turned to see the soft green eyes of Simon Appleton, a quiet sort who defied the norms of most gentleman of his young age of twenty. Though he’d never sought Isabelle out outside of balls, routs, and musicales, it was clear he had some interest in her, or else he wouldn’t always be the first to claim two of her dances for the evening and eager to suggest he take her to the refreshment room. She flashed him the best smile she could. “I was just looking for you—just in the wrong direction, apparently.”
A broad grin took his lips. “Good. Then, I’d like to claim my dance now.”
“Of course.” Doing her best to control the slight tremor in her hands, she allowed him to lead her onto the floor. Following her injury, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to dance again without pain, which wasn’t a true concern of hers since she’d never really given dancing much thought as a young girl, given her position and all. But truth to tell, Mrs. Finch still loved to dance and often insisted Isabelle practice with her. Considering the break in her hips and how long it had taken her to walk again, Isabelle feared she’d let her companion down, but had actually found it very helpful with her walking and movement to spend so much time practicing dancing. It helped make her gait more even, too. So much so that it’d be hard for anyone to ever know how badly she’d been injured.
Her partner, Mr. Appleton, was a magnificent dancer even if she’d never seen him practice the skill with anyone other than her.
His green eyes sought to lock gazes with hers, and she struggled to keep her eyes on his, too apprehensive about the set of sharp brown eyes that she knew were watching her from the edge of the ballroom. She nearly laughed at her own foolish notion. He wasn’t watching her. Sebastian’s interest in her was very little. Very little? She almost snorted. Very little was too much. His interest in her was absolutely none.
So then why was he watching her?
To mock her, perhaps?
She shivered and a knot of raw emotion formed in her throat.
She surely hoped not. She’d suffered enough mocking at his hands these past years, and had no desire to have any more.
“Is everything all right?”
Mr. Appleton’s question snapped Isabelle from her thoughts. “Of course.”
He nodded as if he accepted her answer and flashed her a nervous smile. “As you may already know, Miss Knight, I attend these balls because I’ve now reached the age where I’m in search of a wife...”
Whatever it was he had to say after that was lost to Isabelle as a knot the size—and the approximate weight—of a cannonball lowered into her stomach. If she thought it difficult to breathe before with the emotion clogging her throat, it was nearly impossible now. “Mr. Appleton, please don’t,” she rushed, cutting off whatever words he’d practiced to say to her at that moment.
The way he blanched then turned red made her guilt grow.
“What I mean is...” My desire to marry you rivals that of your desire to bed a sixty year-old scullery maid: none. Were she younger and him someone else, she’d have said that very remark without concern to the consequences, but she couldn’t. Her reputation couldn’t survive such a scandalous statement. Whether she truly wished to find a husband or not, such remarks must stay quiet or she’d bring more rumors and scorn upon her head. “Mr. Appleton,” she began again with a sigh. “I like you, I truly do, but I think we might be better suited as friends.” Which was rather generous considering their acquaintance so far had been restricted to less than a dozen dances and a couple of trips to the refreshment room spread out over a handful of balls.
“I see,” he said slowly, another nervous smile spreading across his lips. “I hadn’t thought of you as a potential bride before.”
Isabelle misstepped.
Mirth danced in Mr. Appleton’s green eyes. “I, too, thought of us only as friends and was merely going to ask what you thought of Henrietta Hughes, but now that you’ve suggested...” He shrugged and flashed her a full grin that left her uncertain. Either he was lying to protect his pride or she’d been too distracted with the idea of marrying someone other than Edmund to see his attentions for what they were: just being friendly.
“Er...Henrietta seems nice enough, I suppose.”
He quirked a dark brow. “You suppose?”
“Well, she is a bit...er...shy don’t you think?”
“And what do you consider yourself?”
Isabelle almost misstepped again, and might have if not for Mr. Appleton’s tightened grasp. “I’m not shy. I’m more...reserved.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. She’d never been termed reserved a day in her life. Well, at least not until after the disaster that was her elopement... But Mr. Appleton didn’t seem to know of that folly, nor the girl she’d been prior to said folly. Thank heavens.
“I’d say Henrietta is reserved, too,” he remarked. “This is her what? Third season?”
Isabelle murmured something he’d take as agreement. Honestly, she had no idea how long Miss Henrietta Hughes had been on the Marriage Mart. She’d never met more than a fraction of the people who were here tonight and had only heard of a quarter. Well, heard might not be the correct word. More like she’d read about them. In scandal sheets, to be exact. And only then when Mrs. Finch instructed her to read such claptrap to her. As it was, Isabelle would happily never look at that section of the newspaper ever again.
Mr. Appleton chuckled and led her to the side of the room. Apparently the music had ended. She blushed and followed her escort’s lead.
“You really are distracted tonight,” he mused.
She bit her lip. Was it that obvious to him? It was quite obvious to her since she kept getting lost in her own thoughts. Just like she was doing now, dash it all. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then opened them again, refreshed. “What is it that you were saying about Miss Hughes?”
He shrugged aga
in. “Nothing. Just that I find that perhaps she’s reserved.”
“I don’t see why she’d have a reason to be, it’s not as if she’s haunted by a scandal,” Isabelle said before she could think better of it, her eyes flaring wide.
Mr. Appleton eyed her curiously. “One wouldn’t think that a little scandal in one’s past would be enough to make a girl unmarriageable, would it?”
Isabelle stared at him, her eyes searching his face. What did he know? Was he still talking about Miss Hughes or was he now talking about her? She opened her mouth to say something, but immediately closed it with a sharp snap when a voice came from behind her, sending shivers down her spine.
“No, I shouldn’t think so,” came the soft, quiet voice of none other than Sebastian, Lord Belgrave, her no-good former husband.
***
Isabelle whirled around to face him, fire blazing in her green eyes.
Sebastian offered her his hand; the opening strains of a waltz just starting. “May I?”
She couldn’t very well refuse and they both knew it. She swallowed in a way that made the center of her slender neck move and then took his hand.
He’d been watching her from across the room since she’d walked away from him without so much as a word of greeting. At first, he thought she might be as stunned to see him as he was to see her, but now that she’d had time to recover from her shock, he wanted to speak to her. She was his wife, after all, that made it his right to do so.
“How have you been?” he asked after he had her in his arms and began leading her about the floor.