Lady Isabella's Ogre

by Emily Larkin

  “Oh . . . I’ve received a number of callers,” Isabella said, skirting around the truth. “You know how it is when one first arrives in town.”

  Gussie’s frown was fierce. “But who said it?”

  The temptation to lie was strong. Isabella moistened her lips. She looked down at her fan and spread the pierced ivory sticks. Don’t lie, she told herself. Don’t compound your first mistake with a second. “I believe it was the person who’s sheltering Miss Durham.”

  Breath hissed between Gussie’s teeth. “She had no right!”

  I know.

  “Who is she?” Gussie demanded.

  Isabella closed her fan. “No one I’ve spoken to knows.” Not a lie. Not quite. She smoothed the long gloves up her arms, deeply uncomfortable. “I didn’t realize Major Reynolds was your cousin.”

  “Second cousin. He’s Lord Reynolds’ brother.”

  Isabella experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach. The major was a nobleman? “I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

  “He’ll be here tonight,” Gussie said, turning to scan the ballroom. “I’ll introduce you.”

  “Oh.” Isabella followed her glance, suddenly nervous. “Perhaps he won’t come if everyone is talking—”

  “Nicholas is not a coward,” Gussie said staunchly.

  “Oh,” Isabella said again. She swallowed. “I look forward to meeting him.”

  Nicholas halted. He looked across the street. Flambeaux burned and a red carpet had been laid up the steps. He braced himself for what was to come—the stares and the whispers—and silently cursed Colonel Durham. Damn the man for having no control over his temper, no control over his tongue, for venting his spleen in his club of all places.

  Harriet’s flight would be common knowledge by now.

  I don’t have to attend. I can just turn and walk away.

  On the heels of that thought came anger. He was used to stares—his face made certain of that—and he was damned if he was going to hide from tattlemongers.

  Nicholas strode across the street and up the steps. He handed his hat to a footman and walked up the curving staircase towards the sound of music.

  He was late. The ball was well underway. The large room was stuffy, the air warm and overscented, the flowers in the vases wilting.

  A contredanse was playing. Nicholas stood inside the doorway, watching the dancers go through their sets. He gaze slid over débutantes in pale gowns, officers in uniform, matrons with curling feathers in their headdresses. The officers and the matrons were of no interest; the débutantes were.

  The dark-haired, laughing girl was pretty, but . . . Too bold, he decided. He didn’t want a coquette for a wife. Beside her in the set was a redhead who looked possible. Shy, not flirting.

  “Nicholas! I’d quite given up on you.”

  Nicholas turned. “Gussie.” He bowed. “You must forgive me for being late.”

  “You’re forgiven,” his cousin said with a laugh, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  “You look well,” Nicholas said, smiling. With her shining brown hair and shining brown eyes and the scattering of freckles on her nose, Gussie looked more like a schoolgirl than the mother of two children.

  His cousin ignored the compliment. She clasped his hand tightly. “Now Nicholas, you mustn’t run away.”

  Nicholas lost his smile. “As bad as that, is it?”

  “You know how London gossips.” She pulled a face. “But you must dance before you hide in the card room.”

  “An order, Gussie?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” she said frankly. “Because you know what people will say if you don’t!”

  He did. It was another reason to dislike London: everyone watching and passing judgment.

  “I have saved the next dance for you,” Gussie said. “It’s to be a waltz.”

  “My timing is fortunate, then,” he said, smiling.

  Gussie showed him a dimple. She placed her hand on his sleeve as the sets broke up and the dancers left the floor. There was barely room for anyone to move.

  “Congratulations,” Nicholas said. “A squeeze.”

  “Yes,” Gussie said, with no attempt at modesty. “It’s most gratifying.”

  Nicholas laughed at her candor. It took his attention from the glances that were directed his way. No one was ill-bred enough to point, but he was aware of heads turning, a stir of conversation. Ignore them, he told himself.

  He had learned to hold his head up, to not hide his ruined cheek; he would learn to ignore this. It couldn’t last forever; the London gossips would be talking of someone else soon enough.

  He scanned the ballroom. Gerald stood in the far corner, his face flushed with heat and alcohol. And there was Gussie’s husband, Lucas, in the company of a striking blonde in a blue gown. Nicholas kept his gaze on the blonde in a long moment of appreciation, liking her height, her generous figure, her full mouth.

  Gussie maintained a stream of light chatter as they took their places on the dance floor, but once the music started, her tone changed. “I’m very sorry about what’s happened, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas looked past her. So am I. He caught someone’s eye: a lady dressed in pink with three feathers in her hair, who colored at being caught staring and hastily averted her gaze.

  Nicholas’s jaw tightened. He returned his attention to Gussie.

  “I should warn you . . .” She grimaced, a brief screwing-up of her face.

  “Warn me?” He tried to laugh. “About what?”

  “Nicholas . . . you’re being called an ogre.”

  “What?” Nicholas almost halted in the middle of the ballroom.

  Habit—and the tug of Gussie’s hand—kept him dancing. “It’s merely someone’s foolishness,” she said. “You mustn’t pay any attention to it.”

  They danced in silence. Beneath the music was the murmur of voices. He saw quick glances directed his way, saw lips shaping words. He didn’t need to hear them to know what was being said.

  If the name didn’t suit him so well he would laugh it off, but it fitted perfectly—the scarred face, the runaway bride. An ogre.

  Anger built inside him, growing with each step that he took. He tasted it on his tongue, bitter—

  “You mustn’t think about it,” Gussie said, as the music came to an end.

  Nicholas forced a smile. “I assure you, I shan’t.”

  Gussie chose to believe him. “Good,” she said, with a quick smile that showed her dimples. “And now, Nicholas, I must introduce you to a particular friend of mine.”

  He wanted to balk. His mood was too unpleasant—

  “Her name is Isabella,” Gussie said, tucking her hand into his arm. “Lady Isabella Knox. She was dancing with Lucas.” She stood on tiptoe and glanced around the ballroom. “Do you see them?”

  The blonde? He saw her. She stood out among the débutantes and the matrons, tall and elegant and deliciously curved. Her hair was an extraordinary color, like ripe wheat in sunlight.

  Nicholas’s mood improved slightly. One more dance, he decided. And then he would take his rage to the card room.

  Chapter Four

  There was no mistaking Major Reynolds. The scar was livid across the left side of his face, stretching from temple to jaw. He was a soldier; that was clear as he escorted Gussie across the dance floor. It wasn’t just the military cut of his clothes, it was the way he held himself, the unconscious air of authority, the alertness with which he scanned the room, the hardness of his mouth and eyes. A dangerous man.

  Isabella looked away. She tried to concentrate on Lucas Washburne’s conversation.

  “The ogre comes,” a lady murmured behind her, and smothered a laugh.

  Irritation surged in Isabella’s chest. That word—ogre—was her fault, but the spreading of it was purely Sarah Faraday’s doing. Wretched, wretched woman.

  “Isabella, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Major Nicholas Reynolds.”

  Isabella swallowed her crossness. She
fixed a smile on her lips and turned her head.

  Major Reynolds stood before her, tall, with cold eyes and a scarred face, precisely as Harriet had described.

  No, not precisely. Major Reynolds wasn’t old. Early thirties, at a guess.

  “. . . ogre,” she heard whispered behind her.

  “How do you do, Major Reynolds?” Isabella said hastily, giving him her hand, hoping that guilt wasn’t stamped across her face. If he discovers that I’m the source of that appellation . . . She suppressed a nervous shiver.

  The major made no sign that he’d heard the whisper. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabella.” He bowed over her gloved fingers.

  “Be warned, Nicholas,” Gussie said with a bubbling laugh. “She’ll try to thrust a stray animal upon you.”

  The major released her hand. “No lapdogs, I beg of you, ma’am.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  Unease prickled over Isabella’s skin. He’s angry.

  “It will more likely be a kitten with half a tail,” Gussie said. “Or a flea-ridden puppy.”

  “Both of which we have,” her husband said dryly.

  For a fleeting second the major looked amused. He smiled faintly. The corner of his right eye creased slightly. The left side of his face, scarred, showed no sign of amusement.

  The musicians began to tune their instruments again. “The quadrille,” Lucas Washburne said, holding out his hand to his wife. “This is our dance. If you’ll excuse us?”

  Isabella watched them go. She transferred her gaze to Major Reynolds and smiled at him politely. “How long have you been in town, Major?” She knew the answer. Harriet had told her in the carriage: Major Reynolds had come to London three weeks ago, in search of a bride.

  A man who acts swiftly.

  “Three weeks.” The major’s eyes were on her face. Their color was disconcerting, a clear, chilly green. “Are you claimed for this dance?”

  Isabella hesitated. I wish I were. “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

  The major’s face hardened. He’d seen the hesitation.

  Shame made her flush. “It would be my pleasure to dance with you,” she said, opening her fan.

  Major Reynolds offered her his arm. “Then let us join a set.” The words were politely spoken, but she heard an edge of irony in his voice.

  Isabella bit her lip. She fanned herself, hoping to take the heat from her cheeks, and laid her hand lightly on the major’s sleeve. The cut of his coat was plain, almost austere, and the fabric was a green so dark it was nearly black.

  They walked onto the dance floor amid the murmur of conversation and rustle of fabric. “How long have you been in town?” Major Reynolds asked.

  Isabella heard the word ogre whispered to her right. “I arrived two days ago,” she said hastily, loudly. “On Saturday. I’ve been in Derbyshire visiting my brother and making the acquaintance of my newest nephew.”

  The major had heard the whisper. Anger glinted in his eyes. He halted. “Perhaps you’d prefer not to dance, Lady Isabella?”

  I would prefer not to. But guilt made it impossible to take the proffered escape. “Nonsense!” Isabella said, shutting the fan.

  “You can hardly wish to dance with an ogre, ma’am.” The major’s voice was light, his expression sardonic, his eyes glittering with anger.

  “You are mistaken,” Isabella said, lifting her chin and silently condemned Sarah Faraday to perdition.

  Major Reynolds made no answer. He led her to a set that was forming. His manner was quite composed. He paid no attention to the sideways glances, the whispers.

  Isabella took her place opposite him. She met his eyes—bright and hard and so clear they seemed to look right through her—and curtsied as the musicians played the opening chords. She understood why Harriet was afraid of him. Not the scar, but his eyes.

  She observed Major Reynolds obliquely as they danced. His resemblance to his brother was strong. The bones of his face were well-shaped, his features regular. Without the scar he would have been an attractive man. With it . . .

  An ogre.

  The major had a soldier’s physique; in that he didn’t resemble Lord Reynolds. His body was lean, not fleshy, hard-muscled, not soft. Like his brother, his hair was the color of honey—a shade between brown and gold—but his skin was bronzed from the sun. The scar covered the left side of his face, a thickly ridged burn, purplish-pink, barbaric, making him look half savage.

  Was it a legacy of Waterloo, the battle that had claimed so many of England’s finest last year? Or did it date back to the conflict in Spain?

  They weren’t questions she could ask.

  Major Reynolds moved through the quadrille with calm confidence, seemingly oblivious to the sideways glances, whispers, and muffled giggles that his progress afforded. Only his eyes, bright with anger, showed that he was aware of the stir he was creating.

  With each step that he took, Isabella’s guilt grew. It had been unforgivable, uttering the word ogre in front of Sarah Faraday. The major was no husband for Harriet, but he didn’t deserve this. And however much she might blame Lady Faraday, she knew who was truly at fault: Me. My wretched tongue did this.

  And with the guilt was a reluctant admiration. The major had courage to hold his head up in the face of so much attention, that scar blazoned across his cheek.

  There was no pleasure in the quadrille tonight, in the steps of l’été and la pastourelle. Each half-heard whisper, each muffled giggle, served to enhance Isabella’s guilt. Shut up! she wanted to hiss to the dark-haired débutante in the neighboring set. Her hand itched to box the girl’s ears.

  The word she had uttered only a few hours ago was on everyone’s lips. I’ve turned him into an object of ridicule. The worst of it was, she couldn’t undo it.

  The quadrille had never been so interminably long before, so filled with discomfort. Her relief, when the musicians played the last chord, was intense.

  Major Reynolds escorted her from the dance floor, calm and smiling, with anger in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said politely, bowing.

  “It was a pleasure, Major.”

  He acknowledged her words with a slight lifting of his eyebrows, a tiny, wry movement.

  The wryness gave her courage. Isabella took a deep breath and laid her hand on his arm. “Major Reynolds, you must dance every dance tonight.”

  The wryness vanished. He seemed to stiffen. “Must I?”

  “Yes.” The bright, cold anger in his eyes was daunting, but she held tightly to her courage. “Major, you must pay no attention to what is being said—and you must not leave early.”

  His jaw seemed to harden. He thinks me impertinent.

  Isabella took another deep breath. Guilt was lodged in her chest, a hard lump. “Come,” she said, smiling, coaxing, aware of nervous perspiration prickling across her skin. I owe him this. “I will dance the next waltz with you.”

  “Charity, ma’am?” His eyes were bright and hard.

  No, guilt. “Not at all,” Isabella said, lifting her chin. “I save my charity for animals.”

  The major smiled abruptly, a genuine smile that took the anger from his eyes. “Lapdogs.”

  He looked quite different, smiling. Isabella relaxed fractionally. “They are usually much larger,” she said. “And often quite ugly. It can be difficult to find them homes.”

  Major Reynolds gave a grunt of amusement. “Very well. The waltz.” He bowed. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabella.”

  Isabella watched as he walked around the perimeter of the ballroom. Heads turned as he passed. Someone laughed, and turned it hastily into a cough. I did that.

  She couldn’t take the word back, but she could try to undo the harm of it.

  Nicholas endured a cotillion, two country dances, and a boulanger—the latter with a partner who met his eyes once, blushed vividly, and stared steadfastly at the floor for the rest of the dance—before the second waltz was played. He didn’t need to search for Lady Isabella Kn
ox; he knew exactly where she was.

  He returned his partner to her mother and walked around the ballroom.

  “There he is. The ogre.”

  It was a whisper, but loud enough to reach his ears. Nicholas gritted his teeth. He kept a determined smile on his face as he took the final steps that brought him to Lady Isabella’s side. His mood lifted as he led her onto the dance floor. It lifted still further when the musicians began to play. They made their bows to each other; Lady Isabella gave him her hand. Nicholas drew her close. For the next few minutes he’d forget about runaway brides and simply enjoy the pleasure of waltzing with a beautiful woman.

  “How has your evening been, Major Reynolds?”

  He met Lady Isabella’s eyes. They were a shade between gray and blue, and quite serious.

  “I’ve had more comfortable evenings,” he admitted.

  “Yes,” she said. “So have I.” A small frown marred her brow. “In fact, Major, I’ve given the matter some thought, and I think I know how to come about. You must become my beau.”

  Surprise made him laugh. Heads turned as people looked at them. Nicholas ignored the stares. “Your beau?” He shook his head and almost laughed again. “I think your husband would have something to say about that!”

  “I have no husband.”

  No husband? He was suddenly aware of the curve of her waist beneath his hand in a way he hadn’t been before, of her gloved fingers clasping his, of the soft fullness of her lips.

  “Knox was my father’s name, Major Reynolds, not my husband’s.”

  Nicholas cleared his throat. “Oh,” he said, inadequately.

  “I’m the daughter of a duke. London does not laugh at me.” There was no arrogance in Lady Isabella’s tone, merely a matter-of-factness. “And if you’re my beau . . .”

  “London won’t laugh at me, either.” He was abruptly angry. “Thank you for the offer, Lady Isabella, but I don’t need your—”

  “It’s not charity,” she said calmly, meeting his eyes.

  His mouth tightened. “No?”

  “No. I don’t like what has happened, Major Reynolds. It makes me quite cross!”