Page 9 of Her Beast of a Duke
Thickly, the ballroom seemed to double in population, making it impossible to see who caused such a stir. At once, the whispers quelled, and a silence that knotted Isabella’s gut took over instead. It was so quiet she could hear the clink of a ring against a crystal glass. She could hear the shift of a musician as they looked around, unsure of whether to continue playing or not.
Her friend leaned in as more people shuffled, and life was breathed back into Lord Harcross’s ballroom.
“It is the Duke of Rochdale,” Mary whispered. “Although why would he attend tonight? His Grace never shows himself at these events. Or if he does, it has been a rare sighting. How strange.”
“Strange indeed,” Isabella agreed. There was a sour taste on her tongue that said she, of all people, should not be speaking disparagingly of others. Not when she carried her own shame on her shoulders. “I wonder what has brought him out tonight.”
“One can only question in their own mind, for that is all we will do. His Grace never speaks to anybody. He does not answer questions, ask about anybody’s well-being, or ask anyone to dance. He simply…broods.”
At that, Isabella laughed quietly.
What gentleman entered theton’smost anticipated social events and did not immerse himself with ladies? Did he not wish to have the ladies fawn all over him? What sort of manwasthis duke?
Although the crowd remained too congested to see him through, Isabella still searched. The musicians were hastily ordered to strike back up again, and a jaunty melody got everybody moving once more. The whispers were spoken behind fans, and the gossip seemed to be sidelined for a moment. At least in favor of dancing.
Isabella opened her mouth to say more, but a bustling woman with hair the color of wheat filled her vision, pushing between Isabella and Mary.
“Darling,” she cooed, linking her arm through Mary’s. The Countess of Newbrook was Mary’s mother. She had a hard look in her eyes that never matched the sickly sweet smile she had started giving Isabella as of late. “I believe we spoke about whom to… elevate yourself with at social events.”
“Indeed, Mama, but I wished to speak with Lady Isa?—”
“I am certain she has her own friends,” the countess insisted, and Isabella swallowed back the sting she was sure was aimed at her.
“Go,” Isabella urged gently. “Have fun and dance, Mary. For my sake, at least, for I do not believe I will be asked tonight.”
Mary frowned, but her mother was already tugging her away, giving that saccharine smile back at Isabella, bowing her head as if to thank her. Yet it felt mocking.
Isabella quickly looked away as Mary and her mother disappeared into the crowd.
Left alone, Isabella tried not to look too eagerly at every passing suitor. Some glanced at her with mirth curling their mouths, while others pretended she was not there at all. Others made passing remarks similar to the lords from earlier.
The longer the music played, the harder Isabella ground her teeth, fighting back humiliation. She could not even bear to look in her parents’ direction, knowing they would be keeping an eye on her. Instead, she watched as Sibyl danced around the floor with another suitor. Her third tonight, at least.
Focus on the joy on her face, Isabella told herself.
But these feelings, this rejection, were unlike anything Isabella had ever experienced. Once, not so long ago, her dance card had not enough space for all the names wanting to fill it, but now…
Now, she was adrift on a very, very stormy sea.
Couples spun around the floor, gowns sweeping around ankles, hands scarcely touching, and men murmured things to their female partners to make them blush. Isabella craved it,achedfor that thrill once more.
But no suitor came for her. No hand was offered, and another dance set passed.
Now that the Duke of Rochdale had clearly made his entrance, the whispers and laughter returned their focus to Isabella.
“Abandoned at the altar, abandoned in the ballroom. Howtragic.”
Sharply, Isabella turned away from yet another lady’s snigger, hearing more and more comments. Step by step, she slippedaway, letting herself hide in the crowd, carefully threading her way through discreetly, until she emerged onto a balcony.
Smoke billowed from a gentleman who leaned on the balustrade, his focus fixed outwards toward the shadowed gardens. At Isabella’s entrance, he stood upright, immediately putting out his light and turning to her.
“My lady,” he said quickly.
“Forgive me,” she said at the same time. “I did not know the balcony was occupied.”
“It shall not be,” he told her with a hint of a smile. “It is yours. You… appear to need it more than I do.”
An ache hurt her chest, and she fought the urge to press her hand to it. She looked a little longer at the man with her. His dark hair curled over his collar in a handsome way, and although he was not broad, he held himself confidently,casually, as if he knew he was worthy of being looked at.
