Page 17 of The Notorious Dashing Viscount
Unless you aren’t invited to them.
She went cold at that thought. It hadn’t really occurred to her that she might not receive her customary invitations.
Would that be worse? Yes, she thought it would be worse.
Don’t think about that now. A person can go mind worrying about the future. Think about the here and now. Nothing more, nothing less.
Isolde had plans for today. Once she summoned the energy to get out of her bed, she would enjoy a leisurely breakfast, and then retire to the library to continue the adventures of Elizabeth Bennet. James would probably want to go for a walk later.
All in all, a nice, pleasant day, slow and relaxed. There could have been worse starts to the Season.
A timid knock came at the door. Isolde’s maid, no doubt.
“Come in, Mary,” Isolde said, yawning.
“It’s me, Izzy.”
She frowned, sitting up. “James? What’s the matter?”
“I… I think there’s something you should see.”
“Just tell me, James.”
She heard him shuffling on the other side of the door, indecisive.
“No,” he said at last. “You’d better come and see it. Get dressed, quickly, and come down for breakfast. We’re all waiting.”
Abruptly, his footsteps receded, leaving Isolde sitting up in bed, wide awake. All laziness was gone. The familiar knot of anxiety curled in her stomach. Whatever she had to see, it almost certainly was going to be bad. Very, very bad.
Fifteen minutes later, having pulled on a plain dress that was barely suitable for walking around the house, Isolde hurried downstairs. She could hear voices drifting out of the half-open dining room door. Angry voices. Swallowing hard, she stepped inside.
The conversation stopped.
It is never a pleasant feeling to have conversation stop when you enter the room. It gives most people a nasty, crawling feeling, to know they are being talked about. Isolde paused, blinking around at her family.
“What… what’s going on?”
Richard and Beatrice sat side by side in their usual places at the table. Their breakfast plates were half-full, but clearly hadn’t been touched for some time. James was standing up, a newspaper hanging from his hand.
No, not a newspaper.
Isolde recognised the neat printing on the paper, and her heart sank.
“The gossip columns are out in force this morning,” James said, lifting the paper. “Start of the Season and all that. Take a read of this one.”
He tossed it across the dining table towards Isolde. The folded paper slid around so that she could neatly read the headline.
The Ice Queen Dances With London’s Most Infamous Rake!
“Oh,” she managed weakly. “I see.”
There were several scandal sheets circulating London at any given time. Publishing gossip columns was a risky business. Everyone who was anyone read them – there was more truth in their pages to be found in Society at the best of times – but anyone found to have been writing one of those columns would be shunned.
And still, everybody read them.
“It’s all anybody will be talking about,” Beatrice said, sounding as if she were near tears. “Pray, Isolde, do proceed. Read it aloud! Do not hesitate!”
“She doesn’t have to,” Richard interrupted. “It’s all nonsense.”
