Page 113 of The Rake's Daughter
“A certain degree of formality is inevitable when making an offer of marriage.” Leo was aware of where he’d gone wrong, but he didn’t intend to discuss it with his elderly aunt. Especially all wound up as she was.
“Fiddlesticks! That’s your father in you. He was a pompous windbag at the best of times—what your mother ever saw in him I don’t know. And though she had all the morals of a bitch in heat, she had a heart, at least. Oh, don’t look at me like that, boy, I can say what I like about my own relatives. And you’re like neither of them—except occasionally when you sound distressingly like your father. But you were a warmhearted, affectionate little boy, and something or someone has encased you in ice. Well, chip your way out of it, I say. Young Isobel is a dashed fine gel—just the wife for you. A loyal and loving heart, good with dogs, and she’ll stop you being stuffy and humorless like your father. So get out there and woo her and stop wasting your time bothering an old woman.”
Leo rose. “That, Aunt Olive, is exactly what I came hereto do. I have no intention of giving up on Isobel.” He bent and kissed her withered cheek. “But thank you for your support.”
He sent for his horse, changed into his riding gear and headed out to the heath. But he’d left it too late. There was no sign of them. They could be anywhere.
Frustrated he rode home. He called in at his aunt’s again, but Treadwell informed him, not without faint perceptable pleasure, that the young ladies were not at home. Leo didn’t believe him, and was about to argue when Mrs. Price-Jones appeared. She briskly informed him that he was wasting his time. The young ladies were not receiving visitors. They were attending Lady Arden’s ball in the evening, and since they had spent the afternoon in strenuous horseback riding, Mrs. Price-Jones had sent them upstairs to rest before they went.
Chapter Sixteen
Lady Arden was a popular hostess and a duke’s daughter, and though her ball was not one of the truly grand ones, Mrs. Price-Jones informed Izzy and Clarissa, all the best people would be in attendance.
“I don’t know what she means by the truly grand balls,” Clarissa whispered to Izzy as they passed along the receiving line. “This is quite grand enough for me.”
The ballroom was made up of three large rooms that opened onto each other. Chairs were set around the walls, and the room was decorated with swags of white flowers and lush green vines. The main dancing area was defined by a matching design of flowers and vines drawn in chalk over the floor.
“Look, Izzy, how pretty,” Clarissa said.
“Shame it won’t last past the first dance,” Izzy commented.
“Lady Arden is known for her excellent taste,” said Mrs. Price-Jones, coming up behind them. “Now, gels, let’s see who is here. You won’t want to miss a dance.” She glancedaround the room and pursed her lips. “Why is it that men always arrive late?”
Once the ball got underway, everything was delightful. Now that they knew so many people, Clarissa was much more comfortable in society and seemed to be enjoying herself, which left Izzy free to enjoy herself without worrying.
She’d danced with four of the men on the list she and Mrs. Price-Jones had been compiling, though it had to be admitted that none of them sparked any real interest. Still, they had all indicated their interest in her: a decision had to be made, and soon.
Lord Salcott was also in attendance, but when he’d asked her to dance, Izzy had pretended all her dances were taken. She could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe her, but she didn’t care. She refused to be his obligatory wife.
The dance had finished, and her partner, a Mr. Roberts, was escorting her from the dance floor when there was a stir at the entrance. A group of raddled-looking older gentlemen had arrived, somewhat the worse for drink judging by the noise they were making. Izzy glanced at them, and ice slid down her spine as she recognized her father’s friend, Lord Pomphret.
If he saw her...
“Come to collect m’wife,” Lord Pomphret slurred loudly. Izzy didn’t even know he had a wife. “Leaving London tonight. Where is the woman?” He peered around the room, spotted Izzy and recoiled.
“Good God! It’s Bart Studley’s little bastard bitch! What the hell is she doing in respectable company?” Unfortunately, he said it at one of those moments at a party when a momentary hush occurs, just by chance.
After he spoke, however, the hush deepened. It was clear that at least half the room had heard him.
Izzy froze. So it had come, the moment they’d beenexpecting—and dreading. She looked for Clarissa, but couldn’t see her anywhere. Her first instinct was to leave the floor and then, somehow, vanish, but that would be disastrous.
No, she would stay and see this thing out.
Her gaze flew to Lord Salcott. What would he do? Disown her? Escort her out, never to be seen in this company again? He caught her glance and gave his head a tiny shake, as if he thought she might flee.
She put up her chin and met his gaze squarely. She refused to flee from that swine Pomphret. But what was Lord Salcott going to do?
Izzy was standing on the edge of the dance floor. She glanced at her partner, who was staring at her like a stunned goose. He disengaged her hand from his arm and took a step away, as if she were contagious.
There was a flurry of movement in the watching crowd, and Clarissa hurried across the floor. She linked her arm through Izzy’s and said in a natural-sounding voice, “I’m parched, aren’t you, Izzy? Let us get something to drink.” Acting as if nothing had happened. Had she heard Lord Pomphret or not?
“Mr. Roberts, you don’t mind if I kidnap my sister for a moment, do you?” she said with a slight but perceptible emphasis on the word “sister.” Clarissa had heard Lord Pomphret, then, and this was a show of sisterly solidarity. She squeezed her sister’s arm affectionately but didn’t move from the floor. She needed to hear what was happening.
Lord Pomphret gestured in Izzy’s direction and repeated loudly, “I tell you, that girl is Bart Studley’s bastard. I’d know her anywhere.”
“You’re drunk, Pomphret.” It was Lord Salcott. He’d crossed the room and was standing in front of Lord Pomphret. Looming over him. Funny, until now she’d never realized Lord Pomphret was quite short.
Pomphret glowered up at Lord Salcott. “ ’M not so drunkI can’t see what’s in front of my nose—that’s Bart Studley’s bast—”
