Chapter 3
1435 Words
Chapter Three
Isabella looked around the ballroom. She gave a sigh of pleasure. London. The gaiety, the busyness. “I do love the Season.”
“Yes.” But her companion was frowning.
“Have you a headache, Gussie?”
“Headache?” Augusta Washburne’s brow cleared. “No, I’m cross.”
“Cross?” Isabella glanced around the ballroom again, her gaze catching on the shimmer of expensive fabric and the glitter of jewels, the bright flare of the candles in the chandeliers. The room was crowded to its farthest extent; beneath the music the babble of voices was loud. She could see no reason for Gussie to be cross. The ball was undeniably a success.
“It’s this business with Nicholas,” Gussie said. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Nicholas?”
“What a dreadful squeeze, darling!” Lady Faraday swooped on Gussie. “One can scarcely move!” She turned to Isabella, the three tall feathers in her turban swaying and nodding. Her gown was pink and trimmed with an astonishing number of flounces. “Isabella, darling! You’re finally back in town!”
“Sarah, how do you do?” Isabella said politely, but Lady Faraday had already turned back to Gussie, her eyes bright and expectant.
“What’s this I hear about your cousin? Is it true? His bride ran away?”
Gussie’s face tightened. She glanced at Isabella. “Yes.”
Isabella’s pleasure in the ball became tinged with unease. “Your cousin?”
“Major Nicholas Reynolds.”
Isabella stared at Gussie. “The ogre? He’s your cousin?”
“Ogre?” Lady Faraday uttered a tittering laugh.
“Ogre?” said Gussie, in quite a different tone of voice. Her eyebrows pinched together again. “Who called him that?”
Isabella bit the tip of her tongue. Fool. “Major Reynolds is your cousin?”
Gussie nodded.
“And his bride has run away!” Lady Faraday exclaimed. “Now tell me, Augusta—”
Her gleeful curiosity was too much for Isabella. “Sarah, I believe Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is trying to catch your attention.”
“She is? Oh, pray excuse me—”
Isabella watched her go—feathers bobbing above the pink ball gown—and frowned. How had Lady Faraday known about Harriet? The child had written her letters barely a day ago.
“An ogre!” Gussie said. “Where did you hear that?”
“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. His 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.
- Writer
