What Isabella Desires (7 page)

She focused on Ellerby.

“…and that is why when a stallion mates with—”

“Mr. Ellerby,” she interrupted. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

A disconcerted expression flitted across his face, before the normally charming one appeared. “Of course not, Isabella. Are you not feeling well?”

“I feel fine, Mr. Ellerby.” And indeed she did. All of a sudden she had switched from feeling maudlin to feeling quite fine, blissful in fact. Which is why she needed to find Calliope and leave the party. Though the party was so lovely. And hadn’t the lights just dimmed to such a wonderful shade?

She needed to leave.

She plopped the nearly empty glass into Ellerby’s hand and rose. “Good night, Ellerby.”

Isabella headed off in the direction she had last seen Calliope. Someone hit her as she veered left. Now that she was standing and moving, the ballroom was tilting a bit more. Very unstable floors. She stopped for a moment and narrowed her eyes as the expanse of room filled with bodies before her. She needed to get to that pillar over there near the plant. A potted fern? She squinted. No, a philodendron. If she headed straight for it, she could pause there and then figure out her next course of action.

She held her head up and walked breezily through the crowd. Perhaps marched through the crowd was a bit more descriptive, but she couldn’t be too choosy at the moment. She just needed to make it to the pillar, lean smartly against it and find Calliope. No problem.

She was almost there, having seen fit to avoid a few other people who perhaps found the ballroom as tippy as she did, when something blocked her way.

She stared at a gold button before tilting her head back and looking up at a most welcome sight.

“And where are you off to in such a hurry?”

She couldn’t think of any better place than right here. She smoothed her hands down the front of her modified peacock blue dress, and saw his eyes follow the movement. She drew a hand back up and played with the rosette at the center of her bodice—all of Calliope’s advice suddenly seemed natural. Having Bertie modify this dress had been a stroke of brilliance.

“I can’t recall.” Her voice rode on top of the heavy beat of her heart—as if she were out of breath.

His eyes darkened to a molten gold. “You can’t recall?”

She waved him forward, absorbed in watching the light move across his face as he leaned toward her. “You are looking quite handsome tonight. Delicious, really.”

A dark brow drew up and she watched it in fascination.

“Like chocolate and caramel. A dessert to savor.”

The brow rose further. She put a hand on his chest, just over the button at eye level. The gold accessory was nothing compared to the color reflected above.

“The caramel is for your eyes, of course. I don’t know of any eyes quite as golden as yours. Not that I want to eat them or lick them. The color just reminds me of something delicious.”

Her fingers curled against the pleasantly smooth yet rough texture of his jacket. Something told her that this wasn’t a conversation she wished to be having.

She withdrew her hand. “Have you seen Calliope? I believe it’s time to leave.”

The angel finally spoke. “It’s been time to leave since the moment you stepped in the door.”

“Oh, how lovely.” She smiled brilliantly, something euphoric coursing through her veins. He held a tendre for her too.

“You shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”

His voice was dark. Like he wished she wasn’t there. Well, obviously. If he had just kept her at home with him…

“I know. The fishing was rather scarce there for a while.”

Marcus’s brows drew together violently. “Fishing?”

She waved. “Fishing. You use a pole.” She giggled, and couldn’t help glancing down. “No, a rod.” She giggled some more. She met his eyes again—for some reason he didn’t look amused. She motioned with her hands. “Fish. You reel them in.”

“Reel them in?”

“Only the ones you want to keep, of course. You have to toss all the others that grab your line.”

“And you are looking for a certain type of fish?”

“Oh, yes,” she said dreamily.

“And what does this fish look like?”

“He’s tall and handsome. And brave. And handsome. His eyes—so lovely. And his brows slash together just so.”

She poked a finger between his brows. He grabbed it and pulled her hand between them so that the side rested against his jacket. He was holding her hand. It was lovely and warm.

“Isabella, are you looking for a lover?”

His voice was dark and deep. She had always thought it sounded so low and mysterious. She’d like to swim in the river of its…of its…something.

“Oh, yes.” How did he ever guess? It must have been the punch.

“And why have you suddenly decided you need a lover?” She saw him look around. He tugged her behind the pillar. The leaves of the philo-fern-thing—blast, she could tell every variety of plant at a dozen paces, but she wouldn’t be able to sort a rose bush from an oak at the moment—the leafy green thing brushed the bare skin of her arm.

“Is it not normal to seek companionship?”

“Yes. It’s called marriage.”

She scoffed and her hand flew out, ruffling the leaves. “As if that has ever stopped you. What about that last woman of yours—Mrs. Cavenwell? Did you seek marriage with her for wont of companionship?”

“Of course not. How do you even know about that?”

“What, you think me a simpleton?” She glared.

“No, I think you’re foxed.”

She crossed her arms. “I will seek companionship if I please.”

She looked to the dance floor and saw Ellerby dancing with a woman in green. She couldn’t see much from her vantage point, and everything had gone a little wavy.

“I see.” His voice was remote. She didn’t like that at all. “Don’t tell me you are after Ellerby.”

His fingers traveled along the back edge of her dress. She felt each touch, each area of skin his fingers skimmed. Shivers raced through her.

She reached up and touched his firm jaw. “Don’t be silly, Marcus. I’m after you.”

Isabella stuffed her head into her pillow and groaned. She lifted her head and groaned again.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She pounded her pillow.

And that was why she didn’t drink much alcohol. That was why she told the new debutantes to watch their consumption levels, not that the watered down concoctions usually found at the more sedate gatherings contained much alcohol.

What had been mixed in the punch? An entire bottle of brandy?

She vaguely recalled Calliope mentioning something about taking care at the refreshment table, but she had been too busy watching Marcus to pay much attention to the warning. Well, she would be busy watching him from now on, because he assuredly wasn’t going to be talking to her.

“Wake up, my lady.”

Isabella groaned again as her maid crashed through the door. “Bertie, let me sleep.”

“Now none of that. You’re deserving of a little pain this morning.”

“Excellent. Your support warms my heart.”

“You shouldn’t have drunk so much.”

“Undoubtedly. I made a right fool of myself last night.”

Bertie frowned. “What did you do? You barely talked to me last night when you returned.”

“I told Lord Roth that I wanted to have an affair with him.”

Bertie flopped into a chair, her mouth gaping like a beached fish. “I don’t believe you did so.”

Isabella grimaced and sat up, pushing her thick mane of hair away from her face. “I did. He will probably never speak to me again.”

Her maid said nothing, simply sat there in shocked silence.

“Oh, why are you looking at me like that?” she snapped, the pounding in her head making her waspish. “Of course he will speak to me again. But it will be quite uncomfortable. Worse than after the Pettigrew party, I should think.”

Bertie reached over and patted her hand sympathetically.

It wasn’t until noon and several home remedies later that Isabella began feeling better, at least physically, and decided to work in the garden. She was still morose about Marcus’s reaction. She could clearly remember his shuttered features in response to her declaration. He had hustled her to his carriage, bundled her in, and sent the driver on his way. He hadn’t uttered a word to her in response, though she remembered that she had waxed on about him taking charge and all sorts of nonsense as he had dragged her outside.

She savagely pulled weeds in her garden, while deciding whether to book passage on a ship to France today or tomorrow.

Her housekeeper appeared at the door to the gardens. “My lady, the packages from Madame Giselle’s have just been delivered.”

Glory be. Now she had two new dresses with which to tempt absolutely no one.

“Bertie has taken them to your chambers. Is there anything you’d like, my lady? Water, tea?”

She’d like someone to erase last night from her existence.

“I’d love a glass of water, Velma. Thank you.”

Velma bobbed and Isabella returned to attacking the interlopers in her garden. By necessity of space, this garden was tiny compared to those at her parents’ country estate, or, she thought wistfully, to her beautiful gardens in Oxfordshire. When George had died, the property and baronetcy had passed to a cousin, and with it her well-loved gardens.

Tending the gardens had kept her sane through George’s long illness. Planting the seeds. Nurturing the tiny blooms. Watching the sprouts grow.

It had been a wrench to leave them behind.

George had loved those gardens as well, though he had been unable to tend them after his chest cough had steadily progressed into chills, fevers, and violent fits that had wracked his body. But he had held on for two years, and she had stayed either at his side or working in the gardens that they both loved. Their chambers had faced the rear gardens, and George had enjoyed watching her work in them on the days he couldn’t make it out of bed.

It had been a shared passion, gardening; tending new life and watching it grow. They had wanted a family. They had achieved a beautiful garden instead.

Isabella swallowed and extracted the root of another weed. She hadn’t deserved George when she married him, loving another as she did, but she liked to think that they had worked things out between them in the end.

The loneliness, though, had been hard to banish, especially at the end of George’s illness. She had argued with Marcus that she wasn’t lonely. She desperately wanted to believe it.

George’s illness had been a horrible strain on everyone. But even with the supportive family members who had passed through regularly, no one knew, truly knew, what it had been like to sit there day after day watching him waste away. For she had loved him. Not a mad, passionate love, but a loyal, gentle, caring love all the same. The illness had taken a terrible toll, and by the end it was nearly a relief when he had succumbed.

She winced as she whacked her gloved finger with the edge of her spade. She would rot forever for that thought.

Was she the only one horrible enough to have experienced those cursed thoughts? To feel that wretched relief? She was too much of a coward to ask anyone—even her own mother. She couldn’t bear to see the look of disgust. The look that would reflect her own feelings.

She ripped another weed from between her roses, her thoughts morbid and sad. She would make sure never to touch a glass of punch again.

“My lady?”

She looked up to see Bertie standing before her, wringing her hands.

“Is there a problem, Bertie?”

“The new dresses arrived.”

“Yes, Velma informed me.” And because curiosity always got the best of her…“How do they look?”

“Well, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about. They are quite…original.”

Which was Bertie’s term for scandalous.

Isabella sighed. She pushed off the ground and removed her work gloves and apron. “I’ll be in shortly. Have Velma deliver the water upstairs, will you?”

Bertie nodded and rushed inside. For a woman getting on in her years, Bertie could be quite spry. Isabella pushed back some of the escaped tendrils from her hair bun. She had found three gray hairs today, without even attempting to look for them, so maybe she should refrain from comments about age.

Stepping out of her shoes, she walked into the house in her stockings and climbed the stairs. Her first impression upon entering the room was Bertie’s frown, then her eyes drifted to the magnificent dress on the hanger.

Isabella sucked in a breath. It overpowered everything else in the room. She cautiously approached the gown and touched the sarcenet fabric, letting the thin silk slide through her fingers.

The dress was bold, the color of the scarlet vivid and deep, with veins of indigo sliding behind. A border of flowers and leaves in dark satin graced the hem and crept upward. Pearls were sewn within each bloom. Small sleeves with delicate ornamentation completed the work. The dress was designed to look as if it would slip from her shoulders at any moment. A modest front with a low-cut back. A teasing dress. It would be unexpected on her. She imagined a strand of pearls woven through her locks, a large golden comb nestled into her plaited hair.

“My lady?”

“It’s wonderful,” she said softly, still entranced with the fabric, design, and cut. This was a dress not to be ignored. She would have admired it greatly on Calliope. But on her?

“My lady…red?” Bertie’s voice was agitated.

Isabella turned to her. “I never asked for red, though I can’t say I’m displeased. Turkey red has been fashionable for years, though I’ve never worked up the courage to suggest nor order it. And scarlet? No. Calliope must have changed the order, the minx.”

“But surely you can’t go out dressed in—”

“I want to try it on, Bertie.”

Her maid pulled a face, but took the dress down and helped her change. Isabella watched her reflection in the mirror as Bertie sashed it up. She looked like a different person. Her hair was still plastered about her face from working in the garden, but the deeply veined scarlet lit her skin and highlighted the color in her cheeks. She had always dreamed of wearing red, but had never worked up the nerve to stand out in the crowd.

“My lady?”

This was her dress. This was the dress that represented everything she had been thinking and dreaming. Taking a chance. Gathering the courage. Putting forth her desires.

“I’m wearing it tonight, Bertie.”

“But, my lady! I thought you weren’t going out this evening, because of the business with Lord Roth and what you said earlier. You said you were going to cancel. And this dress!”

Isabella pivoted to take a peek at the back. “Is fabulous, I know.”

“No! It’s outrageous!”

“Hush, Bertie. Help me out of it. I need to wash up and take a nap or I’ll continue to be out of sorts tonight.”

Her mind was overflowing. She was going to the Pudgenets’ party, and she was wearing this dress. The earlier alarm and worries of seeing Marcus dulled to a tiny murmur in the back of her head. She looked at the gown. Something shifted into place, and she knew she had to go. To not give up before the battle had begun.

The dress was not one of defeat, but a full stop declaration of war.

Marcus prowled the edges of the ballroom.

Two of his most ardent political supporters had been trying to get his attention for the past twenty minutes. He had been given the crushing news that yet another of his men was missing, a headache hovered over the edges of his vision…

…and the only thing he could think about was what she was doing in that damned dress.

And damned it was, colored a bright scarlet with darker trimmings. It moved, no, slid, around her like a serpent undulating in water. Mesmerizing.

If he hadn’t already correctly guessed what her motivation was for attending these parties, he’d know now without a doubt.

In fact every widow hunter in London knew now.

Calliope looked as smug as a cat that had lapped a pantry full of cream. She was attired in a dark gown, not quite black, but an iridescent shade between navy and pitch. When they stood next to each other, Calliope’s dress set off the trim and undercurrent of Isabella’s gown, and Marcus was under no delusion that Calliope hadn’t done it on purpose. Devious woman.

Men were fluttering around them as if they were the only women in the room. Calliope turned any attention directed to her onto Isabella, then watched with a pleased expression.

Isabella seemed to be soaking up the attention just fine. Tonight her natural graciousness seemed much too intimate for his taste. She was going to pick up a lover in no time.

If he could just persuade her to return to the former friendly, proper Isabella, then he wouldn’t have to cause bodily injury to the men around her.

He saw James standing nearby and made a beeline for him.

“Angelford.”

“Roth.”

“What is your wife doing?”

James gazed over at the crowd, a look of feigned boredom on his face. “Chatting.”

“She is not chatting.”

“That is true. She is making everyone chat with Lady Willoughby.”

Marcus clenched his teeth and forced himself to relax. “Why?”

James shrugged, his lack of concern irritating. “She looks beautiful tonight, doesn’t she? Didn’t know she had it in her.”

“You think her unappealing usually?” Marcus asked, though if he were truthful, he’d admit it came out in something of a snarl.

James smiled. “No. Actually, I think her prettier every time I see her. But she does not have the type of looks that usually attract this kind of attention.”

Marcus watched the swarm of men. “I never thought her an attention seeker.” It was not something he found attractive. It made his blood boil.

“She’s not. Don’t let jealousy cloud your judgment and make you stupid.”

“Jealousy? You’ve lost your wits. She’s in over her head.” He pointed to the crowd. “Anyone with half a thought can see.”

“She looks as if she’s enjoying herself.”

“And you think she’s going to be having fun nine months from now?”

“Are you insinuating that Lady Willoughby can’t handle herself?” James continued to look amused.

“I think that she is too green in these matters. Your wife is behind this.”

“Is she? She hasn’t confessed her diabolical plan to me yet.”

“Isabella suddenly has all these peculiar notions that she didn’t have before.”

“I see.”

“Why am I still talking to you?”

“I don’t rightly know. Perhaps you should venture over to the crowd and preach to Lady Willoughby.”

“I find I suddenly dislike you, Angelford.”

“Yes, that does tend to happen. I myself disliked Stephen quite a bit when he pointed out how my jealousy was impeding my good sense.”

“How can it impede something you do not possess?”

His ex-friend merely smiled. “I now owe Stephen a bottle of that brandy he likes so much. Dratted man always manages to win, even when he bets on you. Carry on being dense.”