The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(30)
Tonight is the first ball we will attend this season. We’ve scarcely been in town long enough to put down roots, and already I suspect that Victoria is sneaking out of the house at night to find a card game. I know I can’t stop her gambling, but I will hide her secrets to the end just as she would do for me. How do ladies survive life without a sister? I’m thankful I don’t have to discover the answer to that question.
—Isabelle
? ? ?
Spring 1817
“I’m fine. Quite fine. Thank you for inquiring,” Isabelle mumbled once the lady’s back was turned and she was moving away into the crowded ballroom. The evening thus far had been nothing but questions about Victoria—and only questions about Victoria.
How is your dear sister?
When will we see the lucky lady at a ball again?
We hear there’s to be a wedding—is it true? Since your sister isn’t in attendance, you must tell us all the details.
Her mother appeared to be answering their questions as well a ways down the side of the ballroom. The only difference was how excited she seemed over every answer she gave. Isabelle took a steadying breath under the guise of adjusting the heart-shaped locket at her throat and searched the ballroom for Evangeline and Roselyn. Or anyone she knew, really.
Victoria had always been at her side at these events, filling any silence with biting commentary about the festivities around them. Isabelle didn’t realize how awkward standing on the side of a ballroom was until now, but she’d best grow accustomed to it. She must. Roselyn and Evangeline couldn’t remain with her forever. They would busy themselves with their husbands and families one day. And here Isabelle would continue to stand, without even her sister for company.
No. Isabelle would carry on with her own path, as Victoria had chosen hers. With her eye on the crowd gathered around the perimeter, she took a step backward, closer to a row of potted trees that lined each side of the ballroom. Away from the surrounding groups of people, she could now observe and perhaps spy her secret admirer. There was such a crush—perhaps a bit farther. She took another step back.
“When you asked me to point out life with my keen pirate gaze, I didn’t think you intended on walking about without looking where you were headed at all.”
Isabelle spun around and looked up at St. James. Finally she’d found a friend this evening. She could throw her arms around him in gratitude. She didn’t, but in her mind she did. St. James! She wasn’t alone—she had him! And with his refusal to dance, he wasn’t likely to be married anytime soon, not like her other friends. She was saved.
“Being your lookout seems a great deal of work, now that I think about it,” he added when she greeted him with only a relieved smile.
“Not up for the job? And here I thought you liked any type of work. How disappointing.”
“Someone told me I worked too much,” he countered, warmth lighting his dark eyes as he looked at her.
“And you listened to her advice? She sounds like a ninny.”
“Nothing of the kind.”
She paused, studying him. He might be dressed for a ball in his dark evening wear, but he was here in some official capacity. She could see his intent in his occasional glance to the main doors and the tight set of his jaw. “You didn’t truly heed her advice, did you?”
“No.” He almost grinned. “I’m meeting someone here in a few minutes about a business matter.”
“Spare minutes in your day? Whatever shall you do with the time? Take up some sport? Perhaps read a book?”
“Why were you backing out of the ballroom?” he asked, ignoring her taunts.
She supposed she should have known this topic—the blasted fire, Victoria, the wedding—would be an inescapable talking point. It was the only conversation she’d been able to have all evening. “I was getting a better vantage point to see the available gentlemen. I…don’t know if you’re aware, but there was a fire.”
“I know,” he stated, removing the need for her to delve into matters once again.
“Well, then…I suppose Mr. Brice, or Lord Hardaway rather, told you of it. He must be…quite pleased.”
St. James didn’t reply, only watched her with an intensity that made her glance down at her hands.
“Anyway, it seems I require a new choice of husband. If it can’t be—” She broke off, not wanting to continue the conversation. Isabelle could always be counted upon to chatter on about any topic offered up in conversation. But not about this. The subject was simply too painful. She looked away, watching a lady in the opposite corner of the room laugh at something a gentleman had said.
“Have you seen anyone of interest thus far?”
She looked up, meeting his gaze. His brows were drawn together in what she assumed was concern. What a kind friend she’d found. No one else at the ball mattered just now, not even the gentlemen she was supposed to be scouting, because she was here with St. James. He somehow understood without words. He knew her secret and her heartbreak, and he was here to comfort her. She blinked away tears of gratitude and smiled up at him. “Are you offering to help me look for a replacement?”
“A replacement husband? Not up to your usual romantic standards, is it?”
“A replacement for my interest,” she clarified with a small sniff she hoped he wouldn’t notice. “The husband part will come after I’ve met him, of course. I can’t sit about for the remainder of the season. I need something to do, a project of sorts. I have a list of qualifications.”