Page 21 of A Sinful Viscount's Mistletoe Affair
The music of the waltz finally died away, and they stood facing one another. Isabella did not want the moment to end, but she knew it had to.
She forced herself to tear her eyes away from Sebastian and she saw, on the other side of the room, that Felicity was standing alone, staring at them. Her eyes were narrowed, and she looked either angry or sad – Isabella could not tell which. Isabella felt a slight surge of unease washing over her.
Felicity was clearly jealous of so many things about Isabella’s life, and if it seemed that she had captured the attention of Viscount Ashcroft, too, when clearly Felicity wanted him to take more notice of her, then perhaps there was trouble ahead.
She pushed the thought away and turned her attention back to Lord Ashcroft. His hand was still on her waist, and he glanced at her with what looked like regret as he drew away from her and stepped backwards.
He smiled and bowed. “Lady Isabella, I enjoyed our dance very much.”
She flushed and returned his smile. “So did I, My Lord,” she replied. She knew he would not ask her to dance again, not tonight anyway, but she hoped she would experience the pleasure of being in his arms again.
“I hope we can dance again at the Christmas Eve ball,” he said in a low voice, holding her gaze. “And I am sure that we will have much to talk about during the course of the house party. I shall be keen to find out how you are enjoying the book that you found.”
She nodded. “I promise I will tell you all about it.”
“Well, then, I must go and find my stepbrother,” Lord Ashcroft said. “I hope he has not been getting himself into mischief while I have been otherwise engaged.”
Isabella thought briefly of Daphne and how enchanted she had been with Mr Sterling. “I hope you both enjoy the rest of the evening,” she said, trying to prepare herself to walk away from him, but something kept her standing opposite him.
“Perhaps I will find you later, Lady Isabella, and we can continue our conversation.”
“I look forward to it,” she replied.
He gave a slight nod, then turned away. Isabella left the dance floor, too, heading in the opposite direction. The urge to find Daphne and tell her everything was strong, but she decided to have a few moments to herself first and headed through the doors and out onto the terrace, breathing in the cool night air.
***
Much later, Isabella finally lay down on her bed, alone in her room at last. Even though she had insisted that she could manage on her own, Clara had stayed up until the end of the ball to help her to get ready for bed, and now it was very late indeed, and she could scarcely keep her eyes open.
After her dance with Lord Ashcroft, the rest of the ball had gone by almost in a blur. She had not seen him again to speak to, but she had sensed his eyes on her more than once as the evening progressed towards its close. She had danced with a few other gentlemen, who had made pleasant conversation with her, but no one had captivated her attention as much as he had.
And she noticed that he had not danced again, with any other young lady, for the rest of the evening. She could not help wondering if there was some meaning to be taken from that, although she kept telling herself, as the evening progressed, that he was simply not a gentleman who was much taken to dancing.
Instead, he seemed to prefer standing to one side, sometimes with Mr Sterling but sometimes alone, and watching the events of the evening unfolding around him.
She had noticed, though, too, the eyes of the Duke of Harbridge on her. There was something almost predatory about how he looked at her, and it made her skin tingle very unpleasantly.
She had deliberately not spoken to either her mother or to Daphne about her dance with Lord Ashcroft, and she had managed to avoid talking to either of them any more about the duke, too. But now that she was finally alone, her thoughts whirled around her mind despite her exhaustion.
She slipped into a feverish sleep at last.
***
She was standing at the altar of a dimly-lit church. There were no flowers, no candles lit. The space was cold and unwelcoming. She shivered in her thin wedding dress. She looked down at her hands. They were trembling, and she did not even have a bouquet. How had it come to pass that her wedding was like this, with no joy or excitement?
She looked up and saw her parents sitting in one of the front pews. Her father stared at her, and her mother simply nodded. She had to go through with it. There was no escape.
She turned to the shadowy figure next to her. Before she even looked at his face, she knew who it was. The Duke of Harbridge. Looking at her as if she was a prize piece of meat that he had won at the market as the highest bidder.
She shuddered again. Why was it so cold?
The priest in front of them began to speak. His words were a blur; she did not listen. It was more than she could bear to hear him speaking solemnly of God and the holy promises they were about to make.
In her mind, she was screaming, but no sound came from her mouth.
The duke reached out and took her hand, holding it more tightly than he needed to, more tightly than was comfortable. She tried to pull her hand away, but he stared at her, his green eyes fixed on hers. Her stomach flipped with a feeling of nausea and panic. She would have to spend the rest of her life with this man, and there was nothing she could do to escape.
The priest asked a question – that question in the marriage ceremony where the congregation were called upon to raise any objection or impediment to the marriage – and his voice echoed through the silent church.
