Chapter 33

“We’re going out tonight.”

Isabella pulled a twig from her hair and frowned at her cousin in the mirror. Her day had not been going well, and the last thing she wanted to do was get dressed back up and go see the same people who had witnessed her strolling back through Kensington Gardens with twigs in her hair. From now on she would be staying with the public parks, despite the fact that they made her maid nervous.

“You are free to go wherever you wish.” Isabella yanked at another twig, wincing when it didn’t dislodge from the coiffure as easily as the first had.

Frederica crossed her arms and frowned. “No. You’re going with me. I had my maid prepare your dress so you’ve nothing to do but get cleaned up and then drop the gown over your head.”

It was going to take a little more effort than that, but Isabella was impressed with Freddie’s initiative. She sighed and began plucking the pins from her head. If she was going to go out, they were going to have to start over on her hair. “Where are we going?”

“A ball.”

“No.”

Isabella would do many things for her cousin, had in fact agreed that two people wasting away in the house was two too many. And since she could do nothing to rouse her uncle—or at least wasn’t willing to do the one thing that would rouse her uncle—Isabella had agreed that she would get out of the house every day and attend at least two events a week with Freddie.

She wasn’t doing a ball, though.

“Mr. Boehm is a merchant.” Frederica picked up the brush and began stroking it through Isabella’s hair. “What are the chances that you’ll see any of your former suitors there? Balls are fun, and you need to remember that or you’ll needlessly avoid them forever.”

Balls were fun. When she wasn’t having to spend the whole evening being calculating and manipulative, she enjoyed the dancing and the energy that could only be found at a ball. And a ball given by a merchant? Obviously the attendees would all be rich and powerful men, but would the aristocracy come out in great numbers for a merchant’s ball?

Isabella allowed a small smile to tilt her lips and crease the corners of her eyes. It felt strange on her face, but good. “Very well, then. We’ll go to a ball.”

“Mr. Boehm must be a very rich merchant,” Isabella growled.

Freddie had the grace to look a bit ashamed at having tricked her into coming to one of the most attended and exclusive balls of the entire Season.

Isabella drained her glass of punch in a single swallow before glaring at her cousin. “I just saw the prince regent on the other side of the room.”

“He looks nothing like you thought he would, does he?”

He didn’t. And Isabella had actually been a little surprised, given the types of events her uncle had been dragging her to, that this was the first time she’d seen the country’s acting ruler. But she was seeing him now. Along with several hundred of his closest titled and wealthy friends.

“Perhaps I’ll go outside.” Isabella cast a glance out the wide windows. “St. James’s Square probably looks lovely in the moonlight.”

“And you’d look lovely to any lingering robbers.” Frederica hooked her arm with Isabella’s. “No, I’m afraid I must insist that you stay with me until it’s time to leave.”

Isabella sighed. “Very well. But I’m not dancing.”

With a shrug, Freddie took the last sip of her punch. “That is your choice.”

So far none of her old pursuers had asked her to dance, even though many of them were in attendance. It could have something to do with Isabella clinging uncustomarily to a shadowed corner.

As she put down her punch cup, Freddie said, “We should at least say hello to Miss Newberry.”

“Why?” Other than Frederica and possibly Griffith’s sisters, there hadn’t been a female in London who seemed inclined to actually befriend her. Granted there had been a few, Miss Newberry included, who had been nice when removed from the rest of their friends, but none had gone out of their way to do more than that.

Freddie sighed and stepped forward, her arm still linked with Isabella’s. “Because it will get you out of this corner. Come along.”

They greeted Miss Newberry and exchanged pleasantries, but polite topics were quickly used up and the woman moved on, leaving Frederica and Isabella exposed to the rest of the party attendees.

“Miss Breckenridge!”

Before she could stop herself, Isabella was turning to acknowledge the young man with a soft smile on her lips. Weeks of near solitude, visiting every park and green space London had to offer should have been long enough to break an unwanted habit of three months, but apparently it was not.

“Lord Naworth.” Isabella gave the smallest of curtsies.

“The ballrooms of London have been devastated by the loss of your lovely face. How fortunate we are that I chose to attend when you chose to grace us with your presence again.”

“Thank you, my lord. You are more than gracious.” He was also pompous, empty-headed, and smelled a bit of linseed oil.

“Might I have the honor of this dance?”

She was about to decline. The excuses were readily available on her tongue. Her lips had parted to say the word no.

And then she saw him.

Griffith was standing on the other side of the ballroom. His height allowed him to see over the sea of people between them, and her height gave him a clear view of where she stood.

He started making his way toward her.

Retreat. She couldn’t leave, but she could retreat. And hide. And what better place than the one place Griffith avoided if he could at all help it?

Praying God would forgive her for using this man one more time, she smiled up at Lord Naworth. “The honor would be mine.”

Once she’d stepped onto the dance floor, there didn’t seem to be a polite way to leave it again. Despite her uncle’s insistence that the men would forget about her without constant encouragement, most of her suitors still seemed inclined to give her their attentions. While they weren’t as insistent or outrageous as they once had been, they were still plentiful.

And all of them wanted to dance.

Any guilt she’d felt disappeared partway through the first set of dances. Even though she was dancing with the men, her demeanor had changed. The flirting statements and the coy glances she’d worked so hard to include were thankfully left behind, and she found herself actually enjoying it.

Until her feet began to hurt.

And her throat became scratchy from talking and exerting herself for so long.

But after every dance, there was someone waiting to ask her hand for the next one. And every time she saw Griffith waiting to the side, eyes sad and hopeful at the same time, and before she could think it through, fear would prompt her to accept the invitation to dance, and she would once more find herself taking her place in the lines of dancers.

She found herself praying that God would do something to get her off the dance floor.

It wasn’t the type of prayer she really expected God to answer, but as she said a mental amen, a loud boom echoed through the ballroom, bringing the music and the dancing to a blessed halt.

All eyes swung to the entrance of the ballroom, where one of the heavy, ornate doors had been thrown back hard enough to slam against the wall, causing the echoing crack.

A soldier stood in the doorway, his uniform sporting more red than usual. He strode in and people scattered, exclaiming at the blood and dirt that marred his wrinkled and torn uniform. The man looked around the room and made his way in the prince regent’s direction. As he went the crowd parted, until Isabella was able to see he held objects in his hands. Golden eagles. The kind Napoleon had bestowed upon his army regiments with the command that they protect these standards with their lives.

And this soldier was carrying two of them.

And then he was kneeling, laying the golden eagles on the ground at the feet of the prince regent.

No one moved. Isabella wasn’t even sure anyone was breathing.

“Your Royal Highness. I come bearing news from His Grace, the Duke of Wellington.” The man lifted his bowed head. “Napoleon has been defeated.”

Never before had a drawing room seen so much agitated gossip. Despite the fact that none of them knew a thing, the ladies—who had been removed from the ballroom and placed into every other available public room in the house—were speculating wildly on what the men were hearing in the ballroom as the official dispatch was being read aloud.

“What do you think is going on in there?” Isabella shifted her weight onto one leg and shook out one of her already tired feet. The seats in the room had respectfully been granted to the elder ladies, and if the waiting went on much longer, Isabella was giving serious consideration to sitting on the floor.

“I don’t care.”

Isabella looked at her cousin in surprise.

“What?” Freddie shrugged. “I don’t. Considering whatever official declaration being read in there won’t tell me what I really need to know, all that matters right now is that the war is over.”

Isabella inclined her head to acknowledge the truth. It didn’t matter. Curiosity still kept her from suggesting they make their way home. History was being read in that ballroom, and it was rather thrilling to be so close to it.

Then a cry rang out through the house, indicating the ballroom doors had been reopened. The ladies surged, a tidal wave of silk and satin.

Freddie and Bella flattened themselves to the wall to avoid the trample of curious ladies who were doomed to remain disappointed for the time being. Even the men who would be willing to share some of the details with their wives or daughters weren’t going to do so here.

Isabella and Frederica trailed the last of the ladies out of the drawing room. Some of the men were talking excitedly in passages and alcoves, and others were seeking out their ladies to escort them home or back to the ballroom.

Griffith was standing atop the staircase leading up to the ballroom, his glance bouncing from group to group until it landed on her.

As the ladies clustered, a more somber attitude rolled through their ranks. Isabella’s heart threatened to choke her with its rushed, heavy beating, and a sense of numbness covered her as she took in the whispered news being passed back along the crowd. The prince regent was crying. The victory had come with a great loss. At least thirty thousand dead. Countless more wounded.

A tight squeeze of her hand broke through Isabella’s numbness. She looked at Frederica’s pale face, the stark white of her skin making her nose appear larger.

With hope and dread battling in her chest, Isabella swung her gaze back to Griffith. Did he know anything? Had the dispatch contained the names of officers lost?

Griffith continued slowly down the stairs. It was a beautiful thing to watch him cut his way through the crowd, going against the flow with ease. When the man wasn’t hemmed in by dancing couples he was actually rather graceful.

Isabella held her breath and her position. To move forward would bring her to meet him on the stairs. To move back would leave her trapped in the now private emptiness of the drawing room. As much as she wanted—no, needed—to know what he knew, simply seeing him this close was making her heart hurt. Speaking with him would be agony.

He came closer, and Isabella caught her breath as she drank in the handsome lines of his face. He looked tired. There were shadows under his green eyes that she hadn’t noticed as he descended the stairs but became clear as he stopped in front of them.

“Miss Breckenridge. Miss St. Claire. Perhaps you would both like to step into the drawing room for a moment?”

No. No, she most certainly would not like to step back into the drawing room, but next to her she heard Frederica suck in a harsh breath. Isabella’s heart pounded at the possible implications. Unless Griffith had lost all sense of logic and propriety, he wasn’t about to take this moment to renew his pursuit of her or seek to ask her to explain her refusal to marry him or even see him.

It was more likely that the communication that had just been read in the ballroom actually mentioned Arthur. And if it did, it probably wasn’t good news.

Isabella gripped her cousin’s arm as she nodded and quietly pulled Frederica back into the drawing room.

Griffith followed, his face giving no indication of what he was going to share. His eyes seemed to drink in Isabella, though, the same way she’d absorbed his presence earlier.

Once they were in the drawing room, the noise from the hall, stairs, and ballroom faded into a distant, indistinct roar. It was easily conversed over—assuming one knew what to say, of course.

Griffith turned to Frederica. “Arthur Saunderson is alive.”

Isabella had to wrap a steadying arm around Frederica as she wilted with her first indrawn breath. A few tears slipped down her cheeks to ride the grooves made by her sudden smile.

Griffith returned her smile with one of his own, and Isabella considered joining her cousin in a boneless heap. How could she have forgotten how dear and handsome his smiles were? The large, honest ones like he wore now were so rare, and the dark sadness that had been wrapped around Isabella’s heart cracked at the sight of it.

His smile faded a notch, possibly considering the number of men who would not have such a simple, hopeful statement said about them.

His green eyes locked on Isabella’s. “I’ve been trying all night to approach you. The ball is over now. I don’t think anyone is sure if we should celebrate or mourn. That will change soon, and there will be victory balls all over London. Will you dance with me at one of them?”

Isabella’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You bring news like this and then ask me to dance with you without giving us any details?”

He shrugged. “I have your attention now. I don’t want to waste it.”

“I won’t dance with you,” she said quietly. “I won’t allow you to align your name with mine only to have everyone think you’re one more man I toyed with before deserting London. Please don’t ask me to do that to you.”

He said nothing as his eyes roamed her face. His lips pressed into a grim line before he redirected his attention to Frederica. Once more his mouth softened into a curve of joy.

“Not only is he alive,” he continued, as if he’d never requested Isabella dance with him, “but he is coming home a hero. He led his squadron around the back to cut right through the 105th regiment, capture the standard, and send it back to the rear while he kept charging through. You should be proud of him.”

A sob and a laugh escaped Frederica, and she turned to Isabella to throw her arms around her. The resulting hug was so tight, it drew a laugh from Isabella even as she tried to breathe.

“I’ve missed your laugh,” Griffith said quietly.

Though the statement wasn’t enough to bury all of the merriment in the drawing room, it was enough to quiet their celebration.

Frederica pulled back, her lips still curved and her eyes still bright with happy tears. She looked from Isabella to Griffith and back again. “I’m going to see if the front hall has a little more air.”

The statement was ridiculous, and all of them knew it, but that didn’t stop Frederica from positioning herself at the door. Enough in the room to say the couple hadn’t been left alone, but giving them as much privacy as was possible in a house bursting with several hundred people.

Griffith reached out a hand and cupped her cheek. “I’ve missed you. I came to see you.”

“I know.” Isabella almost choked on the words. She should have found a way to go home to Northumberland, found a way to convince Frederica that she didn’t want to come tonight. Had she secretly been hoping that something like this would happen? Had she been so hungry for the mere sight of Griffith that she’d been ready to break her heart all over again?

“I love you, Isabella. And I don’t believe there is anything between us that can’t be overcome.”

She lowered her lashes down over her eyes, blocking his earnest face from her sight. “Sometimes life blocks our paths because God has a different plan.”

She had to believe that. Had to believe that God still had something good planned for her, despite her earlier disobedience. And she was going to do her best to walk in His path from now on. Even if it hurt.

“This isn’t one of those times.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if God wanted to turn the paths of two people seeking to honor Him, He’d have made the problem immovable. And this barricade can be overcome.”

As a duke he probably hadn’t come across many obstacles that he couldn’t overcome. But this one—she didn’t even think he knew what it was. And there wasn’t any way he could change the past three months. “I wish that were true, Griffith. But it isn’t. There is nothing that can be done. I shouldn’t have stayed. I’ll find a way to be on the next coach to Northumberland.”

Griffith reached out, gripped her shoulders. “No.” A single word, but it had sounded almost panicked, dripping with emotion.

Slowly, his hands slid down her arms until he held her fingers loosely in his. He leaned forward, his forehead rested against hers.

“I know more than you think, Isabella, enough that we could go forth from here. But I want no lingering doubts between us. Let me take care of all your trepidations. Give me a chance to prove you wrong.”