Isabella Bennet glanced around the Rutherford's ballroom, taking in all the men and women dancing gaily or engaged in conversation. She really hated these affairs. They were nothing but a place for the ladies of society to present the newest girls of the Season and gossip about the latest scandal that some poor person had committed. The men weren't much better, gathering in groups to leer at the fresh beauties and talk about business or their latest conquest.
She was trying to disappear into the wall when Lord Royce Sutcliffe, Viscount of Wrighton, casually strolled up to her.
"Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of dancing the next dance?" he said stiffly, as if he had no desire to, but had to because he was on her dance card.
"Why, of course, my lord. It would be a pleasure," she replied, placing her gloved hand upon his. She couldn't help but feel furious at his obvious displeasure over his asking her to dance. She knew she wasn't beautiful but she didn't deserve the cold indifference that most of the men had treated her with since her debut.
She let herself be led to the floor and absentmindedly let herself be directed through the simple steps of the minuet. She didn't sense that she was being watched by a group of ladies from the back of the ballroom.
"Dear Emma, I feel so sorry for you. It's too bad that your sister got the name Isabella, when it is obvious that you are the true belle of the ball," Mrs. Cavandish, one of society's most prominent matrons, whispered in Emma's ear.
Unfortunately her whisper was almost as loud as her true voice and Hilary Wickam overheard her comment. "Mrs. Cavandish is quite right, Emma. It's plain to see that you inherited your mother's beauty, while Isabella did not. Just look at her." Their eyes roved back to Isabella, looking her over. She was dressed in a beautiful ivory silk dress. The bodice was square and low cut, the tops of her milky white breasts revealed. It had an empire waist and fell in soft folds to her feet. Her chestnut hair was swept up in a intricate coiffure that had ivory ribbons streaming from it and a few stray curls escaped, framing her face. She wasn't beautiful by modern standards, but in the classic sense, with a heart shaped face, wide eyes, and lips too large to suit her face. Her nose was just slightly larger than what was considered fashionable, but it suited her. Though she couldn't compete with all the new debutantes of the Season.
Emma watched her sister and felt slightly ashamed that she wasn't standing up for Isabella. Then again, Isabella had always been the unconventional one of the family, standing up for herself, learning how to use a knife, reading every book she could get her hands on, learning French, Greek, Latin, and Italian, becoming a master marksman and archer, and learning how to defend herself against men who might try to take advantage of her.
There had been times when she had resented Isabella for all that she was able to do, but most of the time she felt sorry for her sister. Isabella had reached the age of twenty three with only one marriage proposal, from one of the lowliest, poorest men among the ton's elite. She was almost considered on the shelf, and since she was very independent and not very beautiful, she would likely end up an old maid.
Emma wasn't surprised when she saw Marcus Hartford cut in on Isabella's dance. He and Izzy, as Emma liked to call her, had formed a deep friendship as children when Isabella had gone to Cornwall one summer with their father. Emma had been too young to go at the time, but from the stories she heard, the brother of the duke had taken a liking to the lively Isabella. He had admired her spirit and spunk and their friendship had formed quickly. Over the years he had come to visit them many times. He was Izzy's confidant, more than Emma was. It had been rumored for a long time that the two were lovers, so often were they seen in each others company, but Malcom Bennet, their father, had immediately quashed them. Marcus and Izzy would do anything for each other, even die for one another if the situation called for it.
Isabella whirled around and around in Marcus' arms, finally exultant at being saved from Royce Sutcliffe's arms. It wasn't that she didn't like the viscount, but she hated trying to converse with him while dancing. She could never find the right thing to say. If she expressed her indepence or opinions to openly he would send chastising looks her way. He could easily be humorous or fun, but good breeding and manners were too deeply ingrained in him, for him to be anything less than an honorable gentleman.
"Well, Bella," Marcus said, grinning broadly at the relief evident on her face, "it looks like you owe me a favor."
"For rescuing me?" she crooned sarcastically, coquettishly batting her eyelashes and smiling.
"Of course. What do you think of joining me at my townhouse for the night?" he whispered in her ear, flirting with her, as he did so often. He loved their friendship. They could flirt, be serious, and tell each other anything, knowing that the other would fully understand or flirt back, understanding that it was all in jest.
"I think that you are rake and a rogue who has nothing better to do than try to ruin a perfectly respectable lady's image and cause a scandal."
"No more scandal than the lady herself has already caused," he said seriously, leading her off the dance floor now that the music had come to a halt.
"What scandal could you possibly mean, Marcus?" she said, knowing exactly the scandal he was talking about.
"Lady Noelle Carrington saw you heading for the gypsy camp the other day. What, may I ask, were you doing, going to that place?"
