Her flinty gaze flitted to his nether regions and returned to his face. “You just offer them to let. I wonder, however did you procure your voucher for this evening?”
Isabel choked. She never imagined that quiet, gentle Iris had such a ruthless streak in her.
Ryan didn’t blink. “You know me, I am my own master. As it happens, I’m shopping not selling tonight. I’m told this place offers the pick of the debutantes.”
“Oh. I see.” Iris’s sweet smile dripped poison. “You’re hunting for a fortune, then?”
Macalister’s jaw tightened. “Not so much a fortune as a woman of true nobility.”
“Interesting.” Iris tilted her head aside. “Why would a woman of true nobility want you?”
“For love?” He raised a cocky eyebrow.
Isabel decided to step in before they killed each other. “Good evening, major. How nice of you to join us. Would you be a dear and fetch me a glass of lemonade? I’m parched.”
A devilish smile lit his face. “Isabel, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Your glow brightens even the dowdiest of creatures.” Though he didn’t spare a glance in Iris’s direction, he hit the mark.
Perceiving the hurt in Iris’s eyes, Isabel wished he’d leave her poor friend alone. Nor did she appreciate being wielded as a weapon. She would get to the bottom of this later. She curled her hand around his arm. “I’ve a better idea. Let’s stroll together to the refreshments table.”
“Actually, I was hoping to lure you onto the dance floor.”
Isabel was about to refuse, but caught Sophie’s strict, prompting glare. Isabel reconsidered. Unless she cared to wipe the blood off the floor, whatever method drew Ryan away from Iris was good enough for now. She cast Ryan a charming smile. “How could I refuse?”
Yet before she managed to drag him off, he seized Iris’s dance card and signed his name next to the last waltz. “There is something to be said for vintage as well.”
“I am not dancing tonight,” Iris clipped sternly.
“Then you shouldn’t have tied your card on.” He took Sophie’s card and marked a country dance. “Tonight, no woman is safe from me. Until later, ladies.” He bowed and led Isabel away.
At the edge of the dance floor they were accosted by Lady Jersey, one of the seven high and mighty patronesses of Almack’s. “Ryan, darling, how lovely to see you!” Lady Jersey cooed, grasping his free sleeve and leaning into his side.
“Sally.” Ryan brought Lady Jersey’s hand to his lips. “What can I say—ravissante!”
Sally tittered with delight. “I do so adore compliments from men in uniform. They sound…much more sincere.” She let out a brandy-spiced breath—which was shocking in itself since only the mildest drinks were served at the assembly. No doubt Sally carried a little flask in her purse, Isabel thought as she observed the cozy interlude. It certainly solved the mystery regarding how Ryan had managed to come by a voucher in the space of two days. He had his own patroness.
When Isabel felt Sally’s assessing gaze on her, she bobbed. “Lady Jersey.”
“Miss Aubrey.” Sally returned the gesture, but not without palpable antagonism. To Ryan she murmured, “I shall see you later, darling.”
“Or sooner.” He winked, and swept Isabel into the country dance.
Any illusion Isabel might have entertained regarding his potential as a future spouse was dashed this evening, for more than one reason. Ashby had been right to warn her off Ryan. Only it depressed her to know he had done so out of concern rather than jealousy. Her big brother.
Thankfully the dance was too lively to engage in conversation, and Isabel was spared the unpleasantness of dealing with the fallout of Ryan and Iris’s confrontation. Tonight Ryan was the enemy, but she’d still agreed to walk with him Saturday afternoon, and while she was sorely tempted to cancel their engagement, he was the only person who knew some of Ashby’s secrets.
Ashby. How many nights had she lain awake, envisioning herself gliding across the dance floor in his arms? She could almost imagine that the broad chest sporting the 18th silver and blue dolman jacket and the elegant pelisse swelling off the shoulder were his, not Ryan’s.
They weren’t waltzing, however, and as they stepped and turned, changing partners, Isabel came up against Lord John Hanson. They exchanged brief greetings and danced on to the next partner. She turned her head, curious to see with whom he was standing up.
“Louisa Talbot?” Both her friends looked horrified when Isabel reported the observation a while later. “Are you certain?” Sophie whispered in disbelief. “That dreadful creature everyone dislikes? Why in blazes would he want to dance with her?”
Isabel glanced at the far side of the ballroom, where a twittering circle converged around a white-blond head. Once upon a time, it was Ashby who held the title “Society’s most sought after bachelor.” Only in Ashby’s case, because he was sinfully irresistible, he was pursued not only by every ambitious mother’s debutante daughter, but by the mothers, the daughters, their sisters, and every other blasted female in sight. They all fancied him. Some of them had even gotten him—temporarily. “Perhaps he lost a wager,” Isabel said, shrugging. “Who knows?”
“I know,” Iris put in. “Louisa Talbot is as rich as Croesus. Her American father owned the largest tobacco plantation in the world. When he died last year, Louisa’s mother married her old sweetheart, Lord Larimore, who’d also been her longtime lover throughout her first marriage. Louisa got the entire inheritance. Her mother didn’t see a ha’pence.”
“Lord John stands to inherit his grandfather, the Duke of Haworth,” Isabel asserted. “Why would he chase an ugly, insipid, unpleasant woman for her money?”
“It’s difficult to ignore all that money,” Iris scoffed. “Prinny has been known to pay her a compliment or two, himself. Nevertheless, I hear that her American uncle is arriving next week and that he despises the English aristocracy. He’s coming to town to keep his niece from falling prey to an impoverished lord. Some say he’s already hired runners to dig up dirt on her beaux.”
“Louisa has beaux?” Isabel blinked. “She has trouble befriending her own persuasion, a fact which I find suspicious in itself.”
“There she goes again.” Sophie indicated the freckled insect loping cheerfully on the dance floor straight into the arms of…none other than Ryan Macalister.
Sophie and Iris were right, Isabel acknowledged. He was hunting for an heiress.
“Would you mind if we left early tonight?” Iris blurted. “Unless Izzy wants to have another tête-à-tête with Lord John, coax him into reading our bill proposal…?”
Isabel met Sophie’s knowing gaze. Their friend didn’t want to wait for the last waltz Ryan had imposed on her. The gentlemen of the ton knew that Iris’s dance card was an “ornament” and nothing more, thanks to Chilton. Ryan would cause a scene, and they’d had one too many scenes this evening. It didn’t take a genius to realize that Iris and Ryan knew each other well. How well and what the source of their mutual animosity was remained to be unraveled. The one good deed Ryan had unwittingly performed tonight was sidetracking Iris and Sophie from questioning her about Ashby. “We may leave whenever you wish,” Isabel replied. “I already made up my mind to speak to Lord John about our bill proposal at the Barrington ball tomorrow evening.”
“It is better this way,” Sophie concluded. “Let him fall in love with you first. Then, when he is too besotted to refuse, ask for his sponsorship.”
Isabel smiled. “Sophie, you are awful! How can you suggest I delude the