Relief washed through Gwen like a gust of fresh air after a lifetime of being stuck underground. “Want me to show you a few things?” she offered with a grin as she hauled him to his feet.

Orson rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went off to locate his sword in the tall grass. “Give me a sec to catch my breath, and then we’re going again.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine
If I taught you to dream, then I was wrong

Isobelle pressed a coin into the man’s hand, unleashing the full force of her blue eyes. “Remember,” she said. “I’m relying on you.”

“We won’t fail you, my lady,” he assured her. Then he turned away to lift his fiddle and tuck it under his chin, launching into another tune that set the dance floor swirling.

Under any other circumstances, Isobelle would have been buzzing about the ball for weeks in advance, planning her gown and accessories, discussing dancing and partnering strategy with the girls, and perhaps, just perhaps, allowing herself the tiniest little fantasy about some dashing, mysterious stranger showing up to sweep her off her feet.

Instead, she had found herself that evening looking blankly at a crimson dress Olivia had picked out for her, trying to summon some enthusiasm for something so frivolous as a dance, when her mind was on Gwen, on Sylvie, on the fate awaiting Isobelle herself, if—when—all their plans unraveled.

Now she found herself bribing the musicians to play the one song she knew where women partnered each other for sections of the dance, so that she could look Gwen in the eye for just a moment.

She paused at the edge of the dance floor, letting her gaze sweep over the room with practiced ease, absorbing the social intricacies of the scene before her without conscious effort.

There was Jane, chatting in a corner with a boy who looked suspiciously like the squire she fancied. She’d stuffed him into noble’s clothes, and he was somewhere between thrilled and terrified, his eyes huge.

Once upon a time, Isobelle would have laughed with delight at the deception. Now, it made something knot with anger inside her. Why shouldn’t the two of them be together? Why should the boy have to hide himself, just because he wasn’t born to the right parents? Why shouldn’t Jane be allowed to choose him if she wanted?

Next she found Sylvie. Her friend looked like a perfect glass figurine, whirling around the dance floor in Sir Ralph’s possessive arms. Sylvie’s form was flawless, but her gaze distant, as though she was barely aware he was touching her at all.

I’m sorry, Sylvie. I should have seen it coming.