Conversation began cautiously around them once more. Imelda didn’t seem to notice the chaos her men had caused. Or rather, she knew, Isabeau decided, but she didn’t care what inconvenience there was to anyone else. She thrived on the drama she created.

“May I present Elijah Lospostos and his charming little cousin, Isabeau.”

“Cherished cousin,” Elijah corrected, making her instantly off limits to the attentions of Philip or any of her men.

“Elijah,” Imelda murmured. “Your . . . reputation precedes you.”

“All good, I’m certain,” Elijah replied smoothly and bent over her hand, although he didn’t pretend to allow his lips to brush her skin.

“Of course,” Imelda agreed with a feigned smile and turned her attention to Isabeau. “My dear, what a lovely dress. Who is the designer? I must have one.”

Elijah answered, taking Isabeau’s elbow, his fingers sinking into her skin. Imelda’s sharp gaze couldn’t miss the signal to Isabeau not to speak. “I brought the dress for her from one of our little boutiques in the States. I travel quite often and saw this and knew it would be perfect for her. It’s one of a kind and suits her less dramatic appearance.”

Isabeau heard the small bite in his voice, implying the innocence of Isabeau’s dress would never suit someone who wore the bloodred gown revealing half of Imelda’s body. She held her breath, afraid Elijah was antagonizing the woman, but Imelda took it as a compliment. She ran her hand down her hip, smoothing the material and jutting out her breasts, turning her back on Isabeau as if she was of little consequence. Isabeau realized that was Elijah’s intent, to make certain Imelda didn’t see her as a threat in any way.

She tried not to let the byplay undermine her confidence in herself. She’d never considered herself beautiful. She was curvy, carrying a little more weight than was fashionable, but she had great hair and good skin. She didn’t think she looked drab, but next to Imelda she probably did. Imelda’s tinkling laugh irritated her, and the way she moved into the center of the circle of men as if she belonged there irritated her even more.

A hush fell over the crowd again and heads began to turn toward the door. Isabeau found herself following the gazes of the others. A guard, obviously one of Imelda’s, pushed a wheelchair into the room. The occupant looked to be in his eighties, a thin, rather handsome man with thick silver hair. He wore his suit as if it had been made for him—which it probably had been. His smile was kind, even benevolent, and he waved to several people and greeted them by name as he was pushed through the crowd.