who knew her true identity, besides the four male boarders who’d escorted her from her family’s boardinghouse, was Marc Antony.
He smiled down at her. “You look beautiful, Isabelle.”
She feigned disinterest. “What makes you think my name is Isabelle?”
“Because you’re the only one who ordered a wig like that from my family’s mercantile.”
Her dance partner was Chris Johansen, then. She’d suspected as much. She didn’t even bother to hold back her frustrated huff. She’d gone through a lot of trouble to disguise herself from her older sister’s former suitors. Apparently, her efforts hadn’t worked. “Sophia promised she wouldn’t tell anyone that I’d ordered the wig.”
“Don’t worry. My little sister refused to answer a single one of my questions about who it was for. I figured it out on my own by looking at your account records.”
Why he’d go through all of that trouble was beyond her. She simply couldn’t get used to the tenacity or attentions of Chris and her other so-called suitors. They’d never paid her any mind before her sister’s elopement. She could hardly take them seriously now when, despite their best efforts to prove otherwise, it was obvious they were only seeking a replacement for Amy. Isabelle aspired to few things in life, but allowing herself to become a faded tintype in the eyes of a man who should cherish her for herself was not one of them. She’d try to make that clear by avoiding the men altogether. They didn’t seem to be getting the message. Perhaps she ought to try being a bit more assertive. Starting with “Mark Antony.”
Isabelle pinned him with an accusatory stare as he whirled her around the crowded dance floor in a waltz. “Well, all I have to say is you’ve got a lot of nerve, Chris Johansen, dressing to match me. What exactly are you trying to achieve by doing this? Because the only message I’m getting is that you’re a cheater.”
He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been trying to get your attention for weeks. You won’t stay still long enough to listen.”
No, she hadn’t, but perhaps he’d leave her alone if she let him say his peace. After a long-suffering sigh, she nodded. “All right, I’m listening now. What is it you want to say?”
“You and I have been friends a long time, haven’t we?”
“Uh-huh.” She found refuge from his too-intense eyes by scanning the crowd of onlookers. It wasn’t until her gaze landed on the tall, powerfully built pirate who’d approached her earlier that she realized she’d been looking for him all along. He stood at the edge of the dance floor talking to a couple. They must have been saying their goodbyes for he shook the man’s hand and received a quick hug from the lady. He turned. For one intense moment, their eyes caught and held across the distance. But then the steps of the waltz spun her around and she lost sight of him.
“Isabelle, did you hear me?”
She forced herself to refocus on her partner. “Hmm?”
“I was trying to ask you—” He froze, which was probably a good thing since he looked downright exasperated.
It was only when he turned slightly away from her that she saw the man at his heels. Dressed in a costume fit for a drawing room in Regency England, he gave a shallow bow. “May I cut in?”
Chris scowled. “No.”
The gentleman stroked the curves of his immaculately shaped auburn mustache as he affected a very poor English accent. “Mr. Johansen, it is common courtesy to yield in such occasions.”
Chris’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know who I am?”
“As an artist always knows his own work, a barber recognizes every haircut he gives.”
As Chris slid his fingers through his blond hair, Isabelle barely withheld a groan of recognition. She should have recognized Amy’s childhood sweetheart the second she saw his mustache. “John Merriweather.”
“Miss Isabelle, I presume.” He bowed again. “May I have this dance?”
Chris kept hold of her hand. “Now, see here, John. You’ll just have to wait—”
“Absolutely, you may cut in, Mr. Merriweather.” She glanced between two men—one dejected, the other gloating. Lifting Chris’s hand, she placed it squarely in John’s. “It might look a little strange, but you gentlemen enjoy yourselves.”
She lingered only long enough to watch their mouths drop open as they jerked their hands back and glared at each other. Their protests rang in her ears as she left them on the dance floor. Fearing one or both might attempt to follow her—once they were done arguing with each other—she slipped out a side door into the hotel’s garden. A cold wind set her teeth chattering and hastened her down the path leading to the wide back porch. She reached for the door to reenter the hotel, but hesitated. Stepping farther into the shadows of the porch, she considered her options.
If she went back into the ballroom, she’d likely spend the rest of the night trying to avoid Amy’s spurned suitors. Her only other option was to leave the masquerade altogether. She grimaced at the thought of returning home early on a night free from her parents’ suspicious and watchful gazes. As much as she loved them, their overprotectiveness of her and her fifteen-year-old sister, Violet, had become stifling.
In the aftermath of Amy’s elopement with a former boarder at the family’s boardinghouse, her parents had become fixated on not letting that situation repeat itself. They’d even gone so far as to say they’d sell Bradley Boardinghouse if one more thing went wrong. Isabelle had laughed the first time they’d said it, thinking they were joking. They weren’t. However, all they’d done so far was talk about the possibility of selling. She was certain that with a little time they’d regain their love for the boardinghouse and no longer be tempted to consider anything as drastic as that. In the meantime, she’d simply have to make sure nothing else went wrong.
The sound of the door opening startled her from her reverie just as a man stepped out onto the porch. It wasn’t merely any man, though. It was the pirate she’d noticed inside. A coat covered most of his costume now, but he still wore the unmistakable tricornered hat. He paused to remove it. His mask came off next. A soft gasp filled her lungs as the golden light of a nearby lantern illuminated his handsome features. Shock eased his name from her lips with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Rhett Granger.”
He spun toward her. His eyes widened as she stepped from the shadows. “It’s you. What— Why are you out here? In the cold porch. On the cold. In the porch. I mean...” He shook his head and gave up.
Tilting her head, she stared at him in confusion. Land sakes! What had happened to him all of a sudden? She hadn’t heard him stumble around with his words like that since he’d been sweet on Amy.
From what she’d seen, Rhett had been left truly brokenhearted by Amy’s elopement. Isabelle had gotten to know him relatively well in the few months since her best friend, Helen, had married his best friend, Quinn. Before then, she’d only really thought of him as one of Amy’s admirers. Now she knew for certain that he was as honest, trustworthy and honorable as his reputation said he was. He was also about ten times as exasperating—usually.
Tonight, his amber eyes showed a vulnerability she’d never seen before. It prompted her to offer a gentle smile. “It was getting a little crowded in there. What about you? Where are you going?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Home. I’m not really in a party.”
He didn’t seem to notice his mistake this time, and she didn’t have the heart to point it out. Stepping forward, she grabbed the lapels of his coat and rattled them lightly in an attempt to shake him to his senses. “But it’s New Year’s Eve!”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that.” He softened the statement with a teasing grin. She felt his chest swell against the coat as he took a deep breath, which made her realize she was still holding on to his coat. She immediately