1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 17 ·Consuelo·

Gentlemen bowed, ladies curtsied.

Such simple etiquette carried a heavy s****l undertone between Isabella and the Duke of Marlborough.

More accurately, it was a one-sided s****l tension emanating from Isabella.

　　Consuelo, standing beside her, felt Isabella's gaze could practically burn a hole through the Duke of Marlborough's Adam's apple—the very spot where her eyes naturally fell when lowered.

“I didn't realize this was so unacceptable in modern times,” Consuelo remarked to Isabella. “At least in 1895, it wouldn't have been grounds for annulling a marriage.”

　　It's as unforgivable as Drake, still pining for Meredith, reconciling with his estranged wife Addison, or Ross, unable to fully let go of Rachel, mispronouncing his bride's name at the altar. Isabella huffed indignantly. A man shouldn't even go on a date before forgetting his ex-girlfriend. It's a matter of principle—any American girl would tell you how infuriating this is.

“Lord Elliot informed me that your shoes were ill-fitting tonight, permitting only slower dances like the waltz.” “The Duke of Marlborough murmured, utterly unaware of the storm brewing above his head. His voice was as soft as the evening breeze drawing violins through the forest. ”That must explain why your mother declined four consecutive invitations afterward."

　　“And surely your lingering affection for Miss Louisa explains why you've shut yourself away for the entire London season?” Isabella's voice was not loud, yet its impact on the Duke of Marlborough was more devastating than a volley of cannon fire. Consuelo could clearly see his pupils contract like a cat's, his grip on Isabella's hand tightening stiffly. Yet this tension did not disturb the lightness of their steps. On the surface, the Duke of Marlborough and Isabella now circled the dance floor like two lovers gazing deeply into each other's eyes.

　　“Where did such preposterous rumors enter your ears?” the Duke of Marlborough asked in a hushed voice. His expression wavered for only an instant before swiftly returning to calm—so swiftly that Consuelo doubted Isabella could have noticed.

　　“Is this some kind of secret?” Isabella asked with a smile. The next second, Consuelo saw her skirt sway, and the Duke of Marlborough's face, as still as stagnant water, twitched. “My apologies, Duke of Marlborough. As you've heard, my shoes are a bit uncomfortable tonight.”

“It's nothing, Miss Consuelo.” The Duke of Marlborough's voice cracked slightly. Consuelo couldn't help but silently ask Isabella: How hard did you step on the Duke's foot?

Let's put it this way. Isabella replied. It would be a miracle if he could still feel his toes.

Seems you really want His Grace to dislike you. Consuelo exclaimed in surprise, realizing Isabella's past feelings for the Duke of Marlborough might not have reached the level of “liking” she had assumed. Perhaps it was merely a fleeting infatuation from a girl who had never felt affection for any man before—an infatuation that melted as swiftly as ice in midsummer before the modern principles Isabella steadfastly upheld.

　　“No, my past romance with Miss Louisa was no secret. But I believe such matters belong to the past—”

“Truly to the past?” Isabella asked, fixing him with a stare. Consuelo suspected she hadn't even registered her earlier audacity in interrupting a duke. “Then why, Your Grace, have you shut yourself away for the entire London season, refusing every invitation?”

　　Under Isabella's almost aggressive gaze and tone, the Duke of Marlborough's reaction surprised Consuelo—she had expected him to either confess or cling to his lie. Yet the expression on his face now, if she had to describe it, resembled that of a cheetah who had thought its prey was a gazelle, only to discover it was another cheetah—filled with complex and astonished meaning. Consuelo found herself unable to read him.

“May I ask you a question, Miss Consuelo, if you don't mind?” The Duke of Marlborough drew close to Isabella, whispering into her ear. Standing a full head taller than her, this gesture was far more conspicuous and difficult than Lord Elliot’s had been. Out of the corner of her eye, Consuelo saw her mother by the dance floor instantly cover her face with both hands, uttering a silent, excited gasp. “Why are you so concerned about my relationship with Miss Louisa?”

　　Isabella's cheeks flushed slightly, and Consuelo could sense her heartbeat quicken for a moment. Yet she bravely continued, "I believe Your Grace knows why Lady Peggy introduced me to you at the dinner party. Given that premise, shouldn't Your Grace be more open with me? And shouldn't I be more concerned about matters concerning Your Grace?"

　　“You mean Mr. Vanderbilt's intention for you to become the future Duchess of Marlborough?” The Duke of Marlborough chuckled softly, his pale blue eyes crinkling slightly as his lashes cast faint shadows upon his lowered eyelids. Even now that Consuelo was no more, she had to admit that being gazed upon by such eyes made clear thinking difficult. “So you mean that since we might become husband and wife in the future, we should at least be more honest with each other now, is that it?”

Isabella unexpectedly withstood the Duke of Marlborough's gentle offensive, her tone firm as she replied, “Yes.”

　　After a pause, Isabella continued, "If I must enter into a marriage, Your Grace, I at least hope it begins with love. That is every girl's wish, and I do not believe it is unreasonable. If it cannot begin with love—for a member of the Vanderbilt family bound by duty and obligation, love is a luxury, an inescapable ugly truth. Only Consuelo understood that escape meant fleeing the Van der Veer household entirely. “Then I hope it begins at least with choice. You said that even if the initial purpose was only money, you would wait until there were reasons far greater than money before considering marriage. So I hope that if you choose me as your future wife, the reason is not to forget another woman, or to cover some scar from the past, but because—”

　　Isabella didn't voice the final word. She glanced at Consuelo, then lowered her eyes. Her thoughts now mirrored what Consuelo herself was contemplating—the bitter truth that their identities had become so deeply intertwined, neither could exist purely as “Consuelo” or “Isabella” anymore.

　　“Then, I suppose I should be more honest with my future wife,” the Duke of Marlborough murmured. His left hand, which had been lightly clasping Isabella's, slid upward slowly until her four slender fingers fell into his palm. He then gently pressed his fingers down, interlocking them with hers until their ten fingers were tightly entwined. “Indeed, as people have speculated, I chose to seclude myself during the London social season to avoid Miss Louise.”

　　“Then...” Disappointment flickered in Isabella's eyes. She tried to pull away from the Duke of Marlborough's grasp, but he held her hand firmly.

“But now, Miss Louise holds no meaning for me. To be precise, a year ago, when I decided to part ways with Miss Louise, she ceased to occupy the place she once held in my heart. That place now belongs to you, Miss Consuelo.”

　　“I don't believe it, Your Grace. You've only seen me twice, and yet you claim to have forgotten Miss Louisa, with whom you spent three years?” Isabella clung to the last shred of composure in her mind.

　　“Neither do I, Miss Consuelo,” the Duke of Marlborough replied, his expression tender. Yet the way he avoided Isabella's gaze unsettled Consuelo. “As I try to persuade you, I am also trying to persuade myself. This is the truth now.”

“Why?” Isabella clung to hope like a butterfly struggling in a spider's web, making one last desperate attempt. Even Consuelo felt a twinge of confusion, beginning to doubt whether her earlier assumptions had been too hasty, too prejudiced. Perhaps the Duke of Marlborough truly could have fallen for Isabella. Perhaps it was precisely her uniqueness that had drawn him in. She couldn't discern the truth in the Duke's words, only that they were so beautiful any girl would wish them to be true.

　　“At first, it was your appearance—naturally, the first thing anyone noticing you would observe. Then came your charming personality, so direct and utterly unguarded—”

“Yet I supported the divorce you opposed, Your Grace,” Isabella interrupted the Duke of Marlborough once more.

　　“In truth, I consider it a rare virtue, one I've found lacking in any other English noblewoman—or even American heiresses. So, what do you say, Miss Consuelo...” The Duke of Marlborough released his arm from around Isabella's waist; the dance had ended unnoticed. “I hear November is a favorable season for weddings.”

　　“I don't know,” Isabella's eyes widened in alarm at the Duke of Marlborough's final remark. “I—I need to think—” she mumbled.

“And I shall await your decision.” The Duke of Marlborough bowed slightly to Isabella before turning away. He even escorted her back to her parents according to ballroom etiquette. Consuelo followed instinctively, unsure even to herself why she did so. Glancing back, she saw Isabella walking toward the edge of the dance floor with a vacant expression, seemingly unaware that Consuelo had left.

　　Consuelo positioned herself at the maximum distance she dared from Isabella, from where she could just see the Duke of Marlborough standing by the ballroom's outer terrace. The cold night wind of the English countryside ruffled his meticulously combed black hair, soft strands brushing against his pale blue eyes, which bore a look of anguish. His hands braced against the marble as he bent forward. Though she couldn't hear it, Consuelo knew he was exhaling a long, drawn-out breath.

What are you suffering from? Consuelo observed everything intently, wondering.

I'm not suffering from anything, Consuelo. Isabella's voice suddenly echoed within her mind.

That's good.

　　Consuelo thought.

When she looked back at the Duke of Marlborough, the troubled young man of moments before had vanished. Standing there now was His Grace, the Duke—calm and composed as ever, seemingly untouched by anything.