Isabella looked around the ballroom. She gave a sigh of pleasure. London. The gaiety, the busyness. “I do love the Season.”
“Yes.” But her companion was frowning.
“Have you a headache, Gussie?”
“Headache?” Augusta Washburne’s brow cleared. “No, I’m cross.”
“Cross?” Isabella glanced around the ballroom again, her gaze catching on the shimmer of expensive fabric and the glitter of jewels, the bright flare of the candles in the chandeliers. The room was crowded to its farthest extent; beneath the music the babble of voices was loud. She could see no reason for Gussie to be cross. The ball was undeniably a success.
“It’s this business with Nicholas,” Gussie said. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Nicholas?”
“What a dreadful squeeze, darling!” Lady Faraday swooped on Gussie. “One can scarc
