Page 19 of Isabel and the Rogue

Looping her arm around Gabby’s shoulders, Isabel pulled her close to her side. “That’s merely because you have high standards, for yourself and others.”

“That is a gracious way of considering it, querida.” Her sister’s shoulders sank with her sigh. “Do you suppose Lady Yardley and Tío Arturo will allow us to hide here in the shade for the rest of the race?”

“I doubt it. Tío mentioned several important members of Parliament would be in attendance today, and he wanted us to greet them with, as he said, our most charming smiles.” Isabel grunted. “As if there’s anything charming about me. I think he may have confused me with Ana, who possesses more charisma in her little finger than I do in my whole body.”

“Stop it, Isa.”

Isabel jerked her head back. “¿Perdóname?”

“I hate when you do that. Talk bad about yourself as if you aren’t intelligent and interesting. As if you don’t casually toss out in conversation the most obscure and fascinating bits of information,” Gabby said with a sweep of her hand.

“But surely you see how I put people to sleep when they converse with me?” Isabel scoffed. “I never know what to say or how to act when I am with them, and it always feels as if they’re staring at me like I’m some exhibit in the British Museum because my nerves make me ramble. It’s so disconcerting.”

“That’s because the ton is full of half-wits.” Gabby grasped her arm and shook it. “Their idea of interesting is someone choosing to wear an ascot instead of a cravat. They care for nothing that doesn’t affect their carefully cultivated and manicured social circle.”

Isabel didn’t know what to say, because her sister was right.

“I thought you didn’t care about their opinions.” Gabby winged up a brow. “They’re not our people, I seem to recall you saying.”

A sound resembling a groan—or maybe even a growl—left Isabel’s lips, and she covered her face with her hands. “I don’t make any sense. Even to myself. Especially to myself.”

“Isa,” Gabby sighed, her muffled steps on the grass making it clear she was moving closer, “you make sense to me. I know that while you might not want the good opinions of those people, we can’t escape the truth that their opinion can be a benefit. Or a curse. Especially now that the precarious situation at home feels so much more real.”

That was it exactly. Knowing that their parents’ safety, the very future of Mexico’s independence, was on the line made Isabel doubly aware of her shortcomings. Not only had she failed to supply any information to Fernando, but she’d also fallen short of winning the approval of the very people who could aid her countrymen. Disgust with herself festered in her gut.

And that disgust made her defensive.

“How much easier would life here be if I were like you, as a darling of the ton?” Isabel slashed her hand through the air. “Your admirers overfill the drawing room during visiting hours, and your dance card is always full. Their favor is readily given to you.”

Gabby shook her head as she glanced down at her feet. “And yet I don’t want their attentions. I wouldn’t be courting their good opinions now if I didn’t feel I had to. The only person whose approval I have ever tried to win ignored me as if I were no better than a piece of furniture or a painting on the wall.”

Flinching, Isabel exhaled forcibly. “Aren’t we an unfortunate pair? Desiring Father’s approval as if he could ever be bothered to bestow it.”

“Not unfortunate. Perhaps misguided.” The light in Gabby’s eyes dimmed as she looked at her. “Whatever the truth is, please know that I admire you, Isa, and it breaks my heart that you think so cheaply of yourself.”

Swallowing proved impossible around the knot in her throat. Instead, Isabel bit her lip and closed her eyes, completely overwhelmed by Gabby’s confession.

“How clever you were, ladies, to locate this gloriously shaded patch of heaven.”

The Duke of Whitfield stood several paces away, leaning leisurely on his cane. Always an imposing figure, he was no exception today under the sun’s bright beams. A navy-blue, double-breasted frock coat stretched across his broad shoulders, an exact match to the fine blue vest that highlighted the breadth of his chest. It would be easy to believe Whitfield a dandy for all that he cut a stylish figure, but Isabel suspected his right hook was as powerful as his cutting wit.

It took Isabel a moment to notice the duke was darting his gaze between her and Gabby with his brows arched high, and she realized belatedly he was waiting for a response. Thankfully her sister saved her from her inadvertent rudeness.

“Your Grace.” Although polite on the surface, Gabby managed to infuse the honorific with disdain. “It is Isabel who spied this little spot of heaven. She’s always so clever and observant.”

Isabel would pinch Gabby now if she could, but the duke had returned the weight of his attention to her, so she tried to smile instead. Although Whitfield had always been gracious and polite to her, she could admit, if only to herself, that she found him intimidating.

It bolstered her confidence to know Gabby certainly did not.

“Of course I’m not surprised,” he intoned, offering her a crisp bow. “It’s long been my opinion that Miss Isabel is the intelligent Luna sister.”

Ignoring the heat that crept along her cheeks, Isabel asked, “And what of Ana María?”

Whitfield spread his black-glove-covered hands. “Mrs. Fox is the charismatic and diplomatic sister.”

She chuckled, for that described her older sister to the letter. Ana María was perfectly fit for her role as the wife of an ambitious member of Parliament.

“And me, Your Grace?” Gabby said, tilting her head in a coquettish fashion. She appeared to all the world as a young lady whose curiosity had been piqued, but Isabel knew better.