Of course, Lady Harcourt was on the dance floor.
Isabella stood at the ballroom entrance for exactly two seconds, long enough to locate her target, and then she walked forward into the light and noise and warmth of the room with the calm of a woman who had already decided what she was going to do and was simply closing the distance between herself and it.
Lady Harcourt had her back to the door. She was dancing with Lord Pembrook, her silver dress catching the candlelight, her laugh carrying above the music in that bright, effortless way she had. She looked like a woman without a single thing weighing on her conscience.
Isabella tapped her on the shoulder.
Lady Harcourt turned with the practised smile of someone accustomed to being approached at social functions.
The smile did not get very far.
Isabella's hand connected with her cheek with a crack that cut cleanly through the music, through the conversations, through the comfortable noise of the entire ballroom.
