“Is that why you despise me?” she asked, wondering whether she should laugh. “Because I see right through you?”
“I despise you, Lady Isadora, because you meddle in things that are not your concern,” he said. “Because you cannot stand the thought of someone else making a better match than you ever could. You are sabotaging your sister’s future. And for what? Because it pains you to see someone else succeed where you have failed?”
“I have not failed,” she hissed. Her choice not to marry yet was her own. He was sinister for making it seem like it wasn’t.
What a truly dreadful man.
“Haven’t you?” he smirked. “You play the dutiful daughter, but tell me, Lady Isadora—where is your husband?”
“I do not need?—”
Hartenshire leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.
“No man wants a woman like you. Sharp-tongued and difficult. You are not here to protect your sister,” he said, stepping back, his smirk widening. “You are here because you cannot bear to be alone in your misery.”
The accusation was so preposterous that Isadora was truly speechless for a few moments.
“I will tell you one last time, Lady Isadora,” Hartenshire said. “Stay. Out. Of. This. Because if you do not, I promise you—I will make sure your sister’s life is very difficult.”
Then, with an infuriatingly smug chuckle, he walked out into the night, leaving her there, seething. The moment the door shut behind him, Isadora clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.
Hewould nothave her sister. She would see to that.
No matter what it took.
The sound of Penelope’s muffled sobs filled the quiet of Isadora’s room. She sat curled in the large armchair by the fireplace, her shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands.
For a long moment, Isadora stood frozen near the window, unsure of what to do.
This cannot happen.
She hated feeling so helpless, but she could not show it to Penelope.
Mustering all the strength she had and swallowing the knot in her throat, she turned to her sister.
“Penny,” she murmured, kneeling before her, taking her hands in her own. “I need you to breathe.”
“I c—can’t,” Penelope stuttered, her tears falling freely. “I cannot—I will not—marry that man. He is horrid, Isadora.”
Isadora squeezed her fingers. “I know.”
“You d—don’t,” Penelope insisted, shaking her head violently. “You did not see the way helookedat me. Like I was some…possessionhe was about to acquire. Like I did not even have a say in the matter.”
A cold fury settled in Isadora’s bones. She had seen it, of course. The way Hartenshire had spoken.
She reached for a linen handkerchief and gently dabbed at her sister’s damp cheeks. “I will not let this happen.”
Penelope sniffled. “But how? Father won’t listen. He’s already decided.”
That, at least, was true. George Morton had never been a man to reconsider a decision once made—especially not when it came to what he saw as beneficial to himself.
“I will find a way.”
Penelope exhaled shakily, nodding, though her grip on Isadora’s hands remained tight. “Do you promise?”
A moment’s hesitation. Not because Isadora lacked conviction, but because she was trying to figure outhowshe could fulfill that promise.
But then her resolve hardened.
