“How?” she whispered.
“I do not know yet,” Isadora admitted. “But I swear to you, Iwill.”
Penelope sniffled against her shoulder. “I cannot marry him, Isadora. Iwon’t.”
And Isadora, for all her composure, for all her careful control, felt her own throat tighten.
“You will not,” she promised. “I willnotallow it.”
CHAPTER 2
Isadora paced in circles across the drawing room. Across from her, Penelope sat stiffly on the sofa, her hands twisting in her lap. Every now and then, she would glance toward the door then back at her sister. Both of them were nervous.
“This is unbearable,” Isadora muttered, throwing a sharp look toward the clock on the mantelpiece. “Where is he?”
Penelope bit her lip. “I do not know. Perhaps he has changed his mind?”
“If only we were so fortunate,” Isadora replied darkly.
“And shouldn’t Father be here for all of this? Considering it is he who has put us into this situation to begin with,” Isadora continued, voicing her frustration out loud.
It was not unheard of for George to be missing from the scene whenever he was needed. He had a penchant for shirking hisresponsibilities after all. Yet Isadora had assumed that he would be lined up by the door to be the first one to greet the Marquess, considering his enthusiasm for the match.
Their father had made it clear that this was an important meeting.
“A man does not waste time on pleasantries when he means to secure a bride,” George had said to her earlier with a satisfied smirk.
“Perhaps we can use it as an excuse to delay the visit.” Isadora stopped pacing for a moment. “Yes, we can do just that. He is the man of the houseafter all.”
How she loathed that term. It had never made sense to her. Was he meant to be an unquestioning authority only on the basis of him being a man?
Ever since they had lost their mother—years ago when Isadora was only twelve—she had been forced to step up and take responsibilities that were far beyond her age, so it irked her truly when George made her feel so small and insignificant by lording the title of ‘man of the house’ over her head whenever he wished to get something done.
But perhaps she could use it to her advantage for once in her life.
“Do you think that would work?” Penelope asked, biting down on her lip. “The Marquess must nearly be here now. He was to arrive by four at the latest.”
“Yes, but we can send someone to intercept him.” Isadora’s mind churned with ideas. “Let him know that we are very sorry, but we will have to reschedule this entire meeting.”
No such luck would grace them tonight as their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a carriage pulling up outside in their driveway.
Both of them froze.
The Marquess of Hartenshire, Harry Flynn, had arrived.
She had heard enough about Lord Hartenshire to know he was not the kind of man one wanted in the family. A rake, a gambler, a man who spent his nights drinking himself into a stupor and his mornings nursing debts he had no business accruing in the first place.
And yet, here they were, waiting for his arrival, as if his interest in Penelope was something to be pleased about.
Penelope slackened her shoulders. “Perhaps he will not be as awful as people say.”
“That is a dangerous kind of hope, Penelope.”
If there was one thing Isadora had learned in life, it was that one must always keep their expectations about the world realistic. Her father—as unreliable as he was—had inadvertently taught her that lesson well.
Before Penelope could respond, the butler entered the room, his usual composed expression tinged with the faintest hint of unease.
“His Lordship, the Marquess of Hartenshire.”
