Floorboards creaked in the hallway, the sound of heavy footsteps growing louder. Father appeared in the doorway with a smile.
“Good morning, Isobel. You are looking lovely today. Have you given more thought to the generous proposal put before you?”
Isobel glowered at him. “You act very sweetly, Father, even though it was only a few hours ago that you attempted to trade my and Joan’s bodies.”
Father’s jaw clenched. “You would speak to your father in such a manner?”
Isobel was rendered speechless. She was not accustomed to defying her father openly like that.
“You’re being unreasonable, Isobel.” Father shook his head, looking at her like she was a child who didn’t understand. “At least at a brothel you would have a roof over your head. You wouldn’t have to live on the streets and beg for scraps. Though, there’s no need to worry about that now. You’re going to be a duchess.”
“I will be nothing.” Isobel held her chin high. “I haven’t accepted the proposal, and I have no intention of doing so.”
Father’s hands clenched into tight fists. “Foolish, stupid girl! You claim you’re more than a girl with simply air between her ears, but a wise woman would see that this marriage could save her family.”
“I can see that, but why would I want to save you? Joan and I will become nuns.”
Isobel knew now that the idea of going to a monastery had been nothing more than a dramatic escape. It was no longer an option—if it ever truly had been. But the realization left a sting deep in her chest. Once again, the choice had been made for her. Her life shifted and was steered by everyonebutherself.
Is there anything a woman is permitted to decide?
Her future, her marriage, her body—did any of it belong to her?
The thought settled like a stone in her stomach, heavy and cold.
Joan sighed but she said nothing.
But nothing would change now. Isobel would marry the Mayfair Fox, and somehow, she would see that Joan was protected., even if it cost her everything.
Eight
Andrew stood in the parlor, his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the little portraits of Isobel that decorated the shelves of the bookshelf nearest the hearth. She was younger in many of them, but those amber eyes had clearly remained the same throughout her life, unsettling and following him everywhere he paced.
“Your Grace!” Lord Leyton walked into the room, his voice booming and his smile bright. He gestured toward the tea and sandwiches on the table. “Please, help yourself. Isobel will be joining us in a moment.”
“I’m fine.” Andrew kept his position near the hearth, still inspecting the portraits.
“Isobel was always a beautiful woman,” Lord Leyton crooned. “She’s the spitting image of her mother.”
“She is.” Andrew walked further along the bookshelf, noting the small paintings of Joan that resided there as well, though those ones were done in a different style, the painting more precise, almost like the artist behind them needed to get every detail just right.
The portraits of Joan reminded him of the painting Isobel had been working on in the drawing room.
“Those were done by Isobel. She’s quite an accomplished young lady. She sings and plays pianoforte as well.” Lord Leyton joined Andrew by the bookshelf, nodding to one of the paintings of a landscape. “She did that after we took a trip to Scotland once. She thought the people out there seemed far freer than those in England.”
She will have freedom with me.
Andrew glanced at the doorway as Isobel strode into the room. Her skirt brushed across the floor. Her honey hair was pinned into a knot so that several curls framed her face and the long line of her neck.
He longed to pull the pins out of her hair and run his fingers through it, just to see if it was as silky as it looked.
“Isobel,” Lord Leyton said, finally taking notice of his daughter “I’m pleased to see that you’ve joined us. Now we can celebrate the joining of our two houses properly.”
That hypocrite.
Isobel said nothing as she clasped her hands tight together in front of her, looking between the two men with a stare that felt like a shard of ice driving straight through his chest.
She was angry. He could see that in the eyes that glowed like molten metal.
