Page 11 of The Betrothal

Sighing he stilled, finally withdrawing his hands. I took a shaky breath and put on a smile, hoping he’d hear the excitement in my voice, not the crushing weight of my existential dread.

Standing, he rearranged his noticeable erection.

“Look what you do to me.” I blanched as Teddy cupped my cheek. Biting his lip, he murmured, “So innocent.”

Looking me over he straightened my dress where he had ruffled it, eyes sparking with pride before he ran his thumbs around my mouth, tidying my lipstick.

Yanking me close one final time he kissed my head and muttered, “My Isabelle.”

CHAPTER FOUR

ISABELLE

“Beautifully healthy.”

The doctor’s head popped up from behind the white paper laid over my lap, as if the small strip of tissue offered any decency for these types of exams.

Especially when the doctor remained south of the modesty barrier with a lamp brighter than the sun illuminating my most intimate parts.

Every three months I was required to visit a doctor, for internal and external health checks, blood tests and fertility level monitoring. Four times more frequently than the policies required of a fertile woman. Per the directives of my family, as if it was a way to remind me of my correct future path while I distracted myself with my education.

I’d had these for years, and the doctors our family frequented were all polite enough. But, nonetheless, it still felt like a violation, every, single, time.

“You can dress now.” The snap of latex gloves being removed accompanied me snapping my legs closed. “The results will be passed to your guardian within the week.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” I didn’t mean it.

“Ms Fairchild, sorry, my mistake, these will go to your husband.” She turned to look at me.

“I’m not Ms Fairchild, not yet. The results go to my father until the wedding, which is over a week away,” I corrected her.

The doctor slid the curtain closed and began scrolling and clicking on her computer while I began to dress.

“Yes, I can see your name has not yet changed on the system, my apologies.”

I sighed in relief.

“However,” she went on. “We received a call from your fiancé requesting reports be transferred to him immediately, and upon confirming with your guardian, he authorised the transfer.”

I spun, jaw dropping, speechless, and pushed through the curtain.

The doctor, looking uncomfortable, continued slowly. “So, Mr Fairchild will have these before the big day, you must be very excited?”

Excited wasn’t the word for it.

What the hell was Teddy playing at? And Father? How dare he.

“Thank you, Doctor.” I offered the pleasantry, at a loss for real words. I slammed my feet into my boots and grabbed my jacket, rushing from the clinic before she could say anything more.

“Father O’Neill will run a beautiful service, do you not think, Isabelle?” Mother tittered as I tried to ignore her, my attention on the paving ahead of me.

In the hours since my clinic appointment, Mother had endlessly walked me through the wedding plans at our family church, its enormity illustrating the scale of the event.

Mother had taken time explaining each detail, from the service arrangements to seating by row, the guest list and coordination of the most influential attendees to be seated at the front, even to the detriment of family.

“Of course, Mother.” I tried to cover the disinterest in my voice, but the ability to mask it was slipping.

In the days since returning to the family home, I had attended the outrageous birthday party, then tasting events with caterers, meetings with florists, planners, and now the family priest.