Page 13 of The Betrothal

“Come in.”

The door creaked open to show Father, a look of quiet concern etched into his features.

“Isabelle, can I come in?”

I forced a weak smile and nod.

“Your mother is quite upset.” Father entered the room, not closing the door in his wake.

I knew it. My fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into my skin as anger resurged.

I knew my father, ever the politician, he could read me as well as any room, so I straightened my hands, occupying them with undoing my coat and stripping my scarf, giving him no reply.

“Must we all argue?” It wasn’t really a question, more of a quiet assertion to simply stop.

“I had no argument. Mother took issue with my lack of excitement over wedding planning and caused a scene in the street.” I turned to face him. “The matter will be closed in days, then I become Theodore’s problem.”

“Oh, Isabelle, always so dramatic.” He had the audacity to sound disappointed.

“You may ask me to meet the expectations laid at my door, Father, but you cannot control the manner in which I meet those expectations.”

He opened his mouth to reply but I couldn’t stomach another speech on social alliances and the obligations of a daughter, so I raised my hand to hold him.

“I will do so with respect, but I will not guarantee a smile.”

Holding back his protests, he defaulted to his standard reply, this conversation had been and gone numerous times over the years as I sought to manoeuvre my way out of a commitment to Teddy.

All of Father’s attempts at logic and bargaining were met with my logic, counter-arguing his policies and requirements, and where that failed, I would employ emotion, pleading.

And they all fell on deaf ears. Every single time.

“That will have to do,” he conceded, the happiness of my soon-to-be marriage was really of little concern.

Reputation and public persona aside he couldn’t force a happiness from me and was perceptive enough to cease in his attempts.

Strolling slowly over to the kitchenette, treading carefully as though circling a feral cat, he placed an envelope on the counter.

“The arrangements are made, here are your papers authorising movement, electronic copies will be in your inbox, Natalie has sent them over.”

Father’s long-suffering executive assistant was no doubt responsible for the entire arrangement. A kind woman, in her late thirties, she was extremely successful as far as women in the workplace were able to be, and I had known her for years.

“Your mother has demanded I cancel the whole affair.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course she had.

“She has no requirement to be there, nor Ester, she threatened me with lessons from Ester on being a dutiful high-society wife.”

At the pout in my tone Father let out a small laugh. Gripping me by my shoulder, he engulfed me in his embrace, his lips landing lightly on my head.

Despite my anger at the situation, I huffed a laugh back.

“What a generous offer.” He played along. “I know you’ve long since wished to become more akin to your younger sister.”

Gently pushing back, I looked up to him, the humour falling away.

“I suppose I can’t just go with Sophie?”

I knew the answer before he gave it.