Page 138 of The Betrothal

Her mother’s voice was cutting through me, and I’d been in her company less than half an hour.

“She can be taken to her room, first floor, second door on the right,” she bossed Seb.

“What the hell is going on!” A second shrill voice joined the fray. A tall brunette, with an air of never having been told no, stormed through the front door, a calm quiet man entering the house behind her.

Seb carried Isabelle behind where Edmund and Archibald had disappeared into a large library.

The mother blustered and complained behind us.

Seb wouldn’t be putting Isabelle down; I doubted he’d ever let her go again.

“Young man!” Her hurried footsteps clicked over the floors as she bustled behind us, her other daughter in tow.

I cut ahead of Seb and shoved the doors wider open so he could carry her through safely. He immediately identified a large velvet sofa and made himself comfortable, with Isabelle’s head cradled in his lap.

His demeanour flicking between doctor and lover, rage and care.

The bridesmaid had slipped to her knees by Seb’s feet, the flowing green gown crumpled under her.

Beside me, the fathers had begun a raging argument but I struggled to tear my attention away from her. Watching the way her bridesmaid fussed over her, working out whether she was like Isabelle, or more akin to the self-serving family around her.

The woman whispered frantically to Seb, the jewellery on her arms and ears clinking. She let out a clear growl of frustration and tore the accessories off before grabbing a handful of her long, thick, black hair and twisting it into a knot so it was out of her face. She tried to get more comfortable and failed, her need to be close to Isabelle overriding anything else, she rose and grabbed a large cushion to throw underneath her, pausing to tear the side of the gown and allow more movement, the harsh ripping of the fabric heard over the raised voices.

She was a friend.

“What game is the girl playing now?” her mother cried into the fray. How the woman had managed to find a louder volume was a mystery to me.

“I told you, didn’t I tell you?” the younger brunette called out. “The little witch was always scheming and now look. Both of our families are embarrassed beyond repair. She’s a disgrace!”

Edmund raised his hands for quiet, just as Theodore Fairchild raced through the door. Theodore slammed it closed behind him.

I bit back the smile at the smear of blood across his cheek and the slight swelling around his nose, maybe it was broken. Shame.

“You cannot let it pass, Father!” the woman implored.

My eyes cut to her, her bluster faltering under what I knew was a withering glare.

Her ugly snarl softened into a face I knew she used to manipulate those around her. Where venom and spite creased her features before, she now blinked at me almost innocently, her brown eyes widening as she observed me for a second.

She swung back to her father, a careful control on her spitting bitterness this time. “She absolutely must go to Cliffedge. We can claim she was broken by her time away and she can stay there. It’s the only way to restore the situation. She deserves nothing less.”

“Edmund!” The mother rejoined the fray and I sighed. These women were poison. “I have had it with the ungrateful girl. You will deal with her.”

“Father, you must!” The sister joined.

“For the love of God, Ester!”

I swung to find the man who spoke.

“Would you mind your mouth for even a moment? You cannot breathe but for vitriol and I am exhausted with you.”

The sister, Ester, jolted as if struck, her painted lips dropping in surprise. I gathered she was rarely held to account.

The man approached me while Ester stood in shock, his hand raised in the first welcoming gesture I’d seen – one I hadn’t anticipated.

“Sam Townsend.”

I took his hand, shaking it firmly. “Alex Cavendish.”