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“Of course not,” Isadora replied. “I would have put a stop to it then as well.”

Penelope sighed, rubbing at her temple before taking Isadora’s hand in hers, squeezing it. “You are being difficult.”

“Penelope,” Isadora warned again, “I am looking out for you because, one, I know you . And second, you are a lady, and I know how careful you ought to be. Do you understand that?”

Despite the sigh in her voice, Penelope did not argue further. Isadora took that as a victory and returned to her friends.

Though this time, she kept an eye out for Penelope—who stood behind her. The gentleman had scurried away.

Hopefully for good, she thought.

“Can I at least go and get a drink for myself?” Penelope asked, her voice straining. “I do not wish to just stand around here doing nothing the entire night.”

“Only if you promise not to entertain riff raff gentlemen.” Isadora narrowed her eyes but softened slightly upon seeing the look on her sister’s face.

Perhaps she was being a bit too harsh on her.

“Fine then, go on,” she continued.

“Thank you for the permission , Your Highness,” the younger sister laughed, half in amusement and half in exasperation.

“Remember that I will be watching you.”

“Oh, you need not remind me. That much is already apparent,” Penelope said before drifting off.

“Tell me, Isadora,” Daphne mused as Isadora approached them again, “do you plan to chaperone Penelope forever? Surely, you must have some aspirations of your own?”

“My only aspiration is to see that my sister does not end up married to a scoundrel.”

It was the plain truth. No mincing her words.

Violet laughed. “And if a respectable gentleman were to come along?”

“I would evaluate him thoroughly,” Isadora said primly, “and only then, perhaps, would I consider stepping aside.”

“Quite the detective you are,” Daphne sighed dramatically.

Their conversation was interrupted when the orchestra began to play, and couples began to pair off. Isadora watched as Penelope was once again approached, this time by Lord Benedict Hawthorne—a respectable match, by all accounts. Still, she could not help but scrutinize his every move.

Penelope caught her sister’s gaze and sighed before walking over to her. “I give you my word, Isadora. I will not elope with him tonight.”

“See that you do not,” Isadora replied though her tone was not as serious as it had been before.

As the dance began, Daphne leaned in with a smirk. “One day, dear Isadora, someone will watch you just as closely as you watch your sister.”

“Highly unlikely,” Isadora scoffed. “They will have to be more observant than I am for that to ever be the case.”

And besides, Isadora could not see why anyone would ever want to watch over her so closely. She did not admit that part out loud, however.

“Oh, we shall see,” Daphne smirked, playfully.

“ Please, ” Isadora snorted. “You know well enough that I do not have interest in these things.”

“Yes, yes. You have appointed yourself as the Mother of the house. We know this, Penelope knows this. But truly, you need to re-think things,” Daphne advised.

Isadora simply opted to ignore her. Mother of the house. That was really quite the title, but Isadora had not chosen it. Rather, it was something that she had stepped up to as she did not have much choice after her mother’s passing.

“I need to re-think nothing,” she muttered under her breath. Isadora was quite happy with herself exactly as she was.

“One day you might change your mind,” Daphne said, hopeful as usual. Daphne had never lost her faith in love—and it was something that she always urged her friends to do as well.

“Well, till that day comes, I am perfectly fine as I am,” Isadora insisted. “Now, please…”

“Let you continue watching your sister?” Daphne chuckled, shaking her head.

“Yes,” Isadora insisted. “Precisely that.”

The carriage ride home was unusually silent, save for the occasional rustling of Penelope’s gown as she adjusted herself uncomfortably on the velvet seat.

Isadora had spent the better part of the night ensuring that Penelope remained out of the grasp of men she deemed unworthy, but as always, she had done so without drawing attention to herself. It was an exhausting task, keeping up with her sister’s innocence and her father’s expectations.

Their father, George, Earl of Young, sat opposite them, a peculiar expression on his face—one that unsettled Isadora deeply.

Why is he smiling like that? Isadora thought to herself. It was rare that her father was ever in a good mood. In fact, the fact that he seemed to be made her uneasy.

The carriage rattled to a halt in front of Young Manor, and footmen rushed to open the door. Isadora wanted nothing more than to get upstairs, rid herself of her corset, and finally turn in for the night.

But their father had other plans.

“Girls,” George called as they reached the first step of the grand staircase, “stay a moment. I need to speak with you about something urgent.”

Isadora’s fingers curled against her skirt anxiously. She did not trust his tone of voice. It was the same tone that preceded every decision he made without consulting them. Even Penelope seemed to stiffen beside her.

Isadora turned slowly. “Yes, Father?”

“I have excellent news,” George exclaimed.

Isadora did not trust excellent news. Not when it came from George Morton.

“I have secured a match for Penelope.”

A feeling of dread washed over Isadora. She turned to Penelope, whose lips had parted in surprise.

“A match?” Penelope’s voice was hesitant. “You mean an engagement?”

“Indeed,” George said, as if bestowing a great honor. “I have given the matter much thought, and I believe I have found the perfect husband for you.”

Isadora’s heart pounded violently in her chest. No, no, no.

“Father, I did not know that you were looking for a match for her.” She tried to keep her voice even. “You did not consult with me.”

George shot her a condescending look. “Why would I need to consult with you? Besides, the sooner she finds a match, the better. Having unmarried daughters is a liability that no man wants for himself,” he huffed.

His words had been said so carelessly, but they were reminders that Isadora—while she did act as the mother of the house — did not actually have the privileges of a mother.

She was, at the end of the day, only the eldest daughter, bound to the rule of the man of the house.

“It would have been good if you had consulted with me beforehand,” she swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Who… is the match that you have chosen?”

“Why would I waste my time doing that?” George bit back.

Lovely. Isadora could never really expect her father to be polite to her. Perhaps this was why she insisted on being so proper—so that she would not be like her father.

“You did not answer my question,” she pointed out.

“Ah, well, yes,” George clasped his hands behind his back, a smug look on his face. “You will be happy to hear that I have managed to secure one of the best matches. The Marquess of Hartenshire.”

“The… what?” Isadora let out a gasp. Suddenly, the room around her seemed to shrink.

Of all people, he has chosen the Marquess of Hartenshire?

She stepped forward before she could stop herself. “You cannot be serious, Father. Is this some cruel jest you are making at Penelope’s expense?”

“Mind your tone, Isadora. I did not raise you to be so crass.” All traces of politeness left her father’s voice.

Yes, because you did not raise me at all. You left me to figure that out for myself.

She decided not to say that part out loud, but she did not lower her voice either.

“Father, need I remind you of his reputation? The Marquess of Hartenshire is a known rake. A man with a scandal for every Season. You cannot possibly think?—”

“You seem to be privy to all the gossip.” George taunted. “Don’t you have work around the house to keep your occupied? Why are you even paying attention to this nonsense?”

Isadora gritted her teeth. It was exactly like her father to turn a perfectly reasonable complaint into something else entirely, just to avoid the topic.

“Father, he really does not have the best of?—”

George held up a hand, cutting her off. “Enough. You are talking far too much for your own good. Besides, this does not even concern you.”

“If it concerns my sister, then it concerns me .” Isadora wasn’t done arguing back. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

Penelope could not be married to that horrid man.

“She has not expressed a disagreement,” George argued. “Your sister is perfectly happy with her father’s decisions. You should learn to be as well.”

All attention turned to Penelope, who seemed to have gone blue in the face. Isadora rushed to her, worried that she might faint.

“Oh, no need to be so dramatic,” George chided at the gesture, his lips curling into a snarl. “That is why she is so troublesome. You do not let her grow up.”

That stung more than Isadora expected it to. She had heard similar things from him before—all ways to channel the guilt that he should be feeling about being an absent father to both of them.

“Father, please,” Penelope whispered, stepping forward into the conversation at last. “Isadora makes a valid point. I—I do not wish to marry him.”

George’s expression darkened instantly, his jaw tightening as he looked down at Penelope.

“Influenced by your sister,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Of course. I should have expected as much.”

“Father—” Penelope started, but George held up a hand again.

“This is your doing,” he said, his eyes snapping back to Isadora. “I should have known the moment you started speaking out of turn that you had already filled her head with nonsense.”

“That’s not—” Penelope tried to argue.

“Oh, do not insult my intelligence,” George cut her off. “A moment ago, you had no objections. And now, suddenly, after she speaks, you have found your courage?”

“She does not need me to tell her what she does or does not want,” Isadora argued.

“And yet, somehow, it is only when you are present that she remembers how to disagree with me,” George scoffed. “You have always had far too much of an influence on your younger sister.”

“And you have always made decisions that do not consider anyone but yourself.” Isadora held her ground.

“I will not tolerate your interference.” George’s nostrils flared, his patience thinning. “You do not get to meddle in your sister’s future.”

“You are making it sound as though I am the problem here,” Isadora said. “Not the awful match you have chosen.”

“No, you are the problem. You have made her weak, Isadora. You have spoiled her with your meddling. Look at her—she cannot even speak for herself without you at her side,” George huffed.

Isadora did not correct him that Penelope was perfectly capable of speaking up for herself and making her own decisions. He just did not know because Isadora kept all of her sister’s trouble-making stories hidden from their father.

“That is not true!” Penelope blurted. “I do not wish to marry him, Father. Not because of Isadora—but because I simply do not want to.”

George’s expression remained unreadable for a moment before he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “What an inconvenience,” he muttered. “I had expected better from you, Penelope.”

“The best thing you should hope for is for your daughters to have a backbone,” Isadora insisted. “You should want your daughters to have a choice.”

George’s expression did not change. “You will do as I say.”

Penelope’s lips trembled, and Isadora noticed tears forming in her eyes. That was the last straw.

“You cannot force her into this.” Isadora squared her shoulders.

“I can, and I will.” George’s voice was cold now. “This is not up for debate. You are both daughters of an earl. Your duty is to make good matches, not prattle on about feelings.”

“A good match does not include a man who gambles away his fortune and drinks himself into oblivion. You cannot possibly send Penelope to such a fate.” Isadora balled her fists.

“I will say this again for one final time,” George’s expression hardened. “Do not presume to question the decisions of the man of the house.”

Isadora inhaled deeply, trying to keep herself calm. Penelope was trembling beside her, her hands clasped together so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

Arguing—it seemed—was not proving to be fruitful. If she wanted to get her father to change his mind, she had to find another way.

“Give me some time,” she said, her voice quieter now. More measured. “Let me find her a more suitable match.”

“Don’t bother with that nonsense,” George exhaled, shaking his head. “There is no better match. The Marquess wants her. He approached me himself.”

Of course, he did.

That vile man had probably run through his entire fortune and now sought an innocent, wealthy young bride to save him.

“Then I shall find another,” Isadora insisted. “One who is titled, respectable, and not a man with a scandal in every drawing room.”

“The Marquess is one of the most eligible bachelors of the Season. It is in your best interest to accept the proposal, for there is no other choice.” George’s mouth curled in irritation.

George turned on his heel and strode away, whistling, as if he hadn’t just sentenced his youngest daughter to a life of misery.

As soon as he was out of sight, Penelope let out a broken sob.

“Is he really going to make me do this, Isadora?”

Isadora turned to her, gathering her into her arms. “Shh,” she murmured, smoothing her hand over Penelope’s dark curls. “I will fix this.”

Penelope clung to her like a child would to a mother.

Mother of the house , indeed. In that moment, Penelope was no longer the trouble-causing young girl. She was a scared one who needed reassurance.

“How?” she whispered.

“I do not know yet,” Isadora admitted. “But I swear to you, I will .”

Penelope sniffled against her shoulder. “I cannot marry him, Isadora. I won’t .”

And Isadora, for all her composure, for all her careful control, felt her own throat tighten.

“You will not,” she promised. “I will not allow it.”