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I sadora paced in circles across the drawing room. Across from her, Penelope sat stiffly on the sofa, her hands twisting in her lap. Every now and then, she would glance toward the door then back at her sister. Both of them were nervous.

“This is unbearable,” Isadora muttered, throwing a sharp look toward the clock on the mantelpiece. “Where is he?”

Penelope bit her lip. “I do not know. Perhaps he has changed his mind?”

“If only we were so fortunate,” Isadora replied darkly.

“And shouldn’t Father be here for all of this? Considering it is he who has put us into this situation to begin with,” Isadora continued, voicing her frustration out loud.

It was not unheard of for George to be missing from the scene whenever he was needed. He had a penchant for shirking his responsibilities after all. Yet Isadora had assumed that he would be lined up by the door to be the first one to greet the Marquess, considering his enthusiasm for the match.

Their father had made it clear that this was an important meeting.

“A man does not waste time on pleasantries when he means to secure a bride,” George had said to her earlier with a satisfied smirk.

“Perhaps we can use it as an excuse to delay the visit.” Isadora stopped pacing for a moment. “Yes, we can do just that. He is the man of the house after all.”

How she loathed that term. It had never made sense to her. Was he meant to be an unquestioning authority only on the basis of him being a man?

Ever since they had lost their mother—years ago when Isadora was only twelve—she had been forced to step up and take responsibilities that were far beyond her age, so it irked her truly when George made her feel so small and insignificant by lording the title of ‘man of the house’ over her head whenever he wished to get something done.

But perhaps she could use it to her advantage for once in her life.

“Do you think that would work?” Penelope asked, biting down on her lip. “The Marquess must nearly be here now. He was to arrive by four at the latest.”

“Yes, but we can send someone to intercept him.” Isadora’s mind churned with ideas. “Let him know that we are very sorry, but we will have to reschedule this entire meeting.”

No such luck would grace them tonight as their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a carriage pulling up outside in their driveway.

Both of them froze.

The Marquess of Hartenshire, Harry Flynn, had arrived.

She had heard enough about Lord Hartenshire to know he was not the kind of man one wanted in the family. A rake, a gambler, a man who spent his nights drinking himself into a stupor and his mornings nursing debts he had no business accruing in the first place.

And yet, here they were, waiting for his arrival, as if his interest in Penelope was something to be pleased about.

Penelope slackened her shoulders. “Perhaps he will not be as awful as people say.”

“That is a dangerous kind of hope, Penelope.”

If there was one thing Isadora had learned in life, it was that one must always keep their expectations about the world realistic. Her father—as unreliable as he was—had inadvertently taught her that lesson well.

Before Penelope could respond, the butler entered the room, his usual composed expression tinged with the faintest hint of unease.

“His Lordship, the Marquess of Hartenshire.”

The door swung open, and there he was.

Harry Flynn was dressed impeccably, suggesting he wanted people to believe he had made an effort but not too much of one. His dark hair was longer than the latest fashion dictated. But it was his expression that unsettled Isadora the most.

The smirk. The casual, almost lazy amusement in his dark eyes. The air of a man who was utterly at ease, as if he already knew the outcome of this visit. As if this was a game to him, and he had already won.

“My dear Lady Penelope,” he greeted smoothly, stepping forward and reaching for Penelope’s hand. He did not ask for permission before lifting it to his lips, pressing what should have been a chaste kiss to her glove but which lingered a fraction too long.

It took Isadora every ounce of patience not to knock her sister’s hand out of his, right there and then.

Poor Penelope. She only smiled politely, but Isadora saw the stiffness in her posture.

Hartenshire turned then, his gaze barely brushing over Isadora before dismissing her entirely.

Oh.

At least he was smart enough to know who to avoid.

“Penelope, I must say, you are even lovelier than I remembered,” Hartenshire continued, making himself comfortable as though it wasn’t his very first visit.

Isadora resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Penelope lowered her lashes demurely. “You are too kind, My Lord.”

“Oh, I do not believe I am kind at all. I am only telling you the truth,” he smirked.

Something in the way he said it made Isadora tense. It did not sound like a compliment.

Meanwhile, Hartenshire reclined into a chair as if the drawing room belonged to him .

“Please both of you, sit,” he said with an audacity that nearly made Isadora’s jaw drop.

Had he forgotten that this was not this house?

“How kind of you to ask, My Lord,” Isadora said, barely concealing the resentment in her voice.

The two sisters took a seat across from him.

Harry ignored Isadora entirely and leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. His lips curled into a smirk as he swept a gaze around the room.

“A lovely home,” he remarked, his voice smooth and laced with something almost mocking. “Refined, tasteful. I can tell that you must have put quite a lot of thought into it. A woman’s touch does not go unnoticed after all.”

Next to her, Penelope forced a smile. “You flatter our home, My Lord.”

“I wasn’t aware you had such an eye for interior design, Lord Hartenshire,” Isadora interjected.

He chuckled, opting to look in Penelope’s direction even as he answered Isadora.

“A man in my position must appreciate beauty when he sees it. Whether in a home… or elsewhere.”

“Ah, yes. But appreciation and taste are not the same thing, are they? One can admire a work of art without truly understanding its value,” Isadora replied, already wishing for this dreaded meeting to end.

Hartenshire’s smirk did not falter, but there was a flicker of mild irritation. “Indeed, Lady Isadora though I do believe I understand quite well what holds value.”

“Do you?” Isadora arched a brow. “I imagine that must be difficult, given how often the ton speaks of your… varied investments.”

She could not help herself—she had to have a subtle dig at his gambling. Surely it was the unspoken elephant in the room, and she would not continue on with this farce without bringing it up.

Penelope shot her sister a worried look, but Hartenshire looked unbothered as ever.

He must be used to such censure , she thought to herself. That alone was enough reason to never let him set foot inside their home again.

“Ah, society and its tiresome gossip. One should never put too much stock in idle chatter in my opinion.”

“No, of course not. But there is something to be said for a man whose name appears in every whispered conversation. It suggests a certain pattern, don’t you think?” Isadora continued.

“Patterns can be broken,” he dismissed with a casual shrug of the shoulders.

“But in reality,” Isadora mused, “they so rarely are. It is better for one to proceed with caution.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were some kind of fortune teller,” he replied, irked. “Actually, your father mentioned something about you being meddlesome. I assume that this is what he meant.”

Isadora felt her anger rise again. Trust her father to speak ill of his own daughter to a man who was no more than a stranger.

“He warned you about me, then?” Isadora said, curtly. “Is that what you are trying to convey here?”

“It was not a warning.” His mouth curved into a smirk. “But he informed me beforehand, if you will. It is not a problem, though. I am quite used to dealing with nuisances.”

The audacity. In any other household, he would have been kicked out for calling the eldest daughter of the house a nuisance, but Isadora suspected that George would have agreed with him, had he been here.

“Are you always this rude to the people whose house you are a guest at?” Isadora questioned him. If he was expecting a nuisance, then that was exactly what he was going to get.

“I am not used to being questioned like this.” He shot her a look, as if to dismiss her.

“Why?” she pressed on. “Are you worried that you will reveal something that we ought not to know?”

Hartenshire ignored her again, turning back to Penelope. “A woman of refinement, of grace and quiet obedience, is a rare thing these days.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I find myself quite drawn to those who still know their place.”

Know their place. It felt like a thinly concealed warning, not inviting in the slightest.

“And where exactly would you say that place is, My Lord?” Isadora answered instead.

And yet again, Hartenshire did not even glance at her. “At her husband’s side, of course.”

“A woman’s place is where she chooses it to be, My Lord. Whether that be at her husband’s side, above him, or far, far away from him,” Isadora said firmly.

Irritation flashed his features again. Isadora was certain that he wanted nothing more than have her leave the conversation, but she was not going to give him that satisfaction.

“I would not expect you to understand,” the Marquess replied. “But you are not the person I am referring to.”

Penelope and Isadora exchanged a look. As far as first impressions went, his could not have been worse.

George entered just then, sparing either of them from having to respond.

“Ah, Harry!” George greeted, jovially. As usual, he seemed to feel no remorse for being away for the better part of the meeting. “I trust my daughters are keeping you entertained?”

“Oh, most certainly, My Lord. Your Penelope is truly a delight,” Hartenshire grinned, pleased to have him there.

“She is, isn’t she?” George beamed.