Page 44

Isadora wanted to be sick.

George took his seat, leaning forward as if Hartenshire were a dear friend rather than a suitor who had no business being here. He regarded Hartenshire with open approval.

“I must say, My Lord,” George began, “it’s been far too long since we last shared a drink. I recall our last evening at the club—if memory serves, you walked away from the table a rather happy man.”

“Ah, indeed, My Lord. Fortune favored me that night. Though, I daresay, a man must know when to press his luck and when to bend the game to his favor.”

“Spoken like a true strategist. This is what I’ve always appreciated about you. Always thinking ahead, always playing the game well,” George chuckled, shaking his head.

Isadora’s grip on the armrest tightened. The game. That was all this was to them. A silly game.

“It’s all about knowing your opponent, My Lord. Some men fold too easily. Others don’t know when they’ve already lost.” Hartenshire continued on as though he was delivering some great wisdom when all it was tiresome and cliched nonsense.

She could hardly stand it.

“And which are you, My Lord?” Isadora cut in, knowing full well that her father would not appreciate the interruption.

Hartenshire turned his head toward her, narrowing his eyes.

“That, Lady Isadora,” he drawled, “depends on the stakes.”

“Now, now,” George barked out a laugh, waving a hand. “You must forgive Isadora, Harry. She’s always been far too serious. Takes after her mother, God rest her soul.”

Isadora’s chest burned, but she kept her spine straight. George had better keep her mother out of this, or she would lose her cool entirely.

“A woman with a sharp mind. That is a rare thing, My Lord. Most are content with embroidery and gossip.” Hartenshire glanced at Isadora again. “Tell me, Lady Isadora, do you enjoy games of chance?”

“I prefer certainty, My Lord,” Isadora replied without missing a beat.

“Ah, but certainty is dull, is it not? Life is meant to be unpredictable,” he argued.

“Not where my sister is concerned,” Isadora countered coolly.

She felt the tension grow in the room. Penelope kept her eyes trained to the ground, and George glared at Isadora before breaking into an awkward chuckle.

“Behave now, Isadora. There’s no need to be like this. The Lord has expressed a genuine admiration for your sister. What more could we ask for in a suitor?”

Hartenshire shifted his attention back to Penelope. “She is a delicate thing,” he mused. “A rare bloom. You must be very protective of her, Lady Isadora.”

Penelope attempted to break the tension with a light laugh though it came out slightly strained. “I suppose I am fortunate to have a sister who cares so much for my well-being.”

“Fortunate, indeed,” Hartenshire smirked.

Isadora hated the way he said it. And even more, she hated him.

“Now, Harry, tell me—how are your business ventures faring?” George attempted to change the topic.

“Quite well, I must say,” the Lord replied smugly. “There’s always money to be made where men lack restraint.”

“The key is knowing where to place your bets,” George nodded.

“Exactly, My Lord. And I’ve learned that nothing of value is ever won by waiting,” he replied, his eyes flicking to Penelope.

“I heard whispers that you’ve had a bit of bad luck in certain circles, Harry. Shall I assume those rumors are exaggerated?” George asked.

“A temporary inconvenience. I always find a way to come out on top,” the Lord dismissed the notion entirely, and George did not push him further for any sort of explanation.

Isadora wanted to scream at the callousness that was being displayed by the man who was supposed to look after them.

This is what he is, Father. A man who will gamble everything—including my sister. Why is this not obvious to you?

But George either did not see it or refused to acknowledge the truth. Instead, he clapped Hartenshire on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. A man should never let a little misfortune deter him,” he grinned.

“Nor should a man waste time when he knows what he wants,” Hartenshire added hastily.

It occurred to Isadora then: this was not about Penelope, it was about him . George wanted this match because it would bring him favor. Because it would solidify his position among men of influence.

Because it suited him .

When the visit finally came to an end, George rose with a satisfied smile. “Penelope, be a dear and escort Lord Hartenshire to the door.”

Before Penelope could move, Isadora shot up from her seat.

“I will do it,” she said firmly.

“Isadora—” Her father frowned.

“I insist.”

Hartenshire chuckled as if he found her little display of defiance amusing.

“Ah, the formidable Lady Isadora,” he mused as she led him through the corridor. “So protective of your dear sister.”

Isadora did not respond.

Once they reached the entrance, she turned to him, knowing that they were finally out of earshot lest George tried to stop her. “Perhaps you and Penelope are not such a good match after all.”

“Do I ask why you think that?” Hartenshire responded, seeming bored.

“Yes, it would be in your interest to.” She narrowed her eyes. “It is not merely about titles and wealth. A marriage should be built on something more.”

“Oh, Lady Isadora, you are delightfully na?ve,” he laughed at her, his tone dripping with condescension. “It is not a matter of a good or bad match. It is a matter of what I want .”

Just as I had thought. The man did not care for anything outside of himself.

“And what about what Penelope wants?” she demanded.

“Your father was right about you,” he said. “You have been nothing more than a nuisance to me all evening. Why don’t you do yourself and your sister a favor and stay out of this?”

“I will not stay out of it,” Isadora shot back, refusing to be intimidated. “Penelope deserves better than?—”

“Than me?” Hartenshire interrupted. “And who, pray tell, is better?”

“Someone who respects her.”

“Respect,” he repeated with a laugh, as if the very word amused him. “How sweet. Tell me, Lady Isadora, do you truly believe respect is what builds a successful marriage?”

“It is certainly a better foundation than greed and ambition.” Isadora gritted her teeth.

“My dear, you misunderstand the world entirely,” he said smoothly. “Marriage is not about feelings or some silly fantasy. It is a transaction. Your sister understands that, even if she lacks the will to say it aloud.”

“She has said it aloud. She does not want this.” Isadora clenched her jaw. “And she does not want you. ”

“Because you have filled her head with nonsense,” Hartenshire said. “Your father did warn me beforehand about this as well.”

Lovely. What else had George said to him?

“Because she is afraid to stand up to our father,” Isadora countered.

“Or perhaps she is afraid of disappointing you,” he smirked. “Have you ever considered that, dear Isadora?”

A chill ran down her spine at the way he said her name, the way he let it roll off his tongue. Evil was the only way that she could describe that sound.

“I suspect this has very little to do with your sister,” he continued in the same tone, “and far more to do with you.”

“Wh—What are you talking about?” The implication caught Isadora off guard.

“Oh, come now,” he smirked. “You can hide behind your concern for Penelope all you like, but we both know the truth. No man is interested in you.”

“Is that why you despise me?” she asked, wondering whether she should laugh. “Because I see right through you?”

“I despise you, Lady Isadora, because you meddle in things that are not your concern,” he said.

“Because you cannot stand the thought of someone else making a better match than you ever could. You are sabotaging your sister’s future.

And for what? Because it pains you to see someone else succeed where you have failed? ”

“I have not failed,” she hissed. Her choice not to marry yet was her own. He was sinister for making it seem like it wasn’t.

What a truly dreadful man.

“Haven’t you?” he smirked. “You play the dutiful daughter, but tell me, Lady Isadora—where is your husband?”

“I do not need?—”

Hartenshire leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.

“No man wants a woman like you. Sharp-tongued and difficult. You are not here to protect your sister,” he said, stepping back, his smirk widening. “You are here because you cannot bear to be alone in your misery.”

The accusation was so preposterous that Isadora was truly speechless for a few moments.

“I will tell you one last time, Lady Isadora,” Hartenshire said. “Stay. Out. Of. This. Because if you do not, I promise you—I will make sure your sister’s life is very difficult.”

Then, with an infuriatingly smug chuckle, he walked out into the night, leaving her there, seething. The moment the door shut behind him, Isadora clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

He would not have her sister. She would see to that.

No matter what it took.

The sound of Penelope’s muffled sobs filled the quiet of Isadora’s room. She sat curled in the large armchair by the fireplace, her shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands.

For a long moment, Isadora stood frozen near the window, unsure of what to do.

This cannot happen.

She hated feeling so helpless, but she could not show it to Penelope.

Mustering all the strength she had and swallowing the knot in her throat, she turned to her sister.

“Penny,” she murmured, kneeling before her, taking her hands in her own. “I need you to breathe.”

“I c—can’t,” Penelope stuttered, her tears falling freely. “I cannot— I will not —marry that man. He is horrid, Isadora.”

Isadora squeezed her fingers. “I know.”

“You d—don’t,” Penelope insisted, shaking her head violently. “You did not see the way he looked at me. Like I was some… possession he was about to acquire. Like I did not even have a say in the matter.”

A cold fury settled in Isadora’s bones. She had seen it, of course. The way Hartenshire had spoken.