Page 2 of His Graceful Duchess (A Lady’s Vow #3)

CHAPTER 2

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.

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.

She reached for a linen handkerchief and gently dabbed at her sister’s damp cheeks. “I will not let this happen.”

Penelope sniffled. “But how? Father won’t listen. He’s already decided.”

That, at least, was true. George Morton had never been a man to reconsider a decision once made—especially not when it came to what he saw as beneficial to himself.

“I will find a way.”

Penelope exhaled shakily, nodding, though her grip on Isadora’s hands remained tight. “Do you promise?”

A moment’s hesitation. Not because Isadora lacked conviction, but because she was trying to figure out how she could fulfill that promise.

But then her resolve hardened.

“I promise,” she whispered.

And she meant it.

Isadora lay awake long after Penelope had drifted into an exhausted sleep.

She needed power. Influence. Someone who could stop this marriage before it became irreversible.

Her father would not be swayed. The Marquess was well-connected, wealthy despite his gambling, and had the backing of many of George’s powerful acquaintances.

To fight this battle, she needed someone with more power than both of them combined.

She had heard of him, of course. He was ruthless , they said. A man who did not play by the rules, a man who had earned his wealth and status in a world that did not give anything without a fight.

He was a man who could make things happen .

The memory of Daphne’s voice echoed in her mind.

He has connections in the most dangerous of places. If he wanted something done, it would be done.

That was exactly the sort of man she needed.

Isadora slipped out of the house, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. The servants were long asleep, and she had ensured that Penelope would not wake before she left.

Her heart pounded as she secured her horse and rode into the night, the streets of London fading into the dark countryside.

Her destination was not far, but the ride felt endless. Each passing second brought new doubts.

Would he turn her away?

Would he demand something of her that she could not give?

Would he be worse than the Marquess himself?

But none of that mattered. If she did nothing, Penelope’s fate was sealed, and she would never forgive herself for it.

She arrived an hour before dawn, and she slid off her horse, gathering her skirts as she approached the side entrance. It would too bold of her to use the front doors—this had to be done in secrecy.

Knocking urgently against the wooden staff door, she stepped back, her pulse racing.

It took nearly a full minute before it creaked open.

A butler, dressed in his nightclothes, blinked at her in shock.

“Can I help you, My Lady?” He regarded her with hesitance.

“I need to speak with His Grace,” she whispered. “It is urgent.”

The butler’s expression tightened. “His Grace does not receive visitors at this hour. I apologize, but you must leave and return at a more suitable hour.”

Isadora pressed her lips together. She had come too far to be turned away like this.

“I know,” she said. “But this cannot wait. Please. It is urgent that I meet him.”

The butler hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and the sheer audacity of her presence. But something softened in his expression, perhaps it was because of the desperation he saw in her eyes.

Then, sighing, he stepped aside. “Wait here.”

She exhaled shakily as he disappeared into the depths of the house. Minutes passed, and then the butler returned.

“You are to follow me,” he said firmly. “It is very unusual for His Grace to make allowances like this, but he has made one, luckily, as he was awake.”

“I just wish to speak to him once,” she said, feeling a wave of relief wash over her.

At least I have a chance.

That was all she needed. The butler led her up the staircase and then down the hallway to stop in front of what appeared to be a study.

“Rest assured you shall conduct yourself in a proper manner, or you shall be escorted out,” the butler warned, and then slowly, he opened the door for her to enter. “Go on then, My Lady. He is inside.”

It was too late to turn back now.

With slow, hesitant steps, Isadora ventured inside.

A man sat behind the large desk, his face half-obscured by the dim light.

She had never seen him up so close like this before. The first thing she noticed was his size.

He was… massive. Broad-shouldered and impossibly still. He leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled before him as he regarded her with a stare.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“You are either very brave,” he said, “or very, very foolish.”

The words sent a shiver down her spine, but she forced herself to stand taller. Perhaps I am both.

“I had no other choice.”

His expression did not change.

“You always have a choice,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough. “Most would have chosen differently.”

Isadora clenched her hands into fists at her sides. “Most are not in my position.”

A pause. Then, ever so slightly, his lips tilted—though it was not quite a smile. “And what position is that?”

“I am Lady Isadora Morton, daughter of the Earl of Young.”

Something flickered in his expression. Not surprise. Something else. Amusement? Annoyance?

“So you are.” His voice remained unreadable. “And what does the daughter of an earl want with me?”

“I need your help.” Isadora swallowed her pride. It was not an easy thing for her to ask for help.