Imogen and Felicity ate more leisurely, reading the morning’s periodicals Mrs. Bevins, the housekeeper, had brought to them, freshly pressed.
Peace reigned once more, the futures of the Merriweathers theirs again to do with as they pleased.
But Isabella’s seemed a void, black and starless and stretching out into eternity.
And that merely fanned her rage. She was not one to become a puddle over a man! She did not need Rowan Trent. She had her family, and she would simply live with Imogen and Thurston all her life. Or with Samuel. Either would need a loving aunt to spoil their children. Better to keep a close eye on everyone, make sure they were—
She didn’t want Rowan to be right. But that had felt a little bit like arranging her life in order to keep track of those she loved. Felt like the icy, unbreakable chains of fear.
When Mr. Jacobs, the butler, appeared in the doorway, he cleared his throat, gaining the room’s attention. “Mr. Haws is asking to speak with you, Your Grace. Should I let him up?”
Samuel sat up straighter and uncrossed his legs. “Yes, do.”
Jacobs disappeared with a stiff nod, and Samuel stood, straightened his waistcoat. “Girls, please leave.”
As Felicity shepherded June and Gertrude out the door, Isabella remained seated. “I want to stay.”
“Me, too.” Imogen rose from her chair and stood next to Isabella, settling her hands on her sister’s shoulder.
Their brother inhaled deeply and exhaled with a rush. “You two… I do not think I would be feeling so free this morning without you.”
“We created this scandal,” Imogen said.
“It was our duty to extricate you from it,” Isabella added.
“I believe our mother created this scandal, but… thank you. I have felt so bloody helpless.”
Isabella rose and took his hand. “You were willing to set aside your happiness to save your sisters from ruination. That is not helpless.” She pecked him on the cheek, and Imogen kissed the other side.
Then Jacobs returned, Mr. Haws, pale and fidgety at his side. Jacobs left the room in awkward silence. Clearly Samuel would not speak first, but Mr. Haws, twisting his hat round and round and round in his short fingers, didn’t seem capable of it.
Finally, Imogen stepped forward. “Mr. Haws, good morning.”
“Clearford.” The word sputtered out of Mr. Haws’s mouth accompanied by a shower of spittle.
“Your Grace,” Samuel corrected.
Haws took two gulping steps toward them, and Samuel matched those steps with his own, nudging Isabella and Imogen behind him.
“It’s time,” Haws said, throwing his arms stiff to his sides. “I’ll suffer no more delays. It is unconscionable for my daughter to wait to wed in favor of your sister. Bethy is to be a duchess, after all. You should treat her as such.”
“Lady Imogen is my sister, and she will have the attention and celebration she deserves.” Samuel took one more step toward Haws. He towered over the other man by several inches, and Haws had to crane his neck back to make eye contact. “Furthermore, I will not be marrying your daughter.”
“You bloody well will!”
Haws shoved Samuel backward. Tried to.
Samuel didn’t budge. With one eyebrow lifted, Samuel stepped back several paces under his own control, sighed, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you done making demands? I was enjoying my meal and my morning until your arrival.”
“You do not have a choice.” Haws trembled. “The letter—”
“This one?” Samuel whipped the worn square of paper out of his pocket and held it near his ear.
Sputtering, Haws lurched forward, but Samuel jumped out of his reach, slipping the paper into Isabella’s hands. Haws eyed it like a starving predator catching sight of the only meal it had seen in weeks.
“You’re not going to attack my sister, are you?” Samuel had given her the prize and the power, but still he stood in front of her, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the other man, his hands twitching, ready.
“That is my letter, girl,” Haws bellowed. “Give it to me.”
