CHAPTER 1
The harp strings kept tangling, and Miss Hartwell’s playing grew more stilted with each wrong note. Isadora winced as another discord jangled through the drawing room, but she kept her expression pleasantly attentive. Father had specifically requested this particular young lady perform, and questioning his judgment would only earn her a lecture later about supporting struggling families with musical daughters.
“Ashcombe can’t take his eyes off you,” Father whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “Been staring since he arrived. Perfect timing, really. His wife’s been dead six months now. Decent mourning period observed.”
The roast from dinner threatened to come back up her throat. Lord Ashcombe was fifty-three years old with hands like raw dough and a habit of standing too close when he spoke. Isadora had been dodging his advances at social gatherings for the better part of two years, back when he’d still been married to his poor, long-suffering first wife.
“He’s older than you are.”
“He’s richer than I am. Your sister married well. High time you followed her example instead of turning your nose up at perfectly acceptable offers.”
Acceptable. That word again. As if marriage were nothing more than a business transaction, which in Father’s world, she supposed it essentially was. Three proposals rejected in as many years, each one sending him into deeper fits of exasperation. At three-and-twenty, she was perilously close to being labeled a confirmed spinster, a fate that would reflect poorly on the Earl’s ability to manage his household.
Isadora let her attention drift while Miss Hartwell massacred whatever the song she attempted was meant to be. Their guests filled every available seat in the cream-silk drawing room, London’s elite packed together like peacocks in a conservatory. Lord Fairfax dozed near the fireplace. The Dowager Countess of Blackwood fanned herself vigorously, shooting disapproving looks at Mrs. Crawford’s daring neckline. Everyone who mattered was here, which meant everyone who mattered would witness whatever humiliation Father had planned for her tonight.
Then she spotted the girl in the corner, and everything else faded into background noise.
Lillian Gray sat like she was afraid to breathe wrong. Fifteen years old and already carrying the weight of scandal on her thin shoulders. The infamous, illegitimate daughter of James Gray,ward of the infamous Duke of Rothwell. She might as well have worn a sign announcing her shameful origins. Her pale blue dress was pretty enough but painfully modest, her dark hair pinned back severely. She clutched her hands in her lap and stared at Miss Hartwell’s harp with the desperate attention of someone who knew she was being watched and judged.
Her chaperone, an elderly woman with kind eyes, had dozed off in the chair beside her.
The poor little dear looked utterly abandoned.
“The Honorable Mr. Fitzsimmons has excellent prospects,” Father continued his relentless commentary. “Recently inherited his grandfather’s estate in Surrey. Young, handsome, politically useful?—”
Isadora stopped listening entirely. A man had approached Miss Gray’s corner, and something about his manner set every instinct she possessed on high alert.
Bickham. She’d seen him at parties before: handsome in that polished way that fooled naive girls into thinking charm equaled character. He was at least ten years older than the girl, maybe more, with the sort of practiced smile that made Isadora’s skin crawl. He bowed low before the girl, who looked up at him with startled confusion.
Even from across the room, Isadora could see Lillian’s uncertainty as he began speaking in tones far too intimate for her age. The sleeping chaperone might as well have been apiece of furniture. Where the devil was Rothwell? Everyone had heard with shock that the so-called dangerous duke had received sudden guardianship of a young lady. It was all anyone in thetontalked about. What sort of guardian brought his ward to society events and then disappeared?
“Are you listening to me?” Father’s voice carried a sharp edge. “I said Fitzsimmons has been asking about your dowry…”
“I need some air.” Isadora stood with the fluid grace beaten into her by years of deportment lessons, but her heart was hammering against her stays. “Excuse me.”
She didn’t wait for permission. Bickham was offering his arm to Lillian now, gesturing toward the hallway that led away from the drawing room. The girl hesitated, glancing toward her sleeping chaperone with obvious distress, but she was fifteen and probably didn’t know she was allowed to refuse a gentleman’s request.
When Bickham smiled and said something that made her blush, she placed her small hand on his sleeve with the trust of someone who’d never learned that predators often wore the finest clothes.
They moved toward the doorway together, and ice flooded through Isadora’s veins. She knew that look in Bickham’s eyes, had seen it directed at serving girls and young debutantes alike. He collected innocence like some men collected rare books, and Miss Gray was exactly the sort of prize that would appeal to his twisted sensibilities.
Isadora slipped between the chairs, murmuring apologies to guests whose knees she bumped in her haste. The corridor beyond was dimly lit, lined with portraits of long-dead Cavendishes who seemed to glare down at her in painted disapproval. She could hear voices ahead: his smooth and coaxing, hers high and uncertain.
She found them near the library, tucked into an alcove beside a marble statue of some ancestor whose name she’d forgotten. Bickham stood far too close to Miss Gray, one hand braced against the wall behind her in a gesture that trapped her as effectively as iron bars. The girl pressed back against the painted plaster, her eyes wide with alarm she was too young to fully comprehend.
“Such a lovely little flower,” Bickham was saying, his voice dropping to the sort of purr that made Isadora want to be violently sick. “Hidden away like Rapunzel in her tower. Your guardian keeps you locked up tight, doesn’t he? But flowers need sunlight, need someone who appreciates their beauty...”
His free hand moved toward her face, and rage exploded through Isadora’s chest like wildfire.
“Stop.”
The word abruptly shattered the silence. Isadora stepped into the alcove, and suddenly the small space felt charged with the sort of authority that came from twenty-three years of being the Earl of Wexford’s daughter.
Bickham spun toward her, his handsome features twisting with annoyance. “Lady Isadora. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Step away from her.” She didn’t need to raise her voice. True authority, she had learnt long ago, didn’t require volume, only absolute certainty. “Now.”
For a heartbeat, he looked like he might argue. His gaze flicked between her and the trembling girl, weighing his chances of salvaging whatever vile plan he’d concocted. But something in Isadora’s expression, perhaps the promise of social ruin she could deliver with a few well-placed words, made him reconsider.
