The walk to the library felt like a condemned prisoner’s final journey. Christmas greenery adorned every doorway, filling the halls with the scent of pine and winter berries, but the festive decorations only emphasized the grimness of her situation. Somewhere in London, other young ladies were planning holiday festivities, choosing ribbons for their hair, wondering which gentleman might claim a dance at the season’s remaining balls.
She was about to discover which gentleman had successfully negotiated for permanent ownership of her person.
The library door loomed before her like the entrance to a tomb. She knocked once, heard Father’s curt “Enter,” and stepped across the threshold into whatever fresh hell awaited.
He stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him in the pose he’d perfected during his years in Parliament. The Earl of Wexford had always been a handsome man—tall and lean with silver threading through dark hair, the sort of classical features that looked well on coins and in portrait galleries. Age had only sharpened those features, giving him the appearance of a Roman senator carved from particularly unforgiving marble.
“Sit.” He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge her presence beyond that single word of command.
Isadora perched on the edge of the leather chair facing his desk, arranging her skirts with the mechanical precision that years of deportment lessons had bred into her bones. The room smelled of leather and pipe tobacco, old books and the faint sweetness of Cook’s Christmas puddings steaming somewhere far below in the kitchens. Under different circumstances, these scents might have comforted her. Today they felt suffocating.
When Father finally turned to face her, his expression was ice cold. “Lord Ashcombe called on me yesterday evening.”
Ice crystallized in her veins, though she managed to keep her face carefully blank. “How pleasant for you both.”
“Pleasant indeed. He made me a very generous offer.” Father settled into his chair with deliberate slowness, savoring whathe clearly considered his moment of triumph. “For your hand in marriage. The settlements are more than fair, considering your... circumstances.”
The words hit her like physical blows, driving the breath from her lungs and leaving her gasping. She’d known this moment would come, had prepared herself for it as one might prepare for surgery or natural disaster. But the reality proved far more brutal than any amount of mental rehearsal could have anticipated.
“My circumstances,” she repeated carefully, testing the words like one might test ice before venturing onto a frozen pond.
“Your age, Isadora. Your singular failure to secure an appropriate husband despite three seasons and numerous opportunities. Your tendency toward opinions that most sensible men would find... challenging.” His smile held no warmth whatsoever. “Ashcombe is willing to overlook these deficiencies in exchange for the Cavendish connection and a substantial dowry. You should be grateful.”
Grateful. The word sat in her mouth like poison, bitter and choking. She should be grateful to be bartered away to a man old enough to be her father, whose previous wife had died under mysterious circumstances that no one discussed in polite company. Grateful to become the property of someone who looked at her the way other men looked at particularly fine horses—calculating their value, their breeding potential, their likely useful lifespan.
“I see.” Her voice sounded remarkably steady, considering the earthquake occurring inside her chest. “And when is this... transaction to be completed?”
“The banns will be read starting this Sunday. A wedding in the new year, once the worst of winter has passed. Ashcombe sees no point in unnecessary delay, and frankly, neither do I.”
“No point in delay.” She rose from her chair, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Because heaven forbid I should have time to consider whether I wish to spend the rest of my life married to a man who buried his first wife six months ago and is already shopping for her replacement.”
Father’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You will watch your tongue, Isadora. Ashcombe is a respected member of society, a man of substantial wealth and unquestioned breeding. That he’s willing to take on a woman of your age and temperament is a gift you’d be wise not to refuse.”
“A gift?” The word exploded from her with enough force to rattle the crystal decanters on Father’s sideboard. “To be sold like breeding stock to a man who sees wives as interchangeable pieces of household furniture? To spend my life producing heirs for someone who’ll never see me as more than a vehicle for his legacy?”
“That,” Father said with the sort of icy calm that had cowed Parliament on more than one occasion, “is what marriage is, Isadora. A practical arrangement between families, designed to advance mutual interests and secure the future. Your romanticnotions are the product of too much novel-reading and insufficient reality.”
“Reality?” She began to pace wildly through the room.. “The reality is that… that you are selling me, father. Like I am no more than a mare or a sheep!”
Father rose from behind his desk, and though a part of her was certain that it was her imagination, she was almost certain that she saw something that might have been hurt flicker across his features. But it vanished so quickly she might have imagined it, replaced by the cold calculation that had governed every decision of her life.
“My career advancement benefits this entire family. The estate, the tenants, the servants who depend on our prosperity—all of it requires careful management of our resources and connections. You are one of those resources, Isadora, and it’s time you accepted that fact.”
“I am your daughter, not a chess piece to be moved around your board for strategic advantage.”
“You are both. And if you possessed even a fraction of the sense God gave lesser creatures, you’d understand that this arrangement serves your interests as well as mine.” He moved around the desk, his voice taking on the patronizing tone he’d once used to explain why she couldn’t attend university like the sons of his friends. “Ashcombe will provide you with security, status, a magnificent home. You’ll want for nothing material,and in time, you’ll have children of your own to occupy your attention.”
“And what of love? Affection? The hope that my husband might value me for more than my breeding potential?”
Father’s laugh was sharp as breaking glass. “Love? My dear girl, you’ve been reading too many Gothic novels. Love is a luxury that practical people cannot afford to indulge. Your mother and I married for duty and managed quite well. She understood her obligations.”
The mention of Mother sent fresh pain lancing through Isadora’s chest. She barely remembered the woman who’d died when she was nine—just fragments of gentleness, the faint scent of lavender, soft hands braiding her hair. Had Mother been happy in her marriage of duty? Had she ever stood in this very room, arguing for the right to choose her own fate?
“Mother died at thirty-five,” Isadora said quietly. “Worn out from producing the heirs you required and managing the social obligations you imposed. Is that the future you’re planning for me?”
’Father frowned, then shook his shoulders as though she was a mere irritation. “Your mother’s death was a tragedy that had nothing to do with her marriage. She was happy, Isadora. Content with her role, grateful for the security I provided.”
“Were you in the room when she died? Because I was. And the last thing she said to me was that she hoped I’d be braver thanshe’d been. That I’d fight for something more than just duty and obligation.”
