Chapter 1 #2
Heavens, she was trying to ground herself so desperately. Her fingers clenched in the silk of her wedding gown, purchased by Lord Stanton, his smile ever so handsome that day as he’d said that he’d procured her the perfect wedding gown of her dreams.
And the worst thing was that it had been.
He had listened to what she wanted and bought the expensive fabric—only to never, ever see her in the resulting gown.
Bile rose in Isabella’s throat. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep it down, staring, staring, staring down at the smooth floor of the church. Words and voices tried to reach her; they were hard to ignore, but she couldn’t fully hear them, either. Her ears rang.
Another voice broke through the haze.
“Please get Lady Isabella back to her carriage.”
Charles. Yes, Charles was helping because, of course, her older, perfect sister had secured herself such an equally competent and capable man.
Hands reached for her, gently coaxing her back to the carriage, and she allowed herself to be guided, still feeling slightly removed from the commotion as she met Hermia’s gaze.
The pang in her chest eased when she saw the heartbreak in her sister’s eyes. Hermia hated seeing Isabella struggle and only wanted to help.
“I’ll handle the guests,” Charles murmured.
Through the carriage window, Isabella saw Hermia and Charles head back to the church steps and face the cluster of guests arm-in-arm. They moved together, poised and unshakable. Isabella’s chest tightened; the sight of their effortless unity left her hollow.
Isabella had no energy to hear Charles and her sister’s words, but whatever they said, it seemed to disperse the crowd.
But not without whispers. Isabella saw the guests walk out and into the churchyard, casting glances at her carriage.
She slumped down in her seat to avoid their gazes. Still, her parents followed her inside the carriage, for she could never escape them.
“Lord Stanton! The audacity of that man—he’s the ruin of everything!” her mother shrieked, clutching at her skirts as she collapsed into her own seat. “And you, you foolish man, approving him, letting this happen under your very nose!” she wailed, flinging her hands toward Lord Wickleby.
“I… this isn’t my fault!” he barked, stiffening. “It’s Isabella’s! She should have known better!”
“Heavens, we are ruined, George!” Her mother’s eyes bulged. “It’s Hermia and that outrageous scandal—everything started with her! Mark my words!”
Isabella’s forehead thumped onto the side of the carriage, her eyes fluttering closed.
She was not going to be the Countess of Stanton, and she was angry.
She had never felt such anger, but for now, she was simply tired.
She had preened and smiled her way through her courtship with the handsome suitor, had exhausted herself being the perfect ton doll, the perfect diamond, only for this to happen to her.
Her eyes slipped closed, and her body sagged.
For a second, she could let her pretenses drop.
“George, it is nearing the end of the Season,” Isabella’s mother hissed, ignoring Isabella’s presence completely. “We do not have time to spare!”
“Do you truly think rushing Isabella into another match so quickly is the answer?”
“Yes,” her mother snapped. “It worked perfectly well for Hermia, did it not? Goodness, what further shame must befall our family?”
“Mama,” Isabella said sharply, but calmly. “It is not—”
“Of course it is! You were abandoned at the altar, Isabella! Everybody is speaking about it!”
Isabella’s gut clenched, her stomach curling unpleasantly as she stared out at the parlor.
She had roused every day since being left at St. Peter’s Church three days ago. She had pretended as though all was well, but it seemed her time of acting as though her future’s security had not been shattered was over.
“All will be well,” Isabella insisted firmly. “Hermia had an indecent portrait revealed of her, and look at her now.”
Her mother’s seething stare cut into her, but Isabella did not flinch.
She was supposed to be the faultless, doted diamond.
Yet I have failed.
“All I mean to say,” Isabella went on carefully, “is that this can be fixed, I am sure.”
In truth, she was anything but sure.
Her mother’s hands flailed, her voice cracking with every word. “The audacity! The ruin! The—oh, everything—”
Sibyl ventured softly, “M-mother, perhaps… not all is lost. Surely, we can still—”
“Lost!” her mother shrieked, spinning toward her third daughter. “Do you think your innocence, your lack of scandal, changes a thing? You are far too young to understand the ruin already wrought!”
Sibyl fell silent, biting her lip as her mother collapsed into fresh hysterics.
See? Isabella asked herself. See how you have failed them already.
She ground her teeth and fought back against the terrible voice in her head. She could fix this—she had to fix this.
“Marry, Isabella,” her mother finally pleaded. “Be wed before the end of the Season. This family is not strong enough to weather more shame. Please pick anyone. Any suitor you please, I will approve; your father will approve. Isabella, we are too old to endure such scandals. First Hermia, now you.”
The displeasure was all too clear in the curl of her mother’s lip, and Isabella fought not to cringe away from it. Her eyes fell downward to the rose-colored gown she wore, pretty yet simple. Her fingers fought not to curl into her skirts, a nervous tic she had developed.
She was strong, and she was beautiful, but her mind still sought ways to relieve her of the many masks she wore.
As soon as her mother’s eyes dropped to that tic, Isabella immediately stopped fidgeting.
“You will be engaged again before the Season ends,” her mother said decisively, and Isabella knew that was the only option she had.
Her stomach sank so heavily that she feared she would retch.
“Mama, maybe some more time would be best,” she protested. “Let the gossip die down before I attempt to find another suitor. After all, will a gentleman truly want me if I am… freshly abandoned at the altar?”
“Abandoned or not, you are still a diamond.” Her mother flicked a dismissive hand in her direction. Isabella’s teeth ground together as she lowered her gaze. “You are my diamond, Isabella. I thought I made that clear enough.”
“You did,” she muttered.
“Speak up, darling. Now, do think of your sisters. Hermia did not think of you three when she got herself tangled in her own scandal, and look at the embarrassment you all suffered. You would not want to put that onto poor Sibyl or Alicia, would you?”
Oh, you wretched woman, Isabella thought darkly, lifting a glare to her mother while her parents nodded smugly to one another as if they already anticipated winning this particular battle.
Through gritted teeth, Isabella finally relented. She had been groomed to be the performer, and she would be damned if she did not uphold that now.
“Is this truly what you think is best?” she questioned.
Her mother’s chin lifted, her hard gaze cutting back to Isabella.
“Yes. Yes, I do. There must be a gentleman who’d swoop in and act the hero, Isabella.
That is the way these things work, and you ought to know that by now.
Simply look at Hermia’s husband. He could not move fast enough to save her when she needed it.
And Sibyl… oh, she is ever so excited to find her true match.
Please do not ruin it for her, Isabella. ”
Guilt wrapped a hard ribbon around Isabella’s heart as she thought of her younger sister’s soft face, her bright eyes alight with hope that had not entirely been crushed, and the dreams she had spoken of for years.
Dreams that Isabella had always quietly dismissed, for that was not the way life worked, but she could not be the one who dashed her sister’s romantic ambitions so cruelly. If she did, she was no better than her mother.
Her youngest sisters, Sibyl and Alicia, were innocent.
Sibyl, only a year younger than Isabella, was free to nurture her beautiful dreams of making an exquisite match with a dashing suitor.
Alicia, who was three years Isabella’s junior, cherished similar hopes, despite all her practical tendencies.
It was Alicia who would sharply rebuke anyone who dared to gossip about Isabella or Hermia.
But still—she wanted, and deserved, to tread her own path, one that was not already littered and broken by the indiscretions of her older siblings.
“Fine,” she finally said. “Fine, Mother. Whatever you say.”
“Isabella, do not speak to your mother like—”
But she was already storming out of the room.
She had relented; that had to be enough for now.