Chapter 3 #2
“Your Grace,” her father said, voice tight, one hand flicking toward Isabella, which she quickly understood was a signal that was urging her to refuse the Duke’s proposal, “I will remind you that I cannot give my daughter away without her consent. I hear no such consent, nor shall I grant it.”
Her mother, now standing behind the Duke, mirrored the gesture, tilting her chin and spreading her hands, silently signaling Isabella to reject him, eyes blazing with expectation.
The Duke’s gaze flicked once more to Isabella, cold and steady.
Her stomach twisted—only to drop once again when she realized she was now being watched once more by the Duke of Rochdale.
The ballroom lights caught his eyes. She was startled to see how bright green they were.
She had once read one of Sibyl’s books, a fictional romance about an old Chinese empress who coveted the jade gemstone.
That was what his eyes reminded her of. She could see the pictures in the book so clearly, and she could not stop wanting to get a closer look at the Duke’s eyes, to know what was in them that intrigued her so.
Around her, the balcony both spun and stopped, and she had the sensation of falling even as she stood firmly.
“Lady Isabella,” he said, his voice low, as if just for her. “I wish to marry you to protect us both from this mess. Should you accept, no one will dare question your honor. I promise.”
Her eyes flitted to her parents. Her mother glowered at her refusal, a silent encouragement to turn down the Duke. Her father merely shook his head once, indicating his disapproval.
Beside them, Sibyl remained wide-eyed, her hand clasped to her mouth.
Isabella looked away from her sister’s hopeful, love-fueled eyes.
This proposal did not spring from a loving place.
In the ballroom, people danced, yes, but they still stared, still pried for more gossip to feast on.
They still hungered for a story to write and read over their breakfasts tomorrow morning.
The mere thought twisted Isabella’s stomach sickly.
Her breath loosened from her, deep and resigned. She did not love a stranger, unfortunately for Sibyl’s hope, and she did not want to be ruined, nor rushed into a marriage. But she saw the Duke’s logic. He was offering her a solid way through the mess.
Not to mention it would get her away from the insufferable marriage mart.
It would quell questions of her innocence, too. Maybe.
“Yes,” she heard herself say.
“No,” her mother insisted.
Isabella ignored her. It was high time she did. “Your Grace, I accept your proposal.” She kept her voice as stoic and businesslike as he had. She agreed to an arrangement between the two of them, and that was all.
“Isabella!” Her mother gasped. “How—”
“Well, Mother, you wanted me to find myself a quick match,” she interrupted. “So, you cannot look a gift horse in the mouth, it seems.”
Her parents stepped back, both appalled. They looked between her and the Duke, their mouths moving as if neither knew what to say anymore. As if they knew they would not be listened to.
It was only Sibyl who moved forward and reached for Isabella’s hands.
“Congratulations, sister.” Her voice caught, as if unsure whether it was the right thing to say, and Isabella smiled, appreciative, but sharing the lack of surety.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes lifted back to her… betrothed. He merely nodded at her.
Was it approval or a simple acknowledgment?
He extended his hand toward her, scarred and rough-looking.
“Dance with me,” he told her.
“Excuse me?” the question came unbidden, surprised.
“Dance with me, Lady Isabella.” It was not a request.
Isabella scowled at him. “A gentleman generally asks politely.”
She thought his mouth pulled tightly at the corners as he stared her down.
“You are my fiancée now,” he bluntly stated. “We must dance together.”
“I do not wish to return to the ballroom,” she said, shaking her head. His hand still hovered toward her.
“Your dress is repaired,” he said, voice low, sharp. “Let them talk. They always will. You decide your own story. Soon enough, everyone will know the truth: we are to be wed.”
Hearing the facts stated so unflinchingly made something in Isabella shift.
You are being saved.
You are being condemned.
And still, Isabella slipped her hand into his and swallowed back her further protests that desperately rose.
The ballroom lights glittered behind him, a wasp’s nest of venom waiting to sting. But the moment her palm met his, she did not feel as worried as she had upon entering the ballroom earlier.
The Duke of Rochdale took her through the balcony doors. Step by step, they approached the dance floor to a chorus of whispers scarcely hidden behind fans.
“Heavens, what a mess.”
Isabella fought the urge to look toward the lady who sniggered, but she was horrified to find the Duke slowing them down, his head turning to the lady.
“Lady Ashford, if you have words for my betrothed, speak them boldly. Do not hide behind your fan as though it shields you.”
His words were knives, cutting and inescapable, especially when he knew her title.
Isabella fought her own stunned reaction, realizing how he had referred to her. Betrothed. Clearly, he was employing a tactic—and it worked. Lady Ashford immediately turned to another, ignoring the confrontation, and began to fan herself profusely.
“Come,” the Duke beckoned Isabella, and they continued to the dance floor.
The steps stretched for an eternity as both fear and intrigue knotted Isabella’s stomach, a colliding war inside her that she didn’t know which side to follow.
Who is this man?
Once they were on the dance floor, he turned to her fully.
Flooded into full view by the chandelier above them, she saw the full map of his facial scars.
They were even more terrifying in the light, but she didn’t flinch.
She only tracked them, every ragged line that cut through his face.
Yet they couldn’t hide what was beneath: a handsome man with the brightest green eyes.
Despite the stoic expression that remained fixed on his face, he truly was more handsome than she had realized. His scarred hand still held hers as he pulled her closer. It was assured, not the clumsy motions she had assumed a recluse would use.
“A lady generally does not stare so boldly,” he told her, a mirror of her own words.
Isabella’s face warmed at being noticed for her staring, even as her chin remained high. She didn’t avert her gaze as they took their first steps. Eyes stuck to her back like tiny pinpricks, unavoidable but able to be ignored if only she focused on something else.
Like the Duke’s eyes.
Moments into the dance, she found her voice.
“Thank you,” she said belatedly. “For rescuing me. In… in both ways.”
He nodded sharply. “It was a practical solution for both of us.”
“Yes, but you obviously care about your own reputation if your offer is anything to go by,” she acknowledged. “For a man rumored to be—”
“A beast?”
“A recluse,” she countered.
“So, you do not think I am a beast like the rest of the ton?”
It wasn’t an insecure question, but more of a mocking thing that Isabella didn’t know how to answer.
“The ton says many things,” she answered instead. “And you are not afraid to speak back to the people here so bluntly. How contrary for a man who seems to enjoy lingering in the shadows.”
He gave an almost smile; it was not genuine, nor soft, but again, another mockery.
“A reputation for being a beast is hardly a scandal. I own estates. I run businesses. I protect what is mine. I cannot silence what they whisper about me, but I ensure they cannot touch my holdings or those under my charge.”
“And is that what I am now?” she asked cautiously. “A holding?”
“You are… a variable I had not anticipated. Regardless, you are under my protection now. How you feel about that is yours to reckon with.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she let herself focus on the dance.
Her mother had hired a tutor for her and Hermia from the moment they could walk, ensuring she knew her steps, but there was nothing like the way she moved with someone who matched her skill, someone who seemed to anticipate her every motion.
The Duke’s hands closed around hers, firm but unexpectedly tender, guiding her across the floor with a precision that left no room for error. Each step pressed them closer than propriety allowed; the heat of him against her and the strength in his grip made her pulse race.
For a heartbeat, the ballroom vanished. There was no music or onlookers—only the press of his body, the taut muscles beneath his sleeve, and the dark intensity of his gaze.
Her eyes sought his, searching for a hint of softness, a sign he might look away.
He did not.
Instead, his dark gaze held her, unwavering, almost demanding. Every turn, every near-collision of hands and waist, sent a ripple of awareness through her.
Her chest tightened. Her breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, and yet she could not look away. Each movement was a conversation unspoken, each step a test of control neither wanted to break.
When the music finally ended, it felt cruel—a cruel interruption. He released her, stepping back, but the air between them still thrummed with the heat of proximity. Isabella’s pulse pounded, her skin tingling, and she knew, with a quiet certainty, that this was no ordinary encounter.
Quietly, he spoke, low and deliberate. “Lady Isabella, I will secure a special license. We will hasten this arrangement and put an end to any further trouble. Leave the preparations to me.”
He cast a sharp glance over her dress, his gaze assessing, possessive. She couldn’t help but wonder if her wedding gown would resemble the ruined one from her first failed attempt.
Somehow, she knew it would not matter; he would see to it that everything, including her, was claimed properly.
She thought she saw him mouth ivory to himself, the color of her ball gown.
“Very well,” she answered.
The Duke of Rochdale inclined his head sharply and deliberately. “I will see you at the altar. I will not keep you waiting.”
Before she could even process that he knew of her previous ordeal with Lord Stanton, the Duke turned and strode away. Every step he took was measured. And while her betrothed stalked away, Isabella was left frozen, staring after him with her heart hammering.