Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Hermia, darling!” Isabella’s mother’s voice rang out right as Hermia entered the music room, where Isabella was trying to play the pianoforte.
The music had been serving as a distraction from everything that had happened the night before, but upon her sister’s arrival, she knew it would all be pulled back up.
“Mama.” Hermia nodded at their mother.
Things between them were still repairing, although the fact that Hermia was carrying the first grandchild had moved her further into their parents’ favor.
“Father.”
Hermia finally looked toward Isabella, her brows pulling in both empathy and concern. “Isabella.”
“Sister,” she greeted warmly. “I did not know you were visiting today.”
“I thought a spontaneous visit was best,” she said.
“That merely means you have heard the news,” Isabella all but sighed.
“Lord Harcross’s balls are not quiet affairs,” Hermia noted. “It is no surprise that the news has traveled fast, but I am rather offended I was not told personally.” She smirked, cocking her head at Isabella.
She came over to the pianoforte, leaning her arms, unladylike, on the shiny surface of the instrument.
“Do fill me in, sister,” she invited. “For, if I recall, I could not escape telling you all of my wedding arrangements and life thereafter.”
“That is because there was a story to tell,” Isabella pointed out, pretending to turn back to her playing.
In truth, she had half-forgotten the melody she had begun to work on. Hermia, of course, was relentless.
“I love a story whether it exists or not,” she teased. “And I do believe this one does. Mama, do give us a moment.”
“But—”
“Please,” Hermia added.
Despite Hermia and their parents’ differences in the past, Isabella could not help but notice that Hermia had garnered quite a bit of respect since becoming the Duchess of Branmere. It all played into their mother’s love of hierarchy.
As their mother left the room, Isabella spoke up. “I wonder if she will finally listen to me once I become the Duchess of Rochdale, as you are the Duchess of Branmere.”
“Well, Mama can say at least two of her daughters are duchesses,” Hermia pointed out. “I am certain she is very pleased.”
“She was not last night,” Isabella muttered and began to recount the tale of the whole evening. Her sister’s face darkened at the turn of Lord Peregrine’s character and became even darker when she heard of Isabella’s torn dress.
Idly, she wondered if they both thought of Sibyl and the ordeal she had gone through with Lord Grenford at the garden party hedge maze a year ago.
“Sister,” Isabella began, before hesitating. “I… What is it like, being a duchess to a man who is…”
When she struggled to find a kind enough word, Hermia smiled knowingly. “Not the ton’s favorite gentleman? A rough man with little politeness to him, except for unexpected moments? A duke who does not abuse his power?”
Isabella blanched but nodded. “I suppose.”
“It was hard for me at first,” Hermia admitted. “I tried to hide most of that from you all, but it… it was indeed trying at times. Not only did I shoulder my own reputation, but the scrutiny that came with marrying Charles. However, look at me now. Everything worked out rather beautifully.”
She ghosted a hand over her stomach, a soft smile on her face.
“Isabella,” Hermia said after a beat of silence.
“Are you certain this is what you want? Just a week or so ago, you were left at the altar, only to now face it again in several days. It is an unfair question to ask, I know, for if I had been asked the same thing, I would not have been certain. But I must look out for you.”
“I know,” Isabella insisted. “But you do not need to. I have accepted the proposal, and His Grace and I agreed this is the most logical solution.”
“Is logically the way you wish to approach your future?”
“Hermia,” Isabella sighed. “What other choice do I have? I do not have time to go through the marriage mart, and even if I did, no lord looked at me last night with any interest. And why would they? Why would they look at a jilted bride?”
Until the Duke.
“I do not want you rushing into something that does not feel right.”
“And I cannot afford any other option,” Isabella answered. “I am fine with this.”
“But fine is not—”
“Hermia,” she said gently. “I know what I am doing. If anything, I am following in your footsteps.”
“Still,” she sighed. “I wish to remind you that Charles and I can use our influence to get you out of this arrangement. We can fix your reputation to give you another option.”
Isabella was already shaking her head, realizing that she was playing the pianoforte with more vigor. “No. No, I do not need assistance. What is done is done, and there is no point in undoing it.”
She slowed her playing from its accelerated tempo and nodded.
“All is well,” she said. “I am to wed the Duke of Rochdale, and I will be well.”
“That is a lot of wells,” Hermia said, smiling sadly. “Just… I will not push if you are sure, Isabella, but I know you. All I ask is that you know I am here for you. Always, for anything.”
“I know.” She nodded and then stopped playing altogether. “Hermia, do you wish to have tea by the fountain like we used to?”
Hermia’s face brightened. “I would love nothing more.”
True to his word, the Duke did arrange everything, and Isabella found herself facing down St. Peter’s Church once more.
Dressed in ivory, Isabella walked down the aisle, her arm tucked into her father’s.
This time, her betrothed was there. As he had promised.
The Duke of Rochdale stood waiting, clad in austere black, the cut of his coat sharp and unadorned. He looked less like a bridegroom than a man about to deliver judgment.
Yet the sight of him struck her with a force she had not anticipated. Broad-shouldered, tall, his scar catching the light like a brand, he was no dandy, no frivolous ornament of society. He was stark, unyielding, and impossible to ignore.
Her stomach gave a twist. He looked powerful. Mysterious. And for reasons she could not untangle, entirely captivating.
She caught herself searching for softness in him, for some small token to assure herself, but there was none. No color to soften the black, no flourish to coax a smile. Just him: severe, commanding, and there for her.
Behind her, the very few guests watched as her father handed her to her groom, and she took her place next to the Duke of Rochdale, steeling herself quietly, beneath her mask, as she had always done.
Meeting his gaze, she offered a small smile that he tightly returned before they both turned to the officiator.
Her father went to sit on the pew beside the rest of her family without a word.
Her parents, sisters, and the Duke of Branmere all watched on. Peculiarly, Lord Harcross was there, too. Isabella filed that particular question for later, reminded of how he had swept in to squash the outburst of Lord Peregrine’s.
“Dearly beloved…” The vicar began.
Their vows were clinically and swiftly delivered, with Isabella mostly mentally out of herself, going through the motions she knew were expected.
She was not like Sibyl, filled with notions of love and romance, nor was she entirely like Alicia, insistent on a woman’s independence. Isabella was a realist, like Hermia, and knew she could not survive in this society without a husband.
She enjoyed being a diamond. Now, the diamond stood beside a duke, being declared the Duchess of Rochdale, which was exactly what she needed.
Even if the circumstances are not what I expected.
Once the vows were finished, she turned her head to regard her husband. His hand was rough and calloused, and she wondered what he thought of her own hands.
Musician’s hands, her mother had always preened. Elegant and coveted.
“You may kiss your bride, Your Grace,” the officiator said.
Isabella’s heart stopped. The Duke leaned in, his shadow falling over her, and pressed the lightest kiss to her mouth. It was chaste, almost austere, yet the heat of him, the firmness of his presence, sent a jolt through her that stole her breath.
My first kiss, she thought, dizzy with the realization.
It was over in an instant. He straightened and turned from her to their guests, leaving her trembling in silence, her lips tingling, her pulse unsteady.
The ceremony had ended, but something had begun inside her she could not name.
Immediately, Lord Harcross approached with the same charm he had entered the balcony on the night of his ball.
“I hear there is no wedding breakfast,” Lord Harcross said, mostly looking to the Duke. “A shame. I was looking forward to a party that was not my own.”
“You know the circumstances, Harcross,” the Duke said dryly.
“Of course, and my congratulations are, of course, extended to you both.” He looked between the two of them. “Your Grace, I am certain your new husband has told you that I am his closest friend.”
“We are not yet acquainted,” Isabella answered politely. “But I am certain we will be soon enough.”
“Indeed,” Lord Harcross said with a grin. “And perhaps, Your Grace, you might perform a miracle none of us have managed: put a smile on His Grace’s face. The poor fellow looks as though joy itself owes him money—”
He was cut off by a hard growl from the left of Isabella.
Isabella laughed softly, her nerves covered by the sound. “I fear that might be a tall order, Lord Harcross.”
“Ah, but tall orders suit tall men,” Lord Harcross replied, his brow arched in wicked amusement. “And if His Grace won’t be lifted by cheer, perhaps he’ll settle for lifting the rest of us with his scowls.”
The Duke’s unamused gaze flicked to Lord Harcross. His hard muscles coiled underneath his coat, and he looked decidedly tense, as if every moment spent in the chapel brought him more anguish.
He leaned in, voice low and deliberate. “Careful, Harcross. Some scowls bite harder than others.”
Lord Harcross only smirked, unfazed. “Noted, Your Grace. I’ll survive somehow.”