Chapter 8
Eight
Andrew stood in the parlor, his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the little portraits of Isobel that decorated the shelves of the bookshelf nearest the hearth.
She was younger in many of them, but those amber eyes had clearly remained the same throughout her life, unsettling and following him everywhere he paced.
“Your Grace!” Lord Leyton walked into the room, his voice booming and his smile bright. He gestured toward the tea and sandwiches on the table. “Please, help yourself. Isobel will be joining us in a moment.”
“I’m fine.” Andrew kept his position near the hearth, still inspecting the portraits.
“Isobel was always a beautiful woman,” Lord Leyton crooned. “She’s the spitting image of her mother.”
“She is.” Andrew walked further along the bookshelf, noting the small paintings of Joan that resided there as well, though those ones were done in a different style, the painting more precise, almost like the artist behind them needed to get every detail just right.
The portraits of Joan reminded him of the painting Isobel had been working on in the drawing room.
“Those were done by Isobel. She’s quite an accomplished young lady.
She sings and plays pianoforte as well.” Lord Leyton joined Andrew by the bookshelf, nodding to one of the paintings of a landscape.
“She did that after we took a trip to Scotland once. She thought the people out there seemed far freer than those in England.”
She will have freedom with me.
Andrew glanced at the doorway as Isobel strode into the room. Her skirt brushed across the floor. Her honey hair was pinned into a knot so that several curls framed her face and the long line of her neck.
He longed to pull the pins out of her hair and run his fingers through it, just to see if it was as silky as it looked.
“Isobel,” Lord Leyton said, finally taking notice of his daughter “I’m pleased to see that you’ve joined us. Now we can celebrate the joining of our two houses properly.”
That hypocrite.
Isobel said nothing as she clasped her hands tight together in front of her, looking between the two men with a stare that felt like a shard of ice driving straight through his chest.
She was angry. He could see that in the eyes that glowed like molten metal.
At least she’s not pretending. She’s not even attempting to.
Amused as he was, Andrew forced his features into a neutral mask, carefully schooling his expression. He cleared his throat. “Miss Leyton has not yet answered my proposal.”
“Of course she accepts.” Lord Leyton scoffed, shaking his head. “She will marry you.”
“The choice is hers. The question is hers to answer, not yours.” Andrew glared at Lord Leyton, silently daring him to say another word.
Lord Leyton grimaced before walking over to Isobel and leaning close. He whispered something to her that Andrew didn’t hear but based on the way the color drained from her face, he didn’t suspect it was words of encouragement or kindness.
Isobel swallowed, looking everywhere but at Andrew. He tried to keep a neutral expression, not wanting to scare her any more than she was already.
“Miss Leyton, the choice is yours to make. I will hear it from your lips alone. Do not allow your father to sway you simply because his greed has been his ruin.”
Lord Leyton looked like he was ready to protest. His lips parted as he took a step toward Andrew.
Arching an eyebrow, Andrew waited for him to say something, to try and push the matter further.
There would be none of that. Andrew needed to know that this was a choice Isobel was willing to make, that she was choosing for herself.
Though, he knew things were never that simple. She had a sister, and if there was one thing he noticed, it was how she kept glancing at the portraits of Joan in the room.
Isobel let out a deep breath, still looking away from him. “I accept your proposal, Your Grace.”
He wanted to cross the room and take her by the chin, forcing her to look at him. It would be inappropriate, and until they were married, he needed to pretend he didn’t want to lean in and steal another kiss from her soft lips.
Lord Leyton grinned and clapped his hands. “I knew you were a good girl who was going to protect her family. This calls for a celebration.”
Isobel finally looked at Andrew. Fire burned bright in her eyes.
Her lips pressed into a thin line like she was holding back all the words he suspected were on the tip of her tongue.
She was far too much of a feral creature to take this treatment from him, but she seemed to have no problem bowing down to her father.
Being away from him will be good for her. She won’t have to live in fear of speaking her mind.
Lord Leyton grinned as he took the top off a decanter, pouring himself a hefty glass and raising it high. “To the best marriage match my daughter could hope to make. I wish you both a long and happy life.”
When he held another glass out to Andrew, it was the final straw.
Andrew took the glass and set it to the side. “Would your excitement remain the same if I were to marry your daughter and still not erase the debt?”
Isobel gasped.
Though he had every intention of erasing the debt—if nothing else than for the sake of the two sisters—he needed Lord Leyton to realize that Andrew was the one in control of the situation. He was uninterested in fighting with his father-in-law, especially when he knew that the Viscount would lose.
Lord Leyton downed the liquor in his glass, turning and saying nothing, a hard look in his eyes, a shake to his hand as he poured another glass.
Andrew kept his gaze on Isobel. “I’m going to be handling the wedding and its preparations. And I will have a seamstress sent to make dresses for you and Miss Joan.”
Isobel gave a sharp nod, her jaw clenching. Lord Leyton made a noise in the back of his throat, almost like a protest.
I cannot continue to deal with this man today. The sooner I get out of here, the better.
“All you have to do,” he said, glaring at Lord Leyton, “is not embarrass me. Your debt will be paid, your daughter will be out of your hands, and you no longer have to worry.”
Lord Leyton raised his glass to Andrew once more before throwing it back.
“And you, Miss Leyton.” Andrew strode closer to Isobel, his body only inches from hers, the memory of having her pressed against the railing flickering through his mind. “All you have to do is accept your savior’s generosity.”
To his surprise, she gave a small nod, not saying a word.
Who is her father and what has he done to my feral little darling?
“I’m going to take my leave, but more details regarding the wedding will be sent to you later.”
Andrew turned and strode out of the room. As he left, he felt as though a weight was being lifted from his shoulders. He wouldn’t have to go to one endless ball after another or continue the hunt for a wife. He could instead focus on restoring Mayfair Fox to its former glory.
Miss Leyton… Isobel.
Perhaps she did not yet realize how fortunate she was…
A wicked warmth pooled low in his chest. How thoroughly he could save her—from her father, from her fears… from herself. He imagined guiding her, teaching her what it meant to yield, to surrender… just enough to feel the rush of freedom in his arms.
He allowed himself a brief, private smile.