Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

“You must understand, my dear.” Lord Winthorpe’s voice seemed too loud in the small confines of the carriage. “There really is no other way.”

Isolde turned her face to the window, watching London’s lamplit streets pass by through her tears. The gentle sway of the carriage did nothing to soothe her churning emotions.

“The Duke of Meadowell is a peer of the realm,” her father continued. “His wealth and position will protect you from⁠—”

Isolde let out a bitter laugh. “How fortunate that you need not make such a sacrifice to be protected. You’ve found love twice, while I…” She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to hold back a sob.

The carriage rolled to a stop before their townhouse. Before the footman could open the door, Isolde was already pushing it open, gathering her skirts to flee.

“My dear⁠—”

But she was already running up the steps, through the door, taking the stairs two at a time in a most unladylike fashion.

She heard her father calling after her, but she couldn’t face him. Couldn’t bear to see the guilt and resignation in his eyes.

She burst into her chamber, throwing herself onto her bed just as Martha rushed in, candlestick in hand.

“My lady!” The maid hurried to light more candles. “Whatever has happened?”

Isolde forced herself to sit up, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. One simply didn’t lose control in front of servants, no matter how trusted they were.

“I am to be married,” she said, proud that her voice remained steady. “To the Duke of Meadowell. Within the week.”

Martha’s eyes grew round as saucers. “Within the week? Oh, my lady! But there’s so much to be done! Your trousseau, the wedding breakfast—” She gasped. “Your gown! How can we possibly…”

“Martha—”

But the maid was already at Isolde’s wardrobe, flinging open the doors. “Perhaps your ivory silk gown? With some alterations, of course. Mrs. Smythe is a wonder with lacework, and I’m sure we could add some pearl trimming to the bodice. And your mother’s veil! Oh, it would be perfect with it⁠—”

“Martha, please.”

“—and the blue morning dress will need taking in for calls, and your evening gowns will all need to be altered to reflect your new status as a duchess! Though ‘Your Grace’ sounds so fine, doesn’t it? And such a handsome duke, too. Why, half the maids will be swooning over him⁠—”

Isolde let her maid’s chatter wash over her, a familiar comfort even as her mind spun with terrifying possibilities.

In less than a week, she would be a bride. Again. Only this time, there would be no escape, no sanctuary with a sympathetic aunt.

This time, she would walk down the aisle and speak her vows. She would become a duchess, a mistress of vast estates, and a wife to a man who scorned the very notion of love.

And somewhere in London, Lady Lillian was probably laughing about it all.

Martha continued to fuss with gowns and ribbons, making lists of necessary alterations. But Isolde barely heard her. All she could think about was Arthur’s cold green eyes and his dismissive words about love being nothing but an excuse for marriage.

Was this truly her fate? To live the rest of her life bound to a man whose heart was as frozen as a winter morning?

If so, she thought bitterly, perhaps she should wear a black gown to her wedding.

“Good morning, my lady.” Franny, the youngest of her father’s housemaids, pulled back the heavy curtains, revealing a gray sky. “It looks to be a dreary day.”

Her bright eyes and freckled cheeks suggested a perpetual readiness to smile, even on such a dreary morning.

Isolde watched raindrops chase each other down the windowpanes, each one marking another second closer to her doom. “Indeed it does, Franny. Though perhaps the weather will improve.”

“Shall I fetch Martha to help you dress?”

“Not yet.”

Isolde waited until Franny departed before sliding from her bed, her bare feet silent on the Turkish carpet.

She sat at her vanity and glanced at the small portrait of her mother that she kept on her dressing table—the only image she had of the woman who died bringing her into the world.

The pearl necklace her father had given her for her eighteenth birthday gave her pause.

“Your mother wore pearls on her wedding day,” he’d told her, his eyes distant with nostalgia.

Her fingers brushed the small volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets—another gift from her father.

“Your mother loved poetry,” he’d said when he gave it to her. “She would have wanted you to have her collection.”

“Martha!” Her voice was steady now. When her maid appeared, practically bouncing with enthusiasm, Isolde was already at her wardrobe. “The ivory silk gown with the Brussels lace needs attention immediately.”

“Oh yes, my lady! Mrs. Smythe will need to take it in at the waist. And the sleeves might need⁠—”

“Whatever you think best, Martha. Just have it ready quickly.” Isolde forced herself to smile at her maid. “I will dress and join Papa for breakfast shortly.”

An hour later, wearing a morning dress of pale blue muslin, Isolde descended to the breakfast room. Lord Winthorpe looked up from his newspaper, wariness crossing his features as though expecting another confrontation.

“Good morning, Papa,” she pressed a kiss to his cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of his shaving soap and coffee.

“Good… morning.” He studied her over his coffee cup as she took her seat. “I trust you slept well?”

“Tolerably.” She buttered her toast with precise movements. “Though I realize there’s much to be done before the wedding. I thought perhaps I might visit the modiste today, despite the rain.”

“Isolde—”

“And of course, there are calls to be made. Lady Langhall might advise me on which shops are most suitable for a duchess’s trousseau.”

The word ‘duchess’ caught slightly in her throat.

“You remind me so much of your mother,” the Earl said softly, setting down his paper. “She, too, faced everything with such poise, even when things seemed darkest.”

“Tell me about her,” Isolde murmured—an old request that always brought both comfort and pain. “What would she have done in my situation?”

“She would have held her head high and found strength in doing what was right, even when it was difficult.” Lord Winthorpe paused. “But she also would have found a way to make the best of it. She had a gift for that. And more importantly, your mother would have been proud,” he reached across the table to cover her hand with his, “of a daughter who faces adversity with such grace.”

Isolde studied their joined hands. She’d heard so many stories about her mother, but in moments like these, the pain of never knowing her felt especially acute.

“I hope…” Her voice caught. “I hope I can be worthy of her memory.”

“You already are.” Her father squeezed her hand before releasing it. “I believe you mentioned having calls to make today?”

“Yes.” She straightened, composing herself. “And you have business in the city?”

“Indeed.” He rose, still watching her carefully. “Are you certain you’ll be all right?”

“Perfectly fine, Papa. Do have a good day.”

Only when she heard the front door close behind him did Isolde allow her mask to crack. A single tear slid down her cheek, dropping silently into her teacup, where it disappeared like all her girlish dreams of love.

She watched the rain pelt the windows, each drop a reminder of the passing time.

Five days. In five days, she would be a duchess.

The rain’s steady rhythm seemed to whisper her mother’s name: Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia.

What had her mother felt on her wedding morning? Had she shared these same fears, these same doubts? No, her father always said that their love had been instant, undeniable.

Even now, decades later, his voice still softened when he spoke of their courtship, of how Sylvia had charmed him with her wit and grace at their first meeting.

How different from Isolde’s path to marriage—no gentle courtship, no growing affection. Just the cold reality of scandal and necessity.

And yet… and yet her mother had faced her own challenges with unfailing courage.

Lord Winthorpe had always said that her mother had navigated her new role as a countess with dignity and compassion—traits that still brought a proud smile to his lips whenever he spoke of her.

Perhaps that was her mother’s true legacy—not the pearl necklace or the poetry books, but the example of a woman who transformed duty into purpose, who found strength in adversity.

Pressing her fingers to the window’s cold pane, Isolde thought of the mother she’d never known. Would she have understood this choice? This sacrifice?

Well then. If she couldn’t have love, she would have dignity. If she couldn’t have romance, she would have purpose. And if the Duke of Meadowell thought to treat her as just another conquest…

Isolde squared her shoulders, blinking away any remaining tears. He would soon learn that this particular bride was not so easily conquered.

Perhaps she’d never known her mother, but she carried the strength of generations of Townshend women in her blood.

That would have to be enough.