“You should go,” Beatrice said severely. “We want to talk to your sister about something.”
Well, that couldn’t possibly be good. Isolde looked inside herself and tried to dredge up some anxiety or perhaps dread, but there was nothing.
An hour later, the three of them gathered in the drawing room. James had left for his club, and the house felt eerily silent.
Richard and Beatrice sat opposite Isolde on a sofa, glancing at each other, neither one wanting to speak first.
“Well?” she said after a pause. “What is it?”
“You haven’t been yourself,” Beatrice said quietly. “I know that… we know that time is what you need to heal, but in the meantime, you must make a decision.”
“A decision? About what?”
She drew in a breath. “About Lord Raisin.”
Isolde stiffened. “What is to be considered about him?”
Her parents exchanged another look.
“He was deeply upset about the… about what happened at Vauxhall Gardens,” Richard said carefully. “But he still loves you very much.”
“He does not love me,” Isolde said, voice flat. Her parents did not correct her this time.
“He is still very fond of you,” Beatrice said instead. “He is still most fervently desirous of marrying you. Just yesterday, he sought your father's permission for your hand in matrimony, and we pledged to broach the subject at the earliest opportunity.”
Isolde passed a hand over her face. “Mama, you know how I feel about him.”
“I know, I know, darling, but the business of that vile wager may yet come to light. If that happens, you’ll be ruined. It’s over. In fact, all of us may need to leave London, and it may even affect James’ prospects.”
“But that’s not fair. I did nothing wrong.”
“We know that, Izzy. But the gossip columns – and public opinion – tell a different story. If you hadn’t been featured in the columns so much and connected with the viscount, the wager might just be a humiliating little story. But as things are, it’ll be rather a shocking thing in town. But, if you are married to Lord Raisin, it’ll be entirely different. You’ll be safe, my love. Reputable. The gossip columns shall scarcely concern themselves with a wager made prior to your matrimonial union, particularly when there exists little substance to it.”
Isolde drew in a breath. “Why would Lord Raisin want to be connected to a woman as scandalous as me?”
“He’s fond of you,” Beatrice repeated. Isolde stared at her mother and realized that she truly did believe it. Married as she was to a kind, loving man, Beatrice could likely not grasp how spiteful a man could be, how determined he could be once his pride was on the line.
“He desires to marry posthaste,” Richard interjected. “Ere this tale comes to light.”
“It may not come to light.”
“Yes, but we can’t sit around and pray that it doesn’t,” Beatrice said firmly. “This sort of thing has a way of coming out, and like your father says, we must act first. Lord Raisin proposes a special licence. You can be married in a week, and then you’ll be safe. Safe, darling.”
“He hasn’t gotten my consent yet,” Isolde pointed out.
Her parents sighed, exchanging looks.
“That is true,” Beatrice acknowledged. “And while he has our permission and blessing, your father warned him that he would need your acceptance, too. But I beg you, darling, accept this proposal. I worry about you, and if this story breaks, I can assure you that it will be the last proposal you receive. And…” she drew in a breath, steeling herself, “… and we will be obliged to send you to the country. It’s not fair to endanger James’ reputation.”
Isolde stiffened at that, head snapping up. She glanced at her parents’ faces, hoping to find some shred of mercy there.
There was none.
“I can’t marry him,” she said softly.
Beatrice sighed. “And we can’t force you. But those are your choices now. Marry Lord Raisin or go to the countryside. The choice is yours.”
There was a taut moment of silence in the room. Before she knew what she was doing, Isolde had risen steadily to her feet. Her legs wobbled, but mostly held her upright.
