“I’ll have none of your impudence, Elizabeth!” The marquess snarled. “Society is watching. My line is at an end, but a daughter with royal connections? Now, that is something that might have ensured the Montclair legacy! Refusing a prince’s proposal is not a matter taken lightly, especially when the Crown seemed to favor such a union.”
Elizabeth’s temper flared, her composure slipping. “I will not be bartered like a prized mare at auction, regardless of the Crown’s inclinations.”
The Marquess of Ashwick surged to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor with a discordant screech. His face flushed crimson, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You are being obstinate and ungrateful,” he thundered, his voice reverberating through the room.
Elizabeth rose as well, her eyes blazing as they locked onto her father’s. “And you are forgetting your promise,” she shot back, her voice trembling with emotion.
His eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer. “Enough,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “Sit down.”
Elizabeth’s heart thundered in her chest, but she stood her ground, her chin lifting defiantly. “No. I will wait. Come next March, I shall reach my majority, and then I will require no one’s permission to marry whomever I choose.”
The Marquess of Ashwick’s voice hardened. “Elizabeth, you are my only child. The continuation of our family line rests upon your marriage and the heirs you will provide. Do you not understand the gravity of this responsibility?”
Elizabeth’s eyes remained fixed on her father. “I am aware of my duty, Father. But I will not sacrifice my happiness for the sake of a dying lineage.”
His hand struck the table again, the sound echoing through the room. “Yourhappiness?This is about more than your personal desires! Our family’s standing, our alliances, they all hinge on your decisions!”
“And what of my life? Am I to be a pawn in your political games, married off to live in Germany simply because the Crown approves of it?”
The marquess’s eyes narrowed. “You speak of autonomy, yet your actions suggest recklessness. Refusing a prince without counsel, showing no interest in suitable matches. Society is beginning to talk.”
“Let them talk. I will not be pressured into a union I do not desire simply to appease society’s gossip.”
He took a step closer, his voice low. “Your mother has connections, friendships cultivated over decades. Do you wish to see them strained, our family isolated because of your obstinance?”
She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I cannot even recall the last time I spoke with my mother or received a letter from her that contained more than the most banal of trivialities. Why should I care for her inconvenience when she hardly seems to care for mine?”
The marquess exhaled sharply. “You are playing a dangerous game, Elizabeth. Time is not on your side. Eight months until your majority, and you believe you can withstand the pressures that will come?”
Elizabeth swallowed. “I do.”
His eyes searched hers. “And if I were to arrange another match, one that would benefit our family immensely? There are agreeable gentlemen, daughter. I do not speak of wedding you to an ogre.”
She shook her head. “It would be futile. My answer would remain the same.”
The marquess’s shoulders bunched as his fist closed around his teacup. “You are determined to defy me at every turn.”
Elizabeth’s voice softened, but her resolve remained. “I seek not to defy, but to choose a man I find worthy. Can you not understand that?”
He glared at the table. After a moment, he spoke, his tone weary. “Do what you will, Elizabeth. But know this: your choices carry weight, and the consequences will be yours to bear.”
“Understood.” Elizabeth rose from the table and left the room, not waiting to be dismissed. The door clicked softly shut.
Eight more months.
She could outlast him.
Elizabethrattledupthestaircase, her steps coming in a disorganized flurry of anger. The morning’s confrontation with her father left a residual heat in her chest that could only be satisfied by screaming into her pillow. But as she reached the landing, the murmur of voices and the shuffle of movement stopped her in her tracks.
Two maids bustled in and out of her former bedroom, arms laden with gowns and personal items. Their brisk efficiency suggested a task both urgent and familiar.
Elizabeth approached the doorway, her brow furrowing. “What is happening here?”
The younger maid, startled, nearly dropped the stack of hatboxes she carried. “Begging your pardon, my lady,” she stammered. “The repairs are finished, and His Lordship ordered us to move your belongings back into this room.”
Elizabeth’s gaze swept the room. The walls, once a muted cream, now bore a fresh coat of soft blue. The heavy drapes had been replaced with lighter fabrics, allowing sunlight to spill generously into the space. The familiar scent of lavender sachets, placed in drawers and armoires, wafted through the air.
She stepped to the window, drawn by an inexplicable pull. The street below bustled with midday activity—carriages rattling over cobblestones, vendors calling their wares, pedestrians weaving through the throng. Her eyes scanned the crowd, landing on a figure standing motionless across the way. A man, his face obscured by the brim of his hat, seemed to be staring directly at her window.
