Never mind London. She would be a duchess! Who cared if she was only being chosen because the duke wanted a ‘maternal’ figure for his daughter, as he so put it?
He had at leastchosenher.
Isadora lay staring at the canopy above her bed while a blade of afternoon sun crept slowly across the faded damask.
Three days.
Three days shut inside the house, with every letter inspected and every attempt to leave met by a locked door or one of her uncle’s servants planted in the passage. All because she refused to tell them where she had gone after the wedding.
Aunt Judith had somehow decided that Nathaniel’s absence was Isadora’s fault. Apparently, she possessed secret command over the man and had merely chosen not to exercise it. Had such powers existed, she would certainly have ordered him to arrive—or, better still, to stay away months ago, before she had stood before a church crowd dressed like a jaundiced sacrifice.
Though after Winchester House, Mr. Windham seemed a very small loss indeed.
The duke had asked her to marry him.
And she was imprisoned upstairs like a disobedient nursery maid.
With a groan, Isadora flung back the coverlet and went to the door. It yielded with its usual complaining creak. Corridor empty,at last. Downstairs, Aunt Judith sat in the drawing room turning the pages of a novel, while Uncle Vernon’s voice carried through the half-open study door.
“We cannot be expected to keep her indefinitely,” he was saying. “Food, gowns, pin money—and for what? She has already failed at the one useful thing required of her. Perhaps I ought to write to your sister and ask her to take in another of the children. Afterall, the girl they took in has already married; there must be a vacancy by now.”
Isadora winced. A vacancy. When her father had died, leaving her an orphan, she and her four sisters had been divided by a selection of family members. Their aunts and uncles had gathered around, choosing which sister they wanted.
Isadora had been everyone’s last choice, bumped around until finally her Aunt Judith and Uncle Vernon had been forced to take her in. And ever since, they had made their dissatisfaction with the situation plain, complaining to all and sundry about the unfairness of it all.
Isadora’s sweet younger sister,Unity, at twenty, was also unmarried. But no one spoke of her as though she were a cracked vase taking up shelf room. Of course they didn’t. She had dimples, a pretty singing voice, and the good fortune to live with an aunt who considered affection a Christian duty rather than an expense—blessings Isadora loved her for and envied in equal measure.
Soon, none of that would matter.
Isadora smiled as she crossed the passage. She could already picture Aunt Judith’s face when the announcement appeared in theYork Courant: Miss Fairbourne, niece of Mr. and Mrs. Chester, to become Duchess of Winchester. Her aunt would have to sit down. There might be hartshorn. Perhaps even weeping.
“Watch where you’re going!” Her aunt snapped her book shut.
The lovely little vision burst. “Yes, Aunt Judith.”
“And cease being a mouse about the house. If you require occupation, there is embroidery enough in the morning room—that fire screen has sat unfinished since Easter. Or simply return upstairs.” She made a shooing motion. “I am beyond my wits’ end with you.”
Isadora glanced toward the front hall. Three days, and still no chance to send word. The duke might believe she had refused him. Worse, he might decide he had been mad to ask.
“If I might only walk into town—”
“You will do no such thing.” Aunt Judith’s mouth thinned. “A young woman wandering the roads alone, dressed as you were! One would think you had been reared among gypsies!”
“You were the ones to leave me at the church,” Isadora protested meekly.
“And you should have returned directly when Mr. Windham failed to appear. Instead, you vanished for half the day and came creeping home after dark.”
“I did not creep…”
She narrowed her eyes, the effect only succeeding in making her appear more severe. “I hardly know why we bothered to findyou such an advantageous match if you did so little to ensure it happened. You may be sure I will not do such a thing again.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am.” A footman appeared behind Isadora, clearing his throat. “There is a caller… for Miss Fairbourne.”
Aunt Judith brightened. “Mr. Windham, no doubt. Show him into the drawing room.” She caught Isadora by the arm before she could move. “And mind yourself. I will not have you spoiling matters twice.”
Isadora’s stomach corded into knots at the thought of having to confront Nathaniel all over—and on the off-chance he wished to actually marry her—having to be the one to tell him no this time.
There would be consequences. Locked doors, confiscated letters, perhaps a sudden journey to some relation in the north who believed cold baths improved female obedience.
