“If the duke is going to marry my daughter, I would like to know his opinion on certain delicate matters.”
“Not here. Not now.” Mother pointed a finger at him. “You become easily incensed when talking about politics. Just for tonight, talk about something else.”
He huffed, working his jaw.
Tension thickened the air as she went down the stairs with her family. Helen hadn’t married the duke yet, but her family had already changed.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end like before a thunderstorm, and her stomach seemed filled with ice.
“Why don’t you argue with Mother and defend your choices?” she whispered to Helen after her parents were a few feet away.
Helen kept her stare on the floor. “She has my best interest at heart.”
“She’s obsessed with dukes.”
“It’s understandable.”
“For someone who dislikes politics, you would make an excellent politician.”
Mother paused before entering the sitting room to take a deep breath. “Girls, make me proud.”
“Yes, Mother.” Helen sounded unemotional.
Isabella was terrified. “Yes, Mother.”
“I’m already proud of my girls,” Father muttered grudgingly under his breath.
A footman opened the double doors and bowed, announcing them.
Isabella squinted for a moment at the brightness of the room. Heavy furniture and thick carpets took up half the space. The other half was occupied by the largest chandeliers Isabella had ever seen. She had to fight the impulse to look up and just stare at the magnificent crystals.
She suppressed a little gasp upon seeing Anthony. In his tailored dark suit, he looked as imposing and intimidating as the duke he was. His auburn curls enhanced his green eyes, the same as his grandmother’s, but even though he was smiling, a forlorn aura radiated from him.
The Dowager stood regal and elegant, making Isabella feel inadequate just by existing. Instead, Lord Patrick, Anthony’s brother, was a ray of sunlight, literally. With his golden hair and sparkling blue eyes, he stood out like Apollo next to Hades.
“Lady Helen, I’m pleased to see you again.” Anthony bowed over Helen’s gloved hand. When he turned to Isabella, she had to control her smile, lest she smile too much.
“Your Grace.” Helen dipped in a curtsy. The moment of sadness from before seemed to never have happened. She looked perfectly happy and serene.
After a round of greetings, curtsies, and bows, drinks were served, but Isabella was distracted by a large frame hanging on the wall and filled with dried, pressed flowers.
She had conflicted feelings about the dried flowers; they were pretty but too similar to mummies.
When the butler announced dinner was ready, she was about to walk to the dining room, but a glare from Mother stopped her. Rules and etiquette. The duke led the way with Helen and Mother, then the Dowager with Father, which left Isabella with Lord Patrick.
“Eerie, aren’t they?” Lord Patrick whispered, taking her arm.
“What?”
“The dead flowers.”
“Goodness.” She was impressed he guessed what she’d been thinking.
She sat on a chair next to Lord Patrick and smiled again, determined not to say a word unless she had to. She would keep her elbows locked to her waist throughout the dinner, her attitude would be demure, and she would be quiet. Easier than dealing with the firethorn.
Anthony sat at the head of the table, and her composure cracked a little when he gave her a quick smile. A smile that held an entire conversation. There was companionship, understanding, and a hint of mischief. She returned the smile and lowered her gaze to her plate while Mother and the dowager duchess talked about the challenges of managing an estate as big as Dockerly Castle.
Helen sat in the position of honour, at the duke’s right, a clear sign of a future courtship.
