Anthony sipped his tea. At least he would have the last word on the choice of his bride. He wanted a woman who was ready to share the burden of his work and who wanted to support him. A pretty wife who thought only about attending dinner parties wouldn’t be happy next to him.
“Naturally,” she said, “if that stubborn Austrian von Gruner hadn’t proved to be nothing but a fool, we would celebrate in our manor on Maiden Hill instead.”
“Naturally,” he said, “if you hadn’t called him an imbecile buffoon, he might have been more inclined to negotiate with us.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Von Gruner insulted your father.”
“And you replied in kind. I received a letter from von Gruner last week,” Anthony said. “Needless to say, he has no intention of meeting me. He hasn’t replied to any of my letters since then.”
“It’s a miracle he sent you a letter at all.” Patrick chuckled nervously. “I would call it progress. We didn’t manage to extract a single word from him in months of negotiations.”
“Von Gruner enjoys playing with us,” Anthony said. The lack of progress with the Austrian was another failure in his ducal career.
Grandmama twitched her mouth. “He didn’t even send us his condolences.”
“I would love to try to negotiate with him,” Patrick said. “And I fancy a trip to the Continent.”
Anthony shook his head. “No, you’ll stay here, behave, and avoid causing trouble.”
“It sounds dreadfully boring.”
“Why are you complaining, brother?” He rose, but Grandmama stopped him.
“So do you approve of celebrating in Dockerly Castle with Helen and her family?”
“You’ve already decided.”
Ignoring her scowl, Anthony headed for his study.
Another uncomfortable night of troubled sleep had left his neck muscles sore. At his desk, before opening the correspondence, he checked his personal diary. His physician had told him to write down everything that made him happy or smile each day. An exercise to remind him that there were many good things in his life worth celebrating—or so the physician had said.
The previous entries for the past weeks didn’t have a long list of words. Some records were empty. The last annotations reported only the word ‘family.’ Or what was left of it.
After having returned home from the war and his parents’ deaths, he found it hard to make sense of his life. He had a title he wasn’t ready to hold, politics he didn’t understand, an Austrian count who refused to negotiate the return of his parent’s beloved estate, and nothing to look forward to.
Now he even had to get married as soon as possible. But after Father and Grandfather’s premature deaths, the family was short of heirs, and producing one was his duty, as Grandmama reminded him every day.
Duty. All his life had been nothing but duties, and they were cold, empty companions that sucked all his energy and gave nothing back.
And he was supposed to share his shadow with a young woman and ruin her life, too.
* * *
Unfair.Unjust. Unreasonable. Unwarranted.
Isabella searched for all the un-words describing her undeserved situation.
Mother had dragged her on the trip to Dockerly Castle right when her precious orchid seedlings were about to arrive. She’d protested, pointing out she would be only a dead weight no one was interested in talking with, but Mother hadn’t listened.
We’re a family, and we’re going together, Mother had said.
The fact the Dowager had expressly asked for the whole family to come had decided Isabella’s fate.
So here she was, in the middle of nowhere in the English countryside, being rocked to and fro in a crowded travelling coach.
“Stop sulking.” Helen patted her shoulder as they drove on among bumps and jolts. “We’re visiting a new place. I mean, it’s in the country, which is too wild, muddy, and generally unkempt. But unlike me, you adore the wilderness. You should be happy.”
“Absolutely excited,” Isabella muttered, her chin on her closed fist.
