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“Have you not tried to flirt, child?” he asked, his tone insistent.
“A father ordering his daughter to flirt,” she scoffed with derision. “Does that not sound a little outrageous to you, father?” Her words seemed to connect with him more so than any of her other objections had done.
He backed away from her, walking toward the fireplace where he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece then placed his hand in his open palm. “This order is to protect you, Hermione.”
“You treat me like I am some bawd at a brothel,” she murmured, feeling her temptation to cry bubble to the surface.
“I beg your pardon?” He snapped his head up from his hand.
“Flirt with him, Hermione. Catch him in a compromising position,” she mocked her father’s voice. “Do you have any idea how that sounds?”
“This is for your own good! Need I remind you thatyoubrought it on yourself?” He strode away from the mantelpiece and pointed at her for emphasis.
“I did not,” she wailed, just as the tears began to fall. “It was not my fault that he no longer wanted me.” She didn’t need to say his name; they both knew who she was referring to.
“Who else’s fault was it? It had to be yours,” he pointed at her. “I am not having the same argument again with you, Hermione. You must work harder. Capture the Duke’s attentions within the next week, or we are all doomed.” He walked around the room in a small circle. “We might have to do something dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” she paused in her tears, looking up to him. “Like what?”
“That is for me to know.” He turned and walked away from her, evidently intending for it to be his last word on the matter, but she wouldn’t let it be.
“What is it you would plan?” she asked, jumping to her feet to follow him. Seeing her do so, he took hold of the same wrist he had been holding before. She yelped at the fresh pain, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“If it comes to setting a trap for this Duke, and you do not have the stomach to do it, then I will,” he said, not releasing her wrist.
“I will not let you hurt him,” she declared, finding surprising strength in her voice. “Are you listening to me? I won’t let you….” She broke off sharply, just as he lifted his free hand in the air.
He had never hurt her in his life, never lifted a hand to her, even when she was a child and misbehaved. Now, she was cowering from him, trying to push his hand off her wrist as he lifted his other hand as though to strike her.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “I do not recognize you anymore.”
He looked at his own hand with apparent disgust, even amazed at himself. He lowered the hand. “I would never hurt you, Hermione,” he said softly.
“Then release my wrist!” she ordered, pulling on it still. He released it at once. It was so abrupt that she felt back on the floor, landing to the rug with a thump on her rear as she cradled her wrist.
Her father looked down at her, his purple cheeks paling, before he stumbled away, looking at the hand that had hurt her as though it were foreign to himself.
“I’ll leave you to rest now,” he said, clearing his throat and trying to sound normal. She supposed he was trying to pretend that nothing had happened.
After he left, Hermione didn’t move for some time. She just stared down at her wrist, watching as a bruise began to develop, speckled purple and blue.I wonder… how far will my father go in order to see this marriage happen?
