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Chapter 1
He was disgusting!Never before in her life had Isabella met more foul of a man. The burning in her eyes intensified as her stomach churned. She was sitting before her favorite opera—Mozart’s Magic Flute, a piece that had always cheered her up, but not this time. No, not even the energetic, colorfully dressed bird-character Papageno had managed to lift her spirits. Isabella’s gaze was directed downward, and she bit her lower lip so hard she could taste the metallic flavor of blood in her mouth.
“This is my favorite part,” hummed the culprit of Isabella’s agony into her ear, totally out of tune and ignorant to her suffering. Unlike Isabella, whose golden hair, sky blue eyes, and kind heart made her a beauty in every way possible, Lord Warrington, her betrothed, was old, overweight, had bad acne, and was constantly sweating, which led to him carrying soaked, smelly handkerchiefs in his pockets at all times. But that wasn’t the reason for Isabella’s disgust. Certainly, Warrington was by no means her first choice of marriage, and if it had been up to her, which it hadn’t, she would have chosen a man who was at least somewhat kind, or funny, or caring, or even just polite. If Lord Warrington had possessed even one of these traits, it could have made this Godforsaken arranged marriage somewhat bearable. But Lord Warrington was none of that. In truth, as impossible as it may sound, he was uglier on the inside than he was on the outside. Renowned for his drinking and whoring problem, no respectable family of society would consider marrying their daughter to him, which was the very reason he was still unmarried at the age of sixty-five.
No family could bear the thought of placing a beloved child into the hands of a man who was known in all of London as “Sucking Willy,” a nickname he received after rumors made their rounds that he liked to wear nappies and breastfeed when he made his nightly visits to the brothels. Who in their right mind would marry their daughter to such a man?!
That was precisely the point that Isabella struggled to comprehend.In her right mindcould by no means be used to describe her mother, Lady Astley, at this point any longer. Isabella caught a glimpse of her mother out of the corner of her eye. She seemed so content and entertained by the opera despite her own daughter’s misery; it felt surreal. Was this all a nightmare? Would she wake up at any moment now, before her awful engagement to the most insufferable man on this planet would be announced this very evening after the opera? But before she could let herself feel the slightest hope, she felt that sweaty hand on her knee again. It instantly tore her from her thoughts and back into the nightmare she had to call reality.Pig!For the third time this evening, she moved her leg aside, out of reach of the very hand that left smelly sweat stains all over her dress. Isabella shuddered in disgust, grinding her teeth with a hatred and anger she had never felt before. As if Mozart himself had stepped out of the grave to comfort her, the Queen of the Night started singing the part of the opera that made the piece so famous and could have not been more fitting for this very moment:
“The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart,
Death and despair flame about me!...”
It was right there and then, listening to those very words carried to her by the Queen of the Night—feeling Lord Warrington’s wrinkly, sweaty palm creeping its way up her thighs to the part that no man should ever touch without a woman’s consent, seeing her mother’s happiness despite throwing her own daughter away like an old hat that had fallen out of fashion—it was right there and then that Isabella could take no more. Overtaken by emotions, Isabella whipped the back of her hand across Lord Warrington’s face with a slap so powerful, it might very well have been the slap of the Almighty himself.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” she shouted like she had never shouted before. The opera continued, the performers seemingly unaware of the events, but a few people—her mother and Lord Warrington included—turned in utter shock. Seeing her mother's wide stare, and realizing a moment too late what she'd done, Isabella jumped from her seat and fled the balcony in such terror, one might think the devil was after her. Flying down the stairs, she didn’t slow down until she heard the large, golden entrance doors of what was once her favorite place slam behind her. The unforgiving cold air of a crystal-clear night slapped Isabella’s face as she just stood there, frozen in shock.
“How dare you!” a sharp voice hissed from behind. Isabella didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. “How dare I? How dareI? Surely you’re not serious!” Isabella spun around to face her mother, causing a few of her golden locks to come loose from her bun. Her blue eyes glittered with anger, like those of a cornered animal ready to fight for its life.
“Oh, I am entirely serious. You are acting like a spoiled little brat.” Her mother frowned arrogantly, unemotional, the same flat tone Isabella had had to endure all her life.
“No mother, I am acting like any normal woman would considering the circumstances,” she shouted back at her in despair. A couple walked by, speeding up their pace, pretending they’d heard nothing to avoid embarrassment. Isabella’s mother burst into a high-pitched, fake laughter, pretending nothing was the matter. “My dear child you are too funny,” Lady Astley laughed loud enough for the couple to hear. But as they faded into the distance, her mother's face burned into an uncontrollable rage. She clenched her fist around Isabella’s arm and dragged her forcefully into the side street next to the opera.
“You listen to me, you ungrateful wench. This marriage is not ideal but it is necessary. Lord Warrington is the fifth richest Lord in all of England. I would have preferred a marriage to the Blackwells, but unfortunately for us the old Blackwell kicked the bucket before Lady Blackwell and I could seal the deal between you and her son, who now shows as little interest in marriage as you do… So that is that.” Isabella threw her brows together in anger. “I thank God for that! William Blackwell would have been just as awful as your current Prince Charming. Why were none of the other men acceptable to you? Age and looks aren’t important to me, but some of them were at least kind, like father.” Isabella jerked her arm in an attempt to free herself from her mother’s painful grip, but without success. In response she clenched her fist even tighter. “Don’t be ridiculous. They were just as useless as yourfailureof a father who left us with nothing to live on. We would have run out of their money in no time.”
Her blood ran cold. Isabella knew that her mother spoke the truth. Not the condescending remarks about her father, a gentle, kind soul who had passed away from a weak heart about two years before. No, she was right on target abouthermoney problems. Her mother had single handedly managed to put her father into the ground by spending his fortune, riches that had been in his family for hundreds of years, at a speed he was unable to recoup. After years of working himself to death, his heart finally gave up, only to die from the stress of being married to a woman Isabella had to call mother. That was the beginning of the end of one of England’s finest houses, now on the brink of ruin.
In a last, desperate attempt to save Isabella from the despicable marriage their mother had arranged for her, George, her kind-hearted brother, had journeyed to America in the hopes of making a fortune. But time was running out, and their self-absorbed mother had decided that it was time to fill her depleted chests with gold by marrying her daughter off to a rich monster. But unlikely as it was for a lady to defy her mother, Isabella too had made her decision. “Well too bad, mother. Because I would rather live in the poorhouse than marry that creature." She pointed toward the Opera House before raising a hand into the sky. "And by God, I swear I mean it!”
For a moment they both stared at each other, eyes filled with hate. One stared in disgust while the other watched in pity. It was Lady Astley who broke the silence, exploding into a loud unladylike laughter, swinging her hand fan widely in front of Isabella’s face. “Child, really. You should have been born on a theater stage!" Her laughter sounded like a cat being strangled; she was laughing so hard that it brought tears to her eyes. "For a moment I almost believed you, child!” Her elegant chest chuckled up and down. Unable to contain herself, she finally let go of Isabella’s arm, leaving visible red marks. Isabella tucked her wrist into her other hand to ease the burn on her gentle skin. Her gaze followed her mother’s finger wiping away a tear of laughter out of her pretty eyes. Back in the day, Lady Astley had been an exceptional beauty—the very reason why her father, the widely respected Duke of Aberdeen, had married her in the first place. It was a mistake he had come to regret for the rest of his miserable life, which had ended not too long ago. And now, thanks to her greedy mother, her father’s misery seemed to turn into a curse that would haunt an entire generation of Astleys to come. No, she wouldn’t allow it. Isabella would stand her ground. Unfazed by her mother's conduct, she decided it was time to speak from the heart. “If you really want to save yourself from ruin, dear mother, then I suggest you marry Lord Warrington yourself.”
Without the slightest interest in witnessing her mother's reaction to those words, Isabella turned and walked away. Experience had taught her that there was no point arguing any longer when her mother reached this point of anger. She would not marry this man, no matter the consequences. She would just have to stay low for a few months at her aunt’s home. Her father’s sister, who happened to hate her mother even more than Isabella did right now, would certainly take her in until society moved on to the next subject of gossip. But before she was able to reach the other side of the street, her body was pulled violently as she was forced to turn around. Once again, she was under her mother's deathly grip, mother and daughter, eye to eye, as they both stood still in the middle of the road.
“Do you really think I would marry a pig like that?" Her mother's eyes burned like the hellfire that she most likely ascended from when she came into this world. Her nostrils throbbed as though red-hot steam was fuming out of them. "Mark my words you ungrateful brat, and if it’s the last thing you'll do, you will marry Lord Warrington and save me from ruin,” Lady Astley growled, eyes narrowed.Was that a threat?Isabella thought. A threat to do what? Her mother was shaking, brows tightly drawn together in rage. Isabella had experienced her mother’s anger before so many times, she thought she had seen it all. But this was different, in a terrifying and almost vile way. She glanced over that woman in front of her that she called mother. For a moment she was unsure who she was, and what she was truly capable of. How much further was she willing to go? How desperate could she possibly be? After this engagement, she had thought nothing would ever surprise her about her mother, or was she mistaken?
Isabella flinched and shut her eyes the instant she saw her mother raise a hand. It wouldn’t be the first time she would endure violence from her own mother. But instead of a well expected slap, it was the cold sting of silver that hit her in the face, followed by a ringing from below as whatever her mother had just thrown at her face bounced on the hard pavement. As she opened her eyes, she noticed a spark of light that rested beside her feet. It was a single shilling. Her mother had just thrown a coin at her face, hard enough to hurt her, most likely even to leave another mark.
“If you don’t marry Lord Warrington, I swear to God, or the devil himself, or whatever creature is listening, that this is all you will be worth after I have finished with you.” Those were the last words her mother spoke before leaving her in the middle of the street, alone in the bitter cold that had started to assault her fair skin, along with nothing more but the very coin she’d priced her at. Isabella felt empty. She felt lost and sick to the core. She tried to blink her tears away, but her eyes were focused on the silver beneath her. A shilling. That’s what she was worth to her mother. A shilling. Nothing more, nothing less. Out of all the babies born every day… Why her? Why did she have to be born an Astley? How she wished for a different life, far away from here. What would she give if she could just disappear, to a different place, to a different life, to be someone else. Anybody else. Poor, ugly, short, boring…None of it mattered as long as it was far, far away from here.
The street was as dead as she felt inside. Maybe she should just give up. Marry Lord Warrington. Get it over with. At least her brother’s estate would be saved. He was as innocent in all of this as she was and didn’t deserve to die in poverty because their mother had wasted away his inheritance. Isabella bent over to grab the shilling, ready to give up all hope of love, or of being loved.
“OUT OF THE WAAAAAAAAY!”
Her ears were hit with a loud scream, followed by the sound of screeching wheels and thunderous hooves, before being flung into the air so hard she felt her spine snapped in two. Her body slammed onto the ground so fast that there was no time to scream in pain. Her eyes flickered. Her vision phased in and out. A glimpse of bright light in the distance—then everything went dark.
In her mind, Isabella knew exactly what had gone on. A carriage must have hit her. Was she dead? Just like that? One moment still breathing, one step closer to freedom, then the next, dead in the ground? Well, at least she would not have to marry Lord Warrington any longer. Not the kind of escape she had in mind, but if that’s what destiny had in store for her, she would have to accept it nevertheless. In her last moments of consciousness, her final thoughts were dedicated to her brother, for whom she wished all the love and happiness in the world.
