Chapter 7: The Betrothal

The soft light of dawn crept through the grand windows of Harrington Manor, casting a golden glow across the drawing room where Isabella sat. Though she should have felt relief after the victories she and William had achieved against Geoffrey’s schemes, a sense of foreboding clung to her like a heavy fog. Her heart remained unsettled, as if something darker still lurked beneath the surface.

That morning, her father, the Earl of Harrington, had summoned her for a meeting in his study. Such formal requests were rare, and Isabella’s mind raced as she walked through the familiar halls. The rumors of her betrothal to Geoffrey had lingered for weeks, whispered behind fans and in hushed conversations at balls. And yet, her father had never spoken of it. Not until now.

Surely, after everything that had transpired at Lady Ashford’s gathering, Geoffrey could no longer be considered a viable suitor.

And yet, when she entered the study, her father’s grave expression sent an icy chill through her.

“Isabella,” the Earl greeted, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit.”

She obeyed, though every fiber of her being was taut with unease. “What is it, Father?”

The Earl sighed, his hands steepled together, his gaze heavy with an emotion she could not yet name. “I have received a formal proposal for your hand in marriage.”

A sickening weight settled in Isabella’s stomach. “From whom?”

The Earl hesitated, and in that brief moment, she already knew.

“Lord Geoffrey Ashton.”

The name struck like a blow.

“He has offered a substantial dowry and an alliance that would secure our family’s future,” her father continued. “It is an offer we cannot afford to dismiss.”

Disbelief surged through her, hot and furious. “Lord Geoffrey?” she repeated. “Father, surely you jest. After what transpired at Lady Ashford’s gathering? The evidence William and Sir James uncovered? The witnesses, the scandal, the disgrace? You cannot be blind to Geoffrey’s true nature.”

Her father exhaled, rubbing a hand over his temple. “I am not blind, Isabella,” he said, his voice weary. “I am merely pragmatic. Scandals fade. Rumors are forgotten. Geoffrey will be welcomed back into society in time, and when that happens, I would rather he be an ally than an enemy.”

A sharp laugh escaped her, though there was no humor in it. “An ally? Geoffrey is not a man to ally with—he is a man to fear.”

Her father’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for the first time, she saw it.

Doubt.

She pressed forward. “What hold does he have over you?”

The Earl stiffened.

Her breath quickened. “This is not just about an advantageous match, is it?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Isabella, this is not your concern.”

“It is my life.”

Silence.

Then, finally, a reluctant confession. “There are debts. Not my own, but ones tied to the estate. Lands that need securing. Promises that cannot go unfulfilled. Geoffrey has offered assistance, should we become family.”

The revelation sent a cold shudder through her.

“So he has bought my hand,” she whispered. “And you would sell me to him.”

The Earl flinched as though struck. “Do not think for a moment that I wish this,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But sometimes, sacrifices must be made.”

“No,” Isabella said fiercely, rising to her feet. “Not this one. I will not be his pawn.”

Her father exhaled slowly. “Think carefully, Isabella. Because if Geoffrey falls and the debts remain, our family may fall with him.”

Her voice trembled, but her resolve did not. “Then let it.”

And with that, she turned and strode from the room, leaving the Earl behind with his impossible choice.

*****

The gardens of Harrington Manor had always been her sanctuary. But today, even the scent of blooming roses could not calm the storm raging inside her.

A movement at the edge of the garden caught her eye.

William.

His expression was taut with concern as he strode toward her. “Isabella?” he called softly, his voice steady but urgent.

Something inside her snapped. She ran to him, her composure shattering as she collapsed into his arms.

“It’s Geoffrey,” she gasped. “He’s formally proposed, and my father—my father is urging me to accept.”

A sharp inhale. A tense silence.

Then, William’s arms tightened around her, his grip a silent vow. “That bastard,” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “He will stop at nothing.”

She pulled back, desperate. “Then how do we stop him? How do we make my father see?”

William exhaled sharply. “Sir James and I have been digging deeper. What we exposed at Lady Ashford’s gathering was only the surface of Geoffrey’s corruption. We are close—so very close—to uncovering evidence that will not just ruin his reputation.”

A shiver coursed down her spine. “Then what?”

His gaze hardened. “We will find evidence that will see Geoffrey’s name dragged before the authorities. If what we suspect is true, he will not simply be ostracized.”

He took a breath, his grip tightening.

“He will be destroyed.”

*****

A month had passed since Isabella and William’s paths had entwined in a battle against deception and ambition. Geoffrey had retreated, but he had not vanished.

And neither had Lady Catherine Montford.

William and Sir James believed she had been blinded by infatuation, that she had finally awakened to Geoffrey’s true nature.

Fools.

Catherine let the parchment rest between her fingers, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. They thought she had been Geoffrey’s pawn, that her loyalties had shifted now that she saw him for what he was—a man who used and discarded alliances as easily as one changed gloves.

How utterly predictable.

They underestimated her. As they always had.

She turned her gaze toward the fire, where an untouched letter from William Crawford sat on her desk—an invitation to meet, to speak of Geoffrey, of what had transpired at the Ashford ball. She had no doubt Sir James’s hand had played a role in this as well.

They wanted information.

They wanted her help.

How amusing. How utterly naive.

Catherine’s fingers traced the edge of the parchment, but her thoughts were far from Geoffrey Ashton. He had never been her true ambition. No, her prey had always been far more elusive.

William.

They should have been married years ago. It had been arranged, a betrothal orchestrated with careful precision. But William had run—fled England, abandoned her, all because he would not disobey his father’s orders. A dutiful son, shackled by duty, blinded by honor.

But his father was dead now.

And with his passing, so too had the old contract faded into irrelevance. The betrothal was no longer valid, the obligation dissolved.

Which meant William believed himself free.

Catherine smiled, a slow, dangerous thing.

He was wrong.

She would leave him no way out.

*****

In the dim solitude of his study, Geoffrey sat in contemplation, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. Recent events had complicated matters, but he remained undeterred. William had returned—not for honor, not for justice, but to challenge him for what was rightfully his.

The Earl owed him more than Isabella could ever begin to fathom. He would not refuse to give her hand.

*****

Meanwhile, William and Sir James met with the Earl, determined to put an end to the matter of Isabella’s betrothal to Geoffrey once and for all.

The study of Harrington Manor was cast in the warm glow of the evening fire, but there was little warmth to be found in the room itself. The Earl of Harrington sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, his expression carefully measured as he regarded the two men before him.

William stood rigid, his jaw tight, while Sir James exuded his usual air of composed authority. The weight of the conversation to come pressed heavily between them.

The Earl exhaled slowly, folding his hands atop the desk. "I assume you have come regarding Geoffrey Ashton’s proposal."

William’s hands clenched at his sides. "You cannot seriously be considering it."

The Earl’s brow furrowed. "A man in my position does not have the luxury of dismissing offers out of sentiment, Your Grace." His tone was calm, yet edged with something unreadable. "Lord Geoffrey has made a generous proposition—one that secures my daughter's future and strengthens this family's standing."

Sir James leaned forward, his voice smooth but firm. "And what of Geoffrey’s past? His transgressions are no mere rumors, my lord. You saw the disgrace he suffered at Lady Ashford’s gathering. The evidence we have gathered is not speculation—it is damning. Geoffrey Ashton is not a man fit to be anyone’s husband, least of all Isabella’s."

The Earl’s gaze darkened, but he did not immediately respond.

William took a measured step forward. "You know what kind of man he is," he said, his voice low with restrained fury. "And yet, you still hesitate."

The Earl’s expression hardened. "I hesitate because society has a short memory, Your Grace. Geoffrey may be disgraced today, but men like him do not stay in the shadows for long. Power, influence—they are not so easily erased. And when he inevitably regains his standing, I would rather he be bound to this family than set against it."

William’s temper flared. "So you would gamble Isabella’s happiness—her safety—on the chance that Geoffrey might rise again?"

The Earl met his gaze evenly. "I would do what is necessary to ensure her security."

A tense silence settled between them.

Sir James broke it with a quiet but lethal certainty. "Then perhaps you should hear what we have uncovered."

The Earl’s eyes flickered with something—curiosity, perhaps, or something more guarded. He gestured for them to continue.

Sir James glanced at William before speaking. "We are not merely speaking of rumors or indiscretions, my lord. We are speaking of crimes. Geoffrey Ashton’s dealings extend far beyond mere scandal—there are forged ledgers, bribes, debts concealed under false names. His desperation has made him reckless, and reckless men make mistakes."

William’s voice was steel. "Mistakes that could cost him everything."

The Earl’s expression shifted—his fingers tightening slightly atop the desk. He had been prepared for arguments of morality, of reputation. But this… this was something else entirely.

"You have proof of this?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Sir James smiled, though there was no amusement in it. "We are very close. And when we have enough, Geoffrey Ashton will not simply be unwelcome in society—he will be answering to the authorities."

The Earl’s jaw tightened, the weight of their words settling upon him. For the first time since the meeting began, true hesitation flickered across his face.

William pressed forward. "You once told Isabella that a scandal fades—that a man like Geoffrey could return to favor. But if we succeed, there will be no return. No redemption. Only ruin."

The Earl exhaled slowly, looking away for a long moment before returning his gaze to William.

"And if you fail?"

Sir James answered without hesitation. "We won’t."

The room was silent, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them.

Finally, the Earl leaned back in his chair, his features betraying nothing—but there was a shift, a slight unraveling of the unshakable resolve he had once held.

"You ask me to trust that you will succeed," he said slowly. "And in doing so, you ask me to risk my family’s future on a bet with uncertain odds."

William’s voice was steady, unwavering. "You would risk far more by tying your daughter to a man like Geoffrey Ashton."

Another silence. Another careful consideration.

Then, the Earl let out a slow breath. "What exactly do you need from me?"

*****

The Earl’s question hung in the air, his voice carefully measured, but William could see the subtle shift in his demeanor. He was no longer defending Geoffrey—he was weighing his options.

Sir James met the Earl’s gaze, his expression calm but edged with quiet precision. “We need time, my lord. The final pieces of evidence are within reach, but if you accept Geoffrey’s proposal now, you will tie your family to a sinking ship. Once an engagement is made public, it will be far more difficult to sever without consequences.”

The Earl exhaled sharply. “And if I delay? If I tell Geoffrey I must consider the offer further?”

William’s jaw clenched. “He will grow suspicious, but he won’t risk pressuring you too soon. He believes he still holds power over you—let him believe it a while longer.”

The Earl’s expression darkened. “You presume much, Your Grace.”

William did not falter. “I speak plainly because there is no time left for pretense.” He took a step closer, his voice low, determined. “Isabella deserves more than to be a pawn in this war. She deserves the chance to choose her own future. Give me that time—give her that time—and I will ensure Geoffrey Ashton never darkens your doorstep again.”

The Earl studied him, his fingers tapping idly against the desk as though weighing the burden of his decision. His gaze flicked to Sir James. “How certain are you that what you find will be enough?”

Sir James inclined his head slightly, his voice even. “Certain enough that I would stake my own reputation on it.”

That gave the Earl pause. Sir James was not a man who made careless wagers, and he was certainly not one to stake his name on an uncertain endeavor.

A long silence followed.

Then, finally, the Earl let out a breath and nodded. “I will delay my response to Geoffrey. I will tell him I must consider the matter further.”

William felt a small but fierce wave of relief, though he did not allow it to show. “That is all we ask.”

The Earl exhaled again, standing from his chair. “But understand this,” he said, leveling them both with a firm gaze. “If you fail, if Geoffrey survives this scandal intact, I will have little choice but to accept his offer. That is the reality of the world we live in.”

William’s hands tightened at his sides, his breath shallow as a sharp, seething fury burned beneath his skin. His restraint, already stretched thin, nearly snapped. The thought of Isabella being bound to Geoffrey—forced into a life of quiet misery, trapped under the control of a man who saw her as nothing more than a possession—sent a violent rush of rage through him.

For a brief moment, the carefully composed Duke of Crawford was gone.

His fists clenched at his sides, his voice cutting through the tense silence like the edge of a blade.

“You think I would let that happen?” His tone was low, dangerous. His eyes, usually filled with warmth when they looked upon Isabella, were now cold steel as they met the Earl’s. “You speak of duty, of securing your family’s future—what of hers? Would you see her shackled to a man you know to be unworthy?”

A heavy silence settled between them.

William exhaled sharply, forcing his hands to relax. The fire in his eyes dimmed slightly, but the raw intensity of his emotions still lingered. He squared his shoulders, regaining the careful control he had momentarily lost.

Then, quieter, but no less determined—“Then we will not fail.”

Sir James gave a slight bow. “We appreciate your prudence, my lord.”

The Earl did not respond immediately. Instead, he turned toward the fire, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames, though he scarcely saw them. His thoughts churned in restless disarray, a storm behind his carefully guarded eyes.

For years, he had made choices that secured his family’s standing—practical choices, necessary ones. He had learned to temper sentiment with reason, to weigh duty above personal desire. It was the way of men like him, men who carried the burden of legacy on their shoulders.

And yet…

Isabella’s voice still echoed in his mind. Then let it. Four words, spoken with a defiance he had never thought to hear from her. His daughter, his bright, headstrong girl, was willing to sacrifice everything rather than submit to a fate she did not choose.

And William—the Duke of Crawford, the boy who had once been a reckless thorn in every father’s side—had looked at him not as a man negotiating a future but as a father who held the power to protect or betray his own child.

The weight of it all pressed against his chest, heavier than he wished to admit. He had spent his life making difficult decisions, but was this the moment where he finally asked too much of her?

His hands tightened behind his back.

Was he truly securing her future?

Or was he condemning her to a cage, much like the one he had once built for himself?

He exhaled slowly, but the breath did little to settle the unease stirring inside him.

William and Sir James exchanged a glance.

The battle was not yet won.

But they had bought themselves time.

And that, for now, was enough.