The name hung in the air like poison. "Isabella?" Baron Reginald repeated, his teacup clattering back onto its saucer.
I wasn't there to witness it, but later Alistair would tell me how my father's face had contorted with horror at Duke Alaric's announcement—as though the Duke had suggested marrying a farm animal rather than his firstborn daughter.
"Your Grace," my father stammered, "there must be some misunderstanding. Surely you meant Clara?"
Clara, who had been frozen in shock, immediately revived. She flashed what she must have thought was her most winning smile. "Yes, Your Grace. I'm certain you meant me."
Duke Alaric's jaw tightened. "I did not misspeak, Baron. I wish to marry Isabella."
Lady Beatrix leaned forward, her knuckles white against the table. "But Your Grace... Isabella is... well, she's not suited for society. The rumors about her... her condition..."
"What condition would that be?" Alaric asked, his voice dangerously soft.
