A harsh knock jolted me from sleep. In the dim light filtering through my curtains, I felt a moment of disorientation before the events of yesterday came flooding back. The Duke. Our conversation. My proposal.
"Miss Isabella!" The voice was shrill, demanding. "Breakfast is ready!"
Clara. Of course it would be Clara, likely itching to know what had transpired between the Duke and me in the garden.
The kitten, still nestled beside me, stirred at the noise. I quickly scooped up the tiny creature and tucked it into the small space beneath my bed.
"Stay quiet, little one," I whispered, reaching for my mask on the bedside table.
My fingers fumbled with the ribbons as I tied the porcelain shield over my scarred face. Another knock, more insistent this time.
"Just a moment!" I called, smoothing my nightdress and running fingers through my tangled hair.
I opened the door, expecting to see Clara's smug face. Instead, a young maid stood there, nervously shifting from foot to foot. At my feet was a tray with a meager breakfast – dry toast and weak tea.
"Lady Clara instructed me to bring this to your room, Miss," the maid said, not quite meeting my eyes.
As I bent to retrieve the tray, a foot appeared from nowhere, pinning my hand painfully to the floor. I bit back a cry of pain as Clara stepped into view, the heel of her expensive slipper grinding into my fingers.
"Good morning, dear sister," Clara said sweetly. "I've been so anxious to speak with you."
The maid hurried away, clearly relieved to escape the unfolding scene.
"Clara, please," I whispered, trying to pull my hand free. "You're hurting me."
She increased the pressure, eyes gleaming with malice. "What did you and the Duke discuss yesterday? And don't lie to me. I saw you two in the garden."
"Nothing of importance," I gasped, tears springing to my eyes despite my best efforts. "He merely scolded me for being in his way."
Clara's perfect brows furrowed. "Is that all? You spoke for quite some time for a simple scolding."
I forced my voice to remain steady. "He... he also mentioned you."
This caught her interest. Her foot eased slightly on my hand.
"What about me?" she demanded.
"He remarked on your beauty," I lied smoothly. "He asked if you were Baron Beaumont's daughter."
Clara's expression shifted from suspicion to pleasure. "Did he really?"
"Yes. He seemed quite taken with you at the party." The words tasted bitter on my tongue, but they were necessary.
Clara's foot pressed down harder again. "You're lying. Why would he talk about me with you?"
I winced at the fresh wave of pain. "He knows we're sisters. He was curious why I wear the mask when you're so perfect."
"And what did you tell him?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
"The truth. That I'm hideously disfigured and unworthy to show my face in polite society."
Clara leaned down, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "If I find out you showed him your disgusting face, I'll make sure you never leave this house again. Do you understand me?"
"Clara!" A sharp voice broke through our exchange. "What are you doing?"
My father, Baron Reginald Beaumont, stood at the end of the hallway. Even from this distance, I could see the signs of last night's overindulgence – his bloodshot eyes and rumpled appearance.
Clara immediately released my hand, straightening with practiced grace. "Just having a chat with my dear sister, Father."
I pulled my throbbing hand to my chest, certain I would have bruises later.
My father approached, his gaze suspicious. "Isabella, I've heard some concerning reports about yesterday's event."
My heart stuttered. "What reports, Father?"
"Lady Pembroke claims you were seen in private conversation with Duke Alaric Thorne." His voice was cold. "Is this true?"
I lowered my eyes, mind racing. "Yes, Father. It was brief and unintentional."
"What did he want with you?" The question held an accusatory edge.
"Nothing, Father. I was simply in his path." I hesitated, then added what I knew would please him. "Though he did mention Clara."
My father's interest visibly heightened. "In what context?"
"He asked if she was your daughter. When I confirmed, he seemed... interested in her prospects."
Clara preened beside me, completely taken in by my fabrication.
"Did he?" My father stroked his chin thoughtfully. "That's very interesting indeed."
"He mentioned something about suitable marriage candidates," I continued, weaving my lie with careful precision. "Clara's name seemed foremost in his mind."
The Baron's eyes gleamed with avarice. If he could arrange a match between Clara and the Duke, our family's financial troubles would vanish overnight.
"Clara, you must make yourself available for the Duke's attention at the next social event," he instructed, completely forgetting about my transgression.
"Of course, Father," Clara simpered, shooting me a triumphant look.
I kept my expression neutral, though inwardly I smiled at how easily they were manipulated by their own greed and vanity.
"Father," I ventured carefully, "I have a small request."
He turned to me with impatience. "What is it?"
"I'd like to use the carriage today to go into town. I wish to paint some of the buildings and scenery."
His brow furrowed. "Out of the question. You know the rules about appearing in public."
"I wouldn't leave the carriage," I assured him quickly. "I'd simply open the window and sketch from inside. No one would see me."
He hesitated, clearly weighing the nuisance of my request against his good mood from the Duke's supposed interest in Clara.
"Please, Father. I've been working on improving my painting. Perhaps one day my work might even sell for a modest sum."
This appealed to his practical nature. Any potential source of income, however small, was worth considering in our declining circumstances.
"Very well," he relented. "But you are not to exit the carriage under any circumstances. And you must be back before dark."
"Thank you, Father." I bowed my head respectfully to hide the spark of triumph in my eyes.
"Come, Clara," my father said, turning away. "We must discuss your wardrobe for the upcoming ball at Lord Harrington's estate. If the Duke will be there, you must look your absolute best."
As they walked away, Clara cast one last suspicious glance over her shoulder. I maintained my submissive posture until they disappeared around the corner.
Only then did I allow myself to smile beneath my mask, despite the pain in my hand. The first part of my plan had succeeded. I had my transportation to meet Duke Alaric, and my family suspected nothing.
I picked up my breakfast tray from the floor and retreated into my room. The kitten emerged from under the bed, meowing softly for attention.
"It's working," I whispered, checking my injured hand. Red marks were already forming where Clara's heel had dug into my skin. "By this time tomorrow, I might be free of them forever."
I broke off a corner of toast for the kitten and ate the rest myself, mind already racing ahead to my meeting with the Duke. In just a few hours, I would present my proposition formally. If he accepted, my life would change forever. If he rejected me...
I pushed the thought away. I couldn't afford to consider failure. This was my only chance, and I would make it work.
I rose and began to prepare for the most important meeting of my life, carefully selecting my plainest dress – the one least likely to draw attention. As I dressed, I rehearsed my arguments in my head. I would appeal to the Duke's practical nature, his desire to be left alone, his obvious dislike of society's matchmaking mothers.
My future hung in the balance, dependent on a man known as a monster. But after living my entire life with real monsters, I wasn't afraid of Duke Alaric Thorne.
I was counting on him.