The Art of turning heart

3 |

I stormed out of the Hawthorne estate, my feet moving faster than I could think, my mind a whirlwind of anger and disbelief. My ladies-in-waiting trailed behind me, their skirts rustling as they struggled to keep pace. "Miss Whitmore, please slow down!" one of them called, her voice edged with concern.

But I couldn't—wouldn't—stop. "How dare he!" I muttered under my breath, my fists clenched at my sides. The very idea of being tied to that insufferable man for the rest of my days was unthinkable. My life, bound to his whims and dictates? Absolutely not.

"Miss Isabella, do be careful! The cobblestones are uneven!" Eleonore warned, reaching out as if to steady me.

"Let them be uneven!" I snapped, not caring one bit if I tripped over every stone in London. "I'd rather fall flat on my face than marry that... that tyrant!"

We finally reached our carriage, and I all but flung myself inside. The ride back to our townhouse was a blur of my own seething thoughts and the concerned murmurs of my companions, who wisely kept their distance. I could hardly see the streets of London passing by as I stewed in my outrage, replaying every moment of that infuriating conversation in my mind.

The carriage jerked to a stop in front of our house, and I wasted no time in marching up the steps, bursting through the door with the force of a gale. Gavin was in the hall, casually flipping through the morning paper as if the world hadn't just turned upside down.

The moment he saw me, he raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing my mood. "Well, I see the meeting went well," he remarked dryly, folding the paper and setting it aside.

I stopped in front of him, my breath coming fast. "Gavin," I began, my voice trembling with barely contained fury, "I refuse. There is absolutely no way I can marry that man. He's... he's impossible!"

Gavin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if preparing for a headache. "Isabella, you've barely met him. How can you be so sure?"

"How?" I repeated incredulously. "Because in the span of one conversation, he managed to insult my passions, my independence, and my very existence! He called my art a hobby, Gavin! A hobby!"

He gave me a level look, as if trying to gauge how serious I was. "And what did you say to that?"

"I told him that I didn't need his permission to live my life, thank you very much," I retorted, my chin lifted defiantly.

Gavin sighed again, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Isabella, you do realize that this marriage is the only way to secure Father's business? To ensure that we don't lose everything?"

I knew he was right, but the thought of tying myself to someone like Lord Hawthorne made me want to scream. "But Gavin," I protested, "he's so... so infuriating! He's rigid, dismissive, and... and he ordered me to behave!"

"Ordered?" Gavin echoed, now fully paying attention. "And what exactly did you say to that?"

I threw my hands up in exasperation. "What could I say? I was so shocked I could barely speak! I just... sat there, like some well-behaved doll, while he smirked at me with that infuriatingly smug expression!"

Gavin chuckled, shaking his head. "You're not exactly the easiest person to rattle, Isabella. Perhaps he's more of a match for you than you realize."

I glared at him, unable to believe he could find any humor in the situation. "This isn't funny, Gavin. I can't marry him. I won't. There must be another way."

Gavin's smile softened, and he reached out to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Isabella, I know this isn't easy. But you're strong, and you're clever. If anyone can find a way to make this work, it's you."