The Art of turning heart

8 |

I sighed, the weight of his persistence starting to crack through my defenses. Adopting a more formal tone, I spoke as the real Isabella might in such a situation, though I kept a sliver of distance. "Well, Mr. Hawthorn, it appears you have a talent for persuasion. Perhaps it is your most formidable skill."

Edward's smile shifted, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "And what, pray tell, makes you say so? Surely, it's not the only skill I possess."

I arched an eyebrow, determined to keep the conversation light but still somewhat aloof. "Given your ability to navigate this conversation as if it were a dance, one might infer you're adept at many things. However, I shall reserve my judgment until I know you better."

He chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with a mix of challenge and admiration. "I suppose that's fair. But might I say, I'm intrigued by the way you manage to keep me on my toes. It's rather charming."

A spark of mischief flickered in my eyes. "Charming, is it? I'll have to take your word for it. Let's see if you can keep up with me in a different way."

Without another word, I kicked my horse into a gallop, racing ahead with a burst of speed. Edward's laughter echoed behind me as he spurred his own horse to follow. We sped across the field, the wind whipping through our hair, our horses' hooves thundering on the ground.

When we reached the stables, breathless but exhilarated, I slowed my horse and pulled up beside him. I flashed him a triumphant smile. "I believe I've won this round."

Edward dismounted, his gaze lingering on me with a knowing smile. "Perhaps you've won the race. But I think I've managed to win in a different sense."

I raised an eyebrow, curious despite myself. "And what sense might that be?"

He took a step closer, his smile softening. "The sense that I've managed to win a bit of your attention, if not your full regard. And for that, I consider myself quite fortunate."

I laughed softly, shaking my head. "You're insufferable, Mr. Hawthorn. But I suppose you've earned this victory as well."

Edward's eyes held a gentle warmth as he took my hand briefly, his touch lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. "I'll take that as a compliment. And should you ever wish to challenge me again, you know where to find me."

I gave him a wry smile, pulling my hand away. "I'll keep that in mind. Until then, good day."

As I turned to leave, I heard Edward's voice one last time, his tone soft and sincere. "Good day, Isabella. I'll be looking forward to our next encounter."

With that, I walked away, feeling a curious mix of frustration and anticipation. Why was it that his words and the warmth in his eyes lingered longer than I cared to admit?

As I arrived home, the weight of the day's events lingered on my shoulders. My father, weak and frail from his illness, called out to me with a voice barely above a whisper. I turned to find him seated in his favorite armchair, his eyes closed, face drawn with fatigue.

His once-strong hands, now thin and trembling, reached out as I approached. I took them gently in mine, feeling their fragile warmth. "Isabella," he said softly, his voice barely audible, "how is your... fiancé?"

I hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. "He is... well. He is... persistent."

My father's eyes, though shut, seemed to convey a mixture of sadness and resignation. "If you wish to cancel the engagement, I can make arrangements. I do not wish for you to be burdened with a marriage that does not bring you joy."