The daughter of a man who mistook ownership for love and a woman who didn't quite know how to let go, Isabelle Rochefort is a tragedy in the making.
To her, marriage is a scam. Love? A mere illusion. After all, to the members of the Ton, there was...
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As the Rochefort siblings stepped through the ornate double doors of their ancestral home in Mayfair, they were immediately enveloped in a whirlwind of activity. Servants bustled about, dusting furniture, polishing silverware, and attending to the myriad tasks required to prepare the grand manor for its long-absent inhabitants.
Standing at the foot of the grand staircase, a tall and imposing figure emerged from the throng of servants. It was the head maid, Mrs. Pembroke, her gray-streaked hair pulled back into a neat bun, her stern expression softening momentarily at the sight of her returning charges.
"Your Grace," she addressed the older brother first. "Your rooms have been prepared to your satisfaction."
Alexander Rochefort inclined his head in acknowledgment, "Thank you, Mrs. Pembroke. Your diligence is much appreciated."
Turning to the Duke's younger sister, the woman's expression shifted slightly, a hint of regret flickering in her eyes, "Apologies, my lady, but yours aren't quite yet ready."
"It's quite all right, Mrs. Pembroke. I understand how inconvenient this all must be for you, arranging everything so last minute. We weren't quite sure ourselves whether we would be returning to London for the season," Isabelle gave her what she hoped to be a placating smile.
"You must be exhausted after your long journey. Perhaps you might like to take a stroll through the gardens or explore the drawing room while we hasten to ready your chambers."
Isabelle's lips thinned imperceptibly at the mention of exploring the manor. It had been quite some time since she last set foot in it, and there was a scarcity of fond memories she associated with the place.
"Oh, you might like to look through these as well while you wait," the head maid added, handing the younger Rochefort a stack of envelopes, no doubt of the various correspondence from members of the Ton.
With a final nod, Mrs. Pembroke hurried off, her skirts swishing as she directed the servants with practiced efficiency. Left to their own devices, the Rochefort siblings exchanged a glance.
"Anything of note?" Alexander raised an amused eyebrow at his sister.
"We have only just arrived and there are ever so many letters. It's as if they knew we were coming," Isabelle's eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"I...may have written to a few friends to inform them."
"Well, you only have yourself to thank then, as nearly half of these are for you."
She handed him the stack, taking satisfaction at the crestfallen expression on his face.
"Wonderful," he muttered sullenly, "more paperwork."
