I have no idea who he is.
“I don’t know him.”
He makes a dismissive noise. “You don’t know many people. I’m not surprised.”
When you’re wounded, you retreat. And that’s exactly what I did for far too long. So long, I got comfortable.
Too comfortable.
“I don’t want to get married. I’m too young.” Expressing my feelings normally wouldn’t matter to this man, but maybe…
Just maybe he has an ounce of compassion buried deep inside of him, and he’ll realize this is something I don’t want. He’ll actually listen to me, and grant my wishes.
A girl can dream.
“How old are you again?” he asks gruffly, his upper lip lifting in the faintest sneer as he once again looks around my room. At my belongings.
All of my many belongings.
I’m a collector. Some might say I’m a bit of a hoarder, but I love bits and baubles and books and photos and pretty, shiny things. Nothing too expensive, though I can afford to purchase whatever I want.
I prefer old things. Previously owned and lovingly used. An old bracelet that belonged to a heartbroken woman. A necklace with a heart locket, a crumbling pressed flower kept inside. A long-forgotten photo of a family with smiles on their faces and their arms around each other. As if they actually enjoy spending time together.
In other words, the complete opposite of my family.
“Twenty,” I tell him, faintly hurt that he doesn’t know.
That he doesn’t care to know.
“Plenty old to become a wife. You need to clean out this room anyway.” His gaze returns to mine, cold and unwavering. “Getting married and moving out is the perfect excuse to do so.”
I stare at him, at a loss for words. He’s giving me no choice, but when has he ever? Reminding myself I need to sound like a rational human, I release a deep, cleansing breath, hoping he’ll respond to logic. “I don’t even know this man.”
“Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” His voice is firm.
“This is my life—”
“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “It’sourlives. You’re a Lancaster, and as my only daughter, you will do as I say. The last time you tried to do something for yourself, you bungled it up completely and came home humiliated.”
The reminder isn’t necessary.
“I don’t trust you to not mess it up again. You need to be told what to do. Guided through your life. This marriage will do you good. Keep you in line,” he explains.
He treats me like an idiot. He actually believes I’m one too. That I’m too stupid to make my own decisions without his guidance. I suppose I proved that to him with all of the horrible choices I made in Paris.
No way can I just readily agree to marrying someone I don’t even know, though. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.
“But—”
“Don’t go against me, girl. You know how I feel about that.”
The ferociousness in his tone has me clamming up, dropping my gaze to the floor. I grip my hands together, trying to contain the sudden shaking.
“Where is Mother?’
“In the kitchen. Don’t think you can convince her that you shouldn’t do this. She’s in agreement with me.” He rests his hands on his hips, the cut of his gray wool pinstriped suit absolutely perfect. I couldn’t begin to tell you what he does for a living. The Lancaster money is generational. The original Augustus Lancaster made enough to support his family for almost two hundred years.
“I just—want to talk to her,” I say, feeling defensive. “If I’m going to get married. We’ll need to plan.”