The Earl's Impossible Bargain: A Friends to Lovers Regency Romance

CHAPTER ONE

an unwanted arrangement

LADY ISABEL AINSWORTH

The morning sun streams through the tall windows of our morning room, casting golden ribbons across the pianoforte keys beneath my fingers. I lose myself in Beethoven's Sonata No. 14, letting the haunting melody sweep away my thoughts. The piece has always spoken to my soul - its delicate balance of light and shadow, of passion and restraint.

My fingers dance across the keys, finding each note with practiced precision. This is my sanctuary, these precious morning hours when the house is still quiet and I can simply be myself, unfettered by the endless social obligations that come with being the Earl of Ainsworth's daughter.

The melody flows through me like water over smooth stones, each note a memory. Mother taught me to play when I was barely tall enough to reach the keys, perching me on her lap as her gentle hands guided mine. Those memories are hazy now, soft-edged like a watercolor painting left in the sun, but the music remains crystal clear.

I shift into a more challenging passage, my fingers flying across the ivory. You must feel the music in your soul, my darling, she would say. Let it speak through you. Those were among her last words to me before the fever took her, leaving me at four years old with only the piano to remember her by.

Father tried his best after she died, though his idea of raising a daughter consisted mainly of hiring a parade of governesses and music instructors. I cannot fault him entirely - many young ladies of my station barely see their parents at all, relegated to nurseries and schoolrooms until they are old enough to be presented to society. At least Father takes breakfast with me each morning, even if our conversations rarely venture beyond weather and social obligations.

My hands falter slightly on the keys as I recall overhearing the butler and housekeeper discussing Father's latest losses at White's. They didn't know I was in the library alcove, hidden behind the heavy curtains with my novel. Three thousand pounds, Mrs. Hopkins had whispered, her voice heavy with concern. And that's just what we know of.

I press harder into the keys, letting the crescendo drown out the worry that constantly gnaws at my conscience. We are fortunate, I know this. Ainsworth Hall has been in the family for generations, its grounds stretching across some of Yorkshire's finest countryside. But estates require money to maintain, and Father's weakness for cards and dice threatens to drain what remains of our resources.

The music shifts again, my fingers finding their way through the complex harmonies that had taken months to master. I remember my first real piano instructor, a dour German woman who rapped my knuckles with a ruler when I missed a note. But even her harsh methods couldn't diminish my love for music. If anything, her strictness pushed me to excel, to prove I could master any piece she put before me.

A lady must have accomplishments, Father always says, as though my dedication to music is merely another box to tick off on the list of marriageable qualities. He doesn't understand that when I play, I'm not performing for some future husband's drawing room. I'm speaking the language of my heart, the only way I know how to express the depths of feeling that propriety demands I keep hidden.

The morning light grows stronger, warming my shoulders through my muslin dress. Soon the household will be fully awake, and I'll need to attend to my duties as the lady of the house. There will be menus to approve, calling cards to answer, and all the thousand little tasks that keep our social position secure. But for now, I lose myself in the final movement of the sonata.

My mother's portrait hangs above the pianoforte, her brown eyes - so like my own - seeming to watch over me as I play. Sometimes I imagine I can see her smile when I master a particularly difficult passage, though the artist captured her in one of her more serious moments. She looks so young in the painting, barely older than I am now.

You are so like her, Father sometimes says, usually after too much port in the evening. Those are the rare moments when his guard drops, when the weight of responsibility and worry falls away, and I glimpse the man my mother must have loved. But such moments never last long before he remembers himself, straightening his cravat and clearing his throat before returning to his usual topics of weather and social obligations.

The final notes of the sonata hang in the air like morning mist, slowly fading into silence. I keep my hands on the keys, reluctant to break the spell of these private moments. Soon enough, the real world will intrude with all its demands and expectations. Soon enough, I will need to be Lady Isabel Ainsworth, daughter of the Earl, mistress of Ainsworth Hall, everything proper and correct.

But for now, I am simply Isabel, my mother's daughter, letting my heart speak through the music she taught me to love.

A discordant note breaks my concentration as the morning room door creaks open. I pause, my hands hovering above the keys as Margaret, my lady's maid and dearest friend, hurries in. Her face bears an expression I've rarely seen - concern mixed with something that makes my stomach tighten.

My lady, I apologize for the interruption, but your father requests your immediate presence in his study.

I press my fingers to the cool ivory keys, not yet playing. Now? He knows this is my practice time.

He was most insistent, my lady.

The knot in my stomach grows tighter. Father has never interrupted my morning practice - not since Mother died and I took over her beloved pianoforte. He knows how sacred these hours are to me.

Did he say why?

Margaret shakes her head, her brown curls bouncing slightly. No, my lady. But he's been pacing. And fidgeting with his ring.

My father only fidgets with his signet ring when something truly troubles him. I rise from the bench, smoothing my morning dress. Very well.

The walk to Father's study feels longer than usual, each step echoing against the polished floors. When I enter, the familiar scent of leather-bound books and brandy fills my nose, but something is different. Father stands by the window, his back to me, hands clasped behind him. He's wearing his best morning coat - the one reserved for important meetings.

Father had always been the handsomest man in any room, even now as worry lines crease his distinguished features. The morning light streaming through his study windows catches the silver threading through his reddish-brown hair - the same shade as my own. How many times have I heard whispers at balls and dinner parties? Lady Isabel is the very image of Lord Ainsworth in his youth. The comparison never fails to warm my heart.

I study his profile as he continues to gaze out the window, noting how his shoulders remain straight despite whatever burden weighs upon him. Even in moments of distress, he carries himself with the bearing of his station. The same pride that sometimes frustrates me also commands my deepest admiration.

You wished to see me, Father? I keep my voice steady, though my fingers still tingle with the remnants of Beethoven's melody.

He turns, and for a moment I catch a flash of something in his expression - regret? Fear? But it vanishes behind his usual mask of paternal authority. Isabel, my dear. Yes. Please, sit down.

He begins to pace, his fingers finding their way to his signet ring. Three turns clockwise, then two counterclockwise - his tell when wrestling with difficult decisions. I've watched him do this countless times, usually before announcing some new economy measure or refusing an invitation we can no longer afford to accept.

I've always tried to do what's best for you, Isabel. Everything I've done - every decision I've made - has been with your future in mind.

The knot in my stomach tightens further. This preamble, so unlike his usual direct manner, can herald nothing good. I sit straighter, channeling the poise my governesses drilled into me through countless lessons.

Of course, Father. I've never doubted that.

He pauses his pacing to look at me, and I see the same strong jaw, the same proud bearing that I've inherited. Even his way of lifting his chin slightly when gathering courage - I catch myself doing the same thing in difficult moments.

You are nineteen now. A woman grown. It's time we discussed your future in earnest.

My fingers curl into my skirts, but I keep my expression neutral. My future?

Yes. He resumes his pacing, the morning light catching the silver in his hair with each turn. You've had your Season in London. While you acquitted yourself admirably in terms of deportment, you've shown... reluctance... in terms of securing an advantageous match.

I open my mouth to protest - surely one Season is not enough to determine one's entire future - but he raises a hand, so like my own in shape and gesture. The same long fingers meant for piano keys, though