"Mr. Leslie, sir, you said the young lady was amenable to the hasty marriage." The minister abruptly rose from his chair, an expression of consternation on his face.

At the interruption, Isabella quickly glanced around the room, looking for a ready exit should her uncle truly intend to force this farcical marriage. The doorway to the hall was blocked by numerous stolid bodies-Harold's fat form among them. But the windows facing the street opened on a small balcony only a few feet above the sidewalk. Her cousins Amelia and Caroline, seated before the windows, weren't likely to be formidable obstacles. Only capable of squealing or giggling, neither would raise a finger to stop her, and with their rotund bodies balanced precariously on Grandpapa's small Renaissance hassocks, she could easily bowl them over.

"Shut your mouth, Dudley." Herbert Leslie pushed the minister back into his chair. "Save your speeches for the ceremony." He snapped his fingers. "Harold, get your bride and bring her here." Swinging around, he pointed a finger at Isabella. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll do as you're told."

"You don't really think I'm going to allow myself to be married off to Harold, do you?" she hotly inquired. "I'll gag and tie you if necessary." "Such a marriage would never stand in court." "We have sufficient witnesses to testify to your willingness," her uncle silkily said. "And we're all going to see that you're properly wedded and bedded this night." He surveyed the various relatives with a fierce gaze, as though reminding them of their duty. "You'll be married right and tight," he went on, smiling at her with a well-pleased complacency, "and the money will be kept in the family, as is only proper."

All the tears and sorrow she'd been experiencing only moments before were burned away by a rage so towering, she silently swore she'd see them all in hell before she married fat Harold.