As Christopher argued with his dad and the Rasputins, Isobel was busy. Busy trying to escape.
I need to get out of here.
Get away before she wound up married to a. . . "Rotten fucking jerk." Isobel couldn't stop a litany of curses from escaping. Her rage simmered, a huge and heavy blanket of emotion that had her seething.
Rage because the man she loved, the man she wanted to marry, the man who hadn't come to save her from an arranged marriage, was the groom wearing a mask at the altar.
Why didn't he tell me we had to marry? Why didn't anyone say a fucking word?
When she'd accepted her fate, the one that made her a pawn in a wager her grandfather had made, she'd never expected to have to go through with it.
Foolish Isobel had this fantasy that Christopher would come to his senses, realize he loved her, and rescue her before her family forced her to marry a stranger.