“May I present Cristobal Téllez-Girón, the Marquis of Peñafiel.”

Sebastian leans in to whisper in my ear. “A close friend of the family.” It takes everything I have to not squirm away.

The man strides forward, capturing my hand in his. With his eyes on mine, he raises my hand to his lips to brush a kiss along the ridge of my knuckles, unbothered by the dirt under my fingernails. Beside me, Sebastian stiffens. Jealous, perhaps. I fight the urge to scoff. Already acting as though I were his property, ruffled by the sight of another man touching me.

“A pleasure,” the marquis says as he straightens.

“Likewise.” I say it because it’s polite. I resolutely do not mean it.

My father clears his throat and shoots me one of those quintessential paternal looks. The kind that says, Please, dear Lord, behave yourself according to both your station in life and the mores of polite society.

“They’re here to discuss matters of business. Shipping. Trade. That sort of thing.” My father says this as if it is nothing to concern my feminine little head over. It’s unlike him. Normally, he treats me as no less inferior than my brother. It’s entirely possible he’s simply trying to bring this impromptu meeting to a quick and painless end. “The marquis has recently arrived from Spain and has a tremendous amount of work to do here.”

Sebastian offers me a warm smile. “We’ll also discuss our impending nuptials, naturally. There is much to plan.”

On the inside, I gag. On the outside, I merely blink. “I see.”

My father makes a gesture that is clearly meant to shoo me along. “Why don’t you go clean up? I will send for you for dinner once we’ve finished.”

Though I am not presently pleased with my father, I am grateful for the excuse to escape this wretched moment.

I cut a quick curtsy and mumble my apologies before I make my way out of the stables. I have no intention of joining them for dinner. I’ll have Magdalena claim I’m ill or something.

I’m halfway across the yard when my father catches up to me, huffing slightly, his hand gripping the head of his cane tightly. “Mija, wait.”

I pause. I’m not so spiteful that I will make my ailing father run to catch up with me. The gout causes him terrible pain, and he can no longer move with the alacrity of a younger man.

“What is it?” My voice is still sharp though.

He frowns, but there is no recrimination in it. “Mija, please. Give him a chance.”

“Do I have much of a choice?”

“There is always a choice.”

“It really doesn’t feel that way.”

Another heavy sigh. He rubs at his temples with his free hand. “You’re so like your mother sometimes. She could hardly stand the sight of me when we were wed.”