1759
The rain poured down heavily against the roof, and she counted down until the moment she had dreaded would arrive. She had always enjoyed the rain and would stare out the window of her chamber to watch it puddle on the grounds of the Dawson household. But today was different—she was barely aware of the rain or the loud thunder that rumbled against the gloomy evening sky of Aragonia. It seemed that not even the heavy rain she had prayed would delay this could put a pause to her approaching misfortune, because it came to her at that moment.
"My lady, the groom and his people are here!" came the anxious voice of one of Dawson's maidservants, who had helped her dress into her wedding attire. But those words made her stomach churn like a stormy sea and made cold sweat prickle the back of her neck.
The dreadful moment has finally arrived.
Isabelle stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror and tried to remind herself why she had to do this, why she had to brave up and go down to seal her fate with a man she had never imagined in all of her twenty-two years she'd ever marry. Everything was happening so fast it made her wish she could disappear or run far away, but then, knowing the consequences of such actions, she took a deep breath to calm her throbbing heart and nervous stomach.
She straightened her back and tucked the strands of blonde hair falling at the side of her face in curls behind her ear and rearranged the veil that was set to fall on her face with shaky hands. She even fixed the kohl around her lids that had smudged around her hazel eyes, which filled with tears she did not want to shed. If she cried, it would only ruin the hard work the maids had done to make her beautiful, even if she didn't feel beautiful. Her tears wouldn't change the fact that she was getting married to the worst of any mankind today. She tried to calm her mind.
Nonetheless, nothing she did was enough to calm her or reassure her that she had done the right thing by agreeing to this. A voice in the back of her mind whispered to her that she could end this now and run away with the man she loved, but then, thinking about how she would not only disappoint her family but also destroy the life of her fragile, precious sister, she talked herself against that idea, just like she had for the past few days since she had agreed to this marriage.
Belle had always dreamed of this day—her wedding day—just like every other young girl in her land. Though she was no longer considered young in the eyes of many men, as she had reached an age where marriage was expected, she had never imagined it would happen like this.
Not once, not even when she had been rejected by countless men who, upon seeing her sister, chose to refuse her, had she lost hope. She had remained optimistic about life, still dreaming of her wedding day in a sunshine-and-rainbows kind of way. A love marriage—even though it was rare in this day and age. She had pictured herself smiling with joy and excitement, not filled with dread and nervousness, and certainly not with the sinking feeling in her stomach that she was about to walk into her own damnation.
Any human girl in her place at this moment would feel the same. She wasn't only getting married to an enemy of her kind but also a mad one. She didn't know much about her groom, and the little she did made her palms grow clammy, slick with sweat whenever she thought about it. Everything about him was dreadful and disturbingly scary.
He wasn't just a vampire—he was a mad one at that. His madness went far beyond anything anyone had ever seen or heard of. He was the first mad vampire any one had ever had the misfortune of hearing about in Aragonia. She had heard of many insane humans, but never a bloodsucker. How could she possibly live with such a man? What if he killed her or sucked her dry of blood when his madness took over?
He killed his own parents at the age of eleven and devoured their hearts. He'd lived in an asylum in the Vampire lands ever since then until a few years ago when he was released, and now she was to marry him. Or more precisely, her beautiful younger sister was to marry him, but Belle could not imagine her dear Eve living with a man such as him.
The vampires and humans had been at war with each other for as long as Belle could remember. They were sworn enemies at war, and now her sister's marriage to Lord Rohan Dagon was to seal a peace treaty between the two realms. Well, that was what the vampires thought, but the humans had another plan to agree to this dreadful marriage, and Belle was to execute that plan.
Her life had been perfect, or so she believed before this. All she ever wanted was a simple life, and now she knew there would be nothing simple about her life the moment she'd agreed to take her sister's place. A few days ago, she had been swirling with joy as Mr. Marchant, the man she had believed until now she would get married to and have his children, had proposed marriage to her in his shop and promised to see her parents about it—when her parents' tears had shattered everything.
Belle had been smiling, eager to tell them that Jamie Marchant and his family would come to see them that day, but what she met in the parlor room had wiped off her swirling joy and rendered her speechless. How could one deliver good news when one's family looked like they were grieving?
Her father, the Duke of Aragonia, sat in his high-backed chair in the room, his fingers steepled under his chin, while her mother wrung a lace handkerchief between trembling hands, and tears streaked down her cheeks in earnest.
Her younger sister, Eve, had sat between them, small and fragile, her golden curls falling over her downturned face. A picture of sorrow, the first she'd ever seen on the high-spirited, beautiful young woman. Eve was everything a man wanted. She had beauty and was delicate, and sometimes—perhaps all the time—Belle had a feeling her parents favored her more than they did her.
Her father had always liked to pretended she was non-existent. Whenever he spoke to her, it wasn't because he wanted to, but because he wanted to scold her or remind her of how much shame she had brought to the Dawson household because of her inability to secure a marriage for herself until now. How was it her fault when no man had wanted her the moment they saw Eve?
At every ball they attended, as well as any soirée or banquet, Belle was always overshadowed by her sister. Yet, she had never hated Eve for it and had even made sure her sister had the spotlight to her heart's content. Men swarmed around Eve, fighting for a dance, and nearly every day, they received marriage proposals for her. It was as if Belle became invisible whenever her sister was around. And the few marriage proposals she did receive never went through because, in the end, the men realized they preferred a delicate beauty like Eve's rather than the boldness of hers.
Belle possessed a beauty that wasn't delicate or fleeting but one that demanded to be studied, unraveled, and truly seen by those willing to look. Those who compared her to her sister would only be disappointed, for they looked nothing alike apart from their gold blonde hair. Eve took after their mother, while Belle favored their father.
And yet he blamed no one but her for it, grumbling that if only she were half the woman her younger sister or her mother was, she might have been a useful daughter—one who could have married a respectable nobleman and brought honor to their household. To him that was what a daughter was born to do.
Belle had always hated the fact that she was a disappointment to her family and wished there was a way to make them proud of her and see her the way they saw her sister.
It seemed the heavens had answered her prayers and granted her an opportunity to prove to them how much she loved them and wanted them to be proud of her as well. She walked into the parlor room and knew from the atmosphere that something was not right. Something was terribly wrong to get her proud and cold father into a state of grievance.
"Mama, Papa, is something wrong?"
Her mother had lifted red-rimmed eyes to her, her voice catching. "Darling."
Her mother only called her that when she wanted to coax her into taking Eve to the famous dressmaker of their land— her beloved Mr. Marchant—who would leave every dress unfinished to attend to Belle or anyone she brought with her, to get a quick dress for her before a last-minute ball invitation. Her parents knew about her feelings for Jamie and were never against it. Though her father scoffed in disappointment whenever he caught her smiling at one of Jamie's letters, he never said anything.
That day, Belle had thought they wanted her to take Eve there to get her a dress before every other maiden in the land for the ball of the season, but their expressions had said otherwise. She swallowed hard and walked to her crying mother.
"Darling, we… we don't know what to do."
Belle's stomach twisted. "About what, Mama?"
Her father exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples. "It's your sister, Isabelle."