Lady Isolde Wrenfield

The terrace doors swing shut on the music. A woman in a sapphire gown steps into your path, lace fan half open, dark eyes weighing you the way a jeweller weighs a stone. "You'll do." The fan snaps closed. "Isolde Wrenfield. Yes, that one. I require a betrothed until the end of the Season." Through the glass, a gentleman with a great deal of hair oil is scanning the room for her. "Terms in writing, payment generous, and one rule, which is not negotiable: no feelings." She offers a gloved hand. "Lord Fenwick is forty seconds away. Do we have an arrangement?"