Chapter 2
The drawing room felt suffocating when Isadora returned, thick with the cloying scent of hothouse roses and the competing perfumes of London’s finest ladies.
Miss Hartwell had mercifully concluded her musical assault, replaced by a tenor whose voice carried the promise of Christmas carols to come.
The season was approaching fast—holly and ivy would soon grace the mantels, and families would gather for the traditional festivities.
Yet all Isadora could think about was the electric moment in that shadowy alcove, when green eyes had met hers with an intensity that left her breathless.
“There you are,” Father hissed, appearing at her elbow with the sort of smile that fooled no one who knew him well.
“Lord Ashcombe has been asking for you particularly. Something about the Christmas house party at Thornfield. Apparently his late wife always hosted the most elegant celebrations, and he’s eager to. .. establish new traditions.”
The implication hung between them like a noose. Ashcombe wanted a new wife to play hostess to his Christmas gatherings, to warm his bed and manage his household while he grew fat on port and self-satisfaction. The thought made her stomach clench with revulsion.
“How thoughtful of him to share his domestic arrangements,” she managed, forcing brightness into her voice.
Father’s fingers closed around her arm, not quite painfully but with enough pressure to make his displeasure clear. “You will be charming, Isadora. You will show interest in his plans. And you will stop whatever nonsense has gotten into your head tonight.”
Before she could form a suitable reply, they were swept into the orbit of male conversation.
Three gentlemen rose as she approached: Lord Ashcombe with his doughy features and calculating eyes, the Honorable Mr. Fitzsimmons whose youth couldn’t quite disguise his mercenary nature, and Lord Pemberton whose gambling debts were the talk of every drawing room in Mayfair.
“Lady Isadora,” Ashcombe simpered, bowing over her hand with lips that lingered too long against her glove.
“Radiant as always. I was just telling your father about my plans for Christmas. Thornfield will be magnificent this year—the finest musicians, the most elaborate decorations. Perhaps you might have thoughts on how a lady would arrange such festivities?”
She smiled with all the warmth of December snow. “I’m sure any lady would be honored to assist with your seasonal entertainments, Lord Ashcombe.”
The careful phrasing wasn’t lost on him, though his ego prevented him from acknowledging the subtle rejection. “Just what I hoped to hear. And of course, there’s the Christmas morning service to consider. The estate chapel is particularly lovely during the season. Perfect for a family celebration.”
Family. The word tasted bitter in her mouth. Was this to be her future? Playing the devoted wife while he calculated her worth in terms of heirs and household management?
“Christmas is indeed a time for reflection on one’s blessings,” she replied, which could mean anything and committed her to nothing.
Mr. Fitzsimmons cleared his throat, his narrow eyes cold upon what he seemed to view as his rival before he turned back to Isadora. “Lady Isadora, I wonder if you might have thoughts on the musical entertainments planned for the season? I understand you have excellent taste in these matters.”
Before she could answer, a shift in the room’s atmosphere made every conversation falter.
Heads turned, fans fluttered, and whispers multiplied like winter frost spreading across glass.
Edmund Ravensleigh, Duke of Rothwell, had appeared in their circle with the sort of presence that commanded attention whether one wished to give it or not.
He was even more imposing in the bright light of the drawing room, all dark elegance and barely leashed power.
The scar along his jaw caught the candlelight, a stark reminder of whatever violence had marked him.
When the other gentlemen stammered through their greetings, she could see the effort it cost them to maintain their composure.
“Your Grace,” Ashcombe managed, his voice pitched higher than usual. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Indeed,” Rothwell replied, sounding almost bored. His gaze swept over their little group before settling on Isadora with an intensity that made her pulse race. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being properly introduced to your daughter, Wexford.”
Father practically beamed, clearly seeing opportunity in the Duke’s attention. “Of course, Your Grace. May I present Lady Isadora Cavendish? Isadora, His Grace the Duke of Rothwell.”
She curtsied with practiced grace, but when she rose, those green eyes were waiting for her, sharp with intelligence and something else she couldn’t quite name. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Isadora.” He inclined his head, the gesture perfectly correct and somehow intimate at the same time. “I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Her breath caught as she remembered the weight of Lillian’s trembling hand in hers, the fury in his voice when he’d confronted Bickham, the moment when his guard had dropped and she’d glimpsed something vulnerable beneath his dangerous facade.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace,” she managed, though her voice sounded breathless even to her own ears.
A smile ghosted across his lips—barely there, but unmistakably real. “Don’t you?”
The conversation around them had resumed, the other gentlemen discussing estate management and political matters with the sort of masculine importance that excluded feminine participation. Still, Isadora found herself drawn into the Duke’s orbit, pulled by a force she seemingly could not resist.
She moved slightly away from the group, though she remained close enough to maintain the appearance of listening while creating space for private words, words she could only share with this man who fascinated her like no other.
The scent of his cologne—something dark and complex with notes of sandalwood and bergamot—surrounded her like an embrace.
“You ought to be more protective of her,” she murmured, keeping her gaze fixed on the crystal chandelier above their heads. The Christmas greenery wound through its arms caught the light, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mirror the uncertainty in her chest.
“She is not my daughter.”
’She looked up at him, and he turned his gaze from her almost instantly. But not soon enough—not before she noticed the troubled look in his gaze or the downward pull of his lips.
Before she could form a reply, he was stepping back, executing a crisp bow to the assembled gentlemen.
“Forgive the interruption, gentlemen. Lady Isadora.” His gaze lingered on her for one charged moment.
“I believe it is time I collect my ward and return to Rothwell Abbey. The evening has grown rather... late.”
Without waiting for any responses, he turned toward where Lillian sat with her governess. His voice, when he spoke, carried the absolute authority of a man accustomed to instant obedience. “We are leaving.”
The girl rose immediately, gathering her reticule with hands that shook slightly.
Mrs. Hale startled awake, blinking in confusion before hastily following her charge.
Within moments, they were gone, leaving only the faintest trace of sandalwood and the memory of green eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul.
Isadora stood rooted to the spot, her heart hammering against her stays with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the tenor’s passionate rendition of a Christmas ballad.
Around her, conversation resumed as though nothing significant had occurred.
Ashcombe launched into a detailed description of his plans for Boxing Day festivities.
Fitzsimmons regaled them with tales of his recent hunting success.
Pemberton nodded along while calculating how much he could borrow against his Christmas allowance.
But she heard none of it. Her world had narrowed to the ghost of sandalwood in the air and the echo of five simple words: She is not my daughter.
What did that mean? The gossips all whispered that Lillian Gray was the illegitimate ward of the Dangerous Duke, taken in after her father’s death in that infamous duel. But the pain in Rothwell’s voice when he’d spoken suggested something far more complex than mere guardianship born of obligation.
“Isadora?” Her father’s irritated voice cut through her thoughts. “Lord Ashcombe asked you a question.”
She turned back to the group, forcing her attention to the present moment. Ashcombe was watching her with the sort of knowing smile that made her skin crawl, as though her momentary distraction confirmed something he’d already suspected.
“Forgive me,” she said now, attempting to summon every ounce of her training in social graces. “I was distracted by the lovely music. Christmas songs always make me rather nostalgic.”
“Of course,” Ashcombe replied, his eyes following her every small movement.
“Do share with me some of your thoughts on Christmas morning traditions. At Thornfield, we’ve always attended service as a family, followed by gift exchange in the morning room.
Perhaps you have similar fond memories from your own childhood? ”
The question was innocent enough on the surface, but she could hear the subtext: Tell me about your domestic inclinations. Prove that you’ll make a suitable wife for my household traditions.
“Christmas morning has always been special at Cavendish House,” she replied carefully. “Though I confess I’ve always been more interested in ensuring the servants and tenants have what they need for their celebrations than in elaborate gift exchanges.”
Fitzsimmons leaned forward with interest. “A charitable nature is most admirable in a lady. Do you involve yourself in local charities, Lady Isadora?”
Before she could answer, Father’s hand settled on her arm in warning. He’d never approved of her charitable work, viewing it as beneath her station. A lady of breeding should confine herself to token contributions and pretty fundraising events, not the actual work of helping those in need.
“Isadora has always had a soft heart,” he said with the sort of indulgent tone that dismissed her interests as feminine folly. “Though of course, a married lady’s first duty is to her husband’s comfort and her children’s upbringing.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Is that what her life was to be? A slow suffocation of everything that made her who she was, trapped in a drawing room making polite conversation while the world beyond continued without her?
She thought of Lillian Gray, fifteen years old and already bearing the weight of scandal, needing guidance and protection and friendship.
She thought of green eyes that had looked at her with something approaching respect, seeing her as more than just a decorative object to be acquired and displayed.
The Duke of Rothwell was everything the whispers claimed—scarred, dangerous, a man apart from polite society.
His reputation was dark as evening storm clouds, his past was impurely stained with violence and tragedy.
By every measure of sense and propriety, he should terrify her. And part of him did.
So why was she taking a step closer to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his departing carriage?
“Lady Isadora?” Pemberton’s voice held a note of concern. “Are you quite well? You look rather pale.”
She realized she’d been standing there in silence for far too long, her gaze fixed on the street beyond the glass where Christmas garlands decorated the lamp posts in preparation for the coming season. “Perfectly well, thank you. I fear the warmth of the room has made me a trifle lightheaded.”
“Perhaps some air?” Ashcombe suggested, offering his arm with the sort of proprietary concern that made her want to scream. “The conservatory is quite cool, and the Christmas roses are particularly lovely this year.”
The last thing she wanted was to be alone with Ashcombe among the winter blooms, but Father’s expectant expression left her little choice.
She accepted the offered arm with a smile that felt carved from ice, allowing herself to be led away from safety and into whatever trap the evening had prepared for her.
But as they walked, her thoughts remained fixed on a scarred duke who’d appeared like an avenging angel when innocence was threatened, whose eyes had held depths she wanted to explore despite every warning bell in her head.
She was, Isadora realized with a mixture of terror and exhilaration, well and truly intrigued.
And that, she suspected, was the most dangerous development of all.