Chapter 4 #2
“And what of love? Affection? The hope that my husband might value me for more than my breeding potential?”
Father’s laugh was sharp as breaking glass. “Love? My dear girl, you’ve been reading too many Gothic novels. Love is a luxury that practical people cannot afford to indulge. Your mother and I married for duty and managed quite well. She understood her obligations.”
The mention of Mother sent fresh pain lancing through Isadora’s chest. She barely remembered the woman who’d died when she was nine—just fragments of gentleness, the faint scent of lavender, soft hands braiding her hair.
Had Mother been happy in her marriage of duty?
Had she ever stood in this very room, arguing for the right to choose her own fate?
“Mother died at thirty-five,” Isadora said quietly. “Worn out from producing the heirs you required and managing the social obligations you imposed. Is that the future you’re planning for me?”
’Father frowned, then shook his shoulders as though she was a mere irritation. “Your mother’s death was a tragedy that had nothing to do with her marriage. She was happy, Isadora. Content with her role, grateful for the security I provided.”
“Were you in the room when she died? Because I was. And the last thing she said to me was that she hoped I’d be braver than she’d been. That I’d fight for something more than just duty and obligation.”
The lie came so easily that for a moment she almost believed it herself.
Mother’s final words had actually been a request for water, whispered through lips cracked with fever.
But Father didn’t know that, and the stricken look that crossed his face suggested the fictional deathbed confession had found its mark.
“She was delirious with illness,” he said after a moment, but his voice lacked its usual conviction. “She didn’t know what she was saying.”
“Didn’t she? Or was she finally free to speak the truth about a life spent serving everyone’s interests but her own?”
Before Father could respond, a commotion in the hallway drew their attention. Voices—Henderson’s carefully modulated tones and something deeper, more commanding that made her pulse stutter with sudden recognition.
“What the devil—” Father began, but his words were cut short by a knock at the library door.
“Enter,” he called, irritation plain in his voice.
Henderson appeared in the doorway, his usually perfect composure slightly ruffled. “Your Lordship, forgive the intrusion, but His Grace the Duke of Rothwell has called. He wishes to speak with Lady Isadora. Immediately.”
The world tilted sideways.
Edmund Ravensleigh was here. In her father’s house. Demanding to see her with the sort of arrogance that only a duke could display without consequence. But why? What could he possibly want with her after their brief encounter at last night’s musicale?
“The Duke of Rothwell?” Father’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Here? What business could he have with my daughter?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Isadora managed, though her voice sounded breathless even to her own ears. ’She still could not shake the memory of this man, the effect he had had on her.
Father’s gaze sharpened with suspicious calculation. “Show His Grace in. And Isadora—” His tone was dangerous now, as though he was warning her and it made her spine straighten. “You will be respectful, brief, and entirely proper. Whatever this is about, we haven’t time for lengthy social calls.”
Henderson bowed and withdrew, leaving them alone with the suddenly electric atmosphere of anticipation. Isadora smoothed her skirts with trembling fingers, trying to prepare herself for whatever storm was about to descend upon her already chaotic morning.
The Duke of Rothwell entered the library quickly, his imposing figure filling the room at once. His gaze was icy. Cold and all too powerful. It sent a chill down her spine. He truly was an imposing figure.
But his eyes... those remarkable eyes swept the room with predatory efficiency before settling on her face with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
“Your Grace.” Father executed a perfect bow, though his tone held the careful neutrality of a man unsure whether he was greeting friend or foe. “This is... unexpected.”
Edmund’s gaze never left Isadora’s face. “I’ve come to speak with Lady Isadora. On a matter of some urgency.”
“What sort of urgency?” ’
“A private matter.” It was clear that he did not expect Father—or anyone for that matter—to question him.
“Absolutely not.” Father’s refusal was swift and decisive. “I don’t know what sort of household you believe this to be, Your Grace, but my daughter does not receive private callers. Particularly not gentlemen with reputations such as yours.”
Something dangerous flickered in Edmund’s eyes, though his voice remained level. “Then summon a maid. But I will speak with Lady Isadora, Wexford. The matter will not wait for your convenience.”
The quiet threat in his tone made Father’s jaw tighten, but he was too politically astute to risk making an enemy of a duke over something as minor as social proprieties. “Very well. Henderson! Send for Jenny.”
Jenny appeared with suspicious promptness, taking up position near the door with the sort of watchful discretion that made her invaluable as a lady’s maid.
Father gathered his papers with obvious reluctance, clearly loathing the idea of leaving his daughter alone with the Dangerous Duke even under supervision.
Father said nothing, merely looked at the duke coldly before leaving.
The door closed behind him with perhaps more force than strictly necessary, leaving them alone save for Jenny’s discreet presence. The room was quiet while Edmund studied Isadora with the sort of penetrating attention that made her feel stripped bare despite her modest morning dress.
“You look,” he observed finally, “like a woman facing execution.”
The accuracy of his assessment startled a bitter laugh from her throat. “Perhaps because I am.”
He moved closer, his boots silent on the thick carpet, until he stood just beyond arm’s reach. Close enough that she could catch the faint scent of his cologne, that complex blend of sandalwood and something darker that had haunted her dreams.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, and the simple command broke something inside her chest.
“Father has arranged my marriage.” The words escaped before wisdom could stop them, raw and painful as fresh wounds. “To Lord Ashcombe. The banns will be read starting Sunday.”
Edmund went very still, and a frown formed between his brows. “Ashcombe? That pompous fool who’s been shopping for a new wife since his last one had the poor taste to die?”
“The very same.” She lifted her chin, trying to summon dignity in the face of humiliation. “Father considers it an excellent match. Lord Ashcombe is wealthy, titled, and willing to overlook my numerous deficiencies.”
“Your deficiencies.” The words were delivered with the sort of silken menace that had probably preceded duels in his younger days. “Enlighten me, Lady Isadora. What exactly does your father consider deficient about you?”
The question surprised her. Most men would have focused on the practical aspects—the settlements, the political advantages, the strategic benefits of the alliance. But Edmund was asking about her, as though her thoughts and feelings actually mattered.
“I’m too old, too opinionated, too independent for my own good.
” The litany of failures spilled out with the bitter familiarity of old wounds.
“I ask impertinent questions, involve myself in charitable work beneath my station, and worst of all, I’ve had the audacity to reject three perfectly adequate proposals because I was foolish enough to hope for something more than a business arrangement. ”
“And what were you hoping for?”
She tilted her head at this, allowing herself to truly think about what he was asking. What had she been hoping for? Love seemed like such a naive dream when spoken aloud. Respect? Understanding? The chance to matter to someone beyond her dowry and connections?
“To be seen,” she said finally. “Really seen, as more than just a commodity to be traded for political advantage.”
He lifted a brow. For a few seconds, his guard seemed to drop completely, and she glimpsed something lonely and lost that called to parts of herself she’d never acknowledged.
“Lady Isadora,” he said now, “I have come here to make you an offer.”
Her heart stuttered against her ribs. “What manner of offer?”
“Marriage.”
The word fell between them like a stone dropped into still water, sending shock waves through every assumption she’d made about her life, her future, her carefully ordered world. She stared at him, certain she’d misheard.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I need a wife.” His honesty was brutal, refreshing, terrifying.
“Lillian requires guidance that I cannot provide—a woman’s influence, someone who understands the complexities of society and can help her navigate them safely.
You demonstrated last night that you possess both the courage to protect those weaker than yourself and the intelligence to do so effectively. ”
“You’re proposing marriage because I helped your ward?
” Her voice sounded strangled, as though someone else was speaking through her throat.
Her thoughts were reeling, her heart beating frantically.
Of course she was willing to help him… but being his wife?
That was not something she had considered, even for a second.
“I’m proposing marriage because you would be an asset to my household and to Lillian’s future. In return, I can offer you freedom from whatever fate your father has arranged, a position of considerable influence, and the resources to pursue whatever interests capture your attention.”