Chapter 4 #3
It was the most coldly practical proposal she’d ever heard. And yet, coming from him, it didn’t feel insulting. Instead, it felt honest—a recognition of what she could offer and what she might gain in return.
“And what of affection?” she asked, proud of how steady her voice sounded. “Love? The hope that marriage might be more than a convenient arrangement?”
Edmund’s expression shuttered, walls sliding into place behind his eyes with almost audible finality. “I have nothing to offer you in that regard.’.“
The brutal honesty should have sent her running. Oddly, it had the opposite effect. Here was a man who didn’t pretend, who offered no false promises or pretty lies designed to sweeten an essentially bitter pill.
“You’re asking me to choose between two loveless marriages,” she said, testing the words. “Lord Ashcombe, who would treat me as an ornament designed to warm his bed and manage his household, or you, who would treat me as a business partner with specific responsibilities.”
“The difference,” Edmund said, moving closer until she could see the flecks of gold hidden in his eyes, “is that Ashcombe would crush every spark of independence you possess. He would turn you into a pale shadow of yourself, smiling and simpering until you forgot you’d ever had thoughts of your own. ”
“And you wouldn’t?”
“I would value your strength precisely because it is yours. Your intelligence, your compassion, your willingness to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves—these aren’t flaws to be corrected but assets to be treasured.
” His voice dropped, becoming rough with something that might have been emotion.
“I’ve seen what you’re capable of, Lady Isadora.
Don’t let yourself be diminished by a man too small to appreciate what he’s been offered. ”
Every word struck her as though she was a mere target waiting for an arrow’s sharp point. No one had ever spoken to her like this—with respect for her mind, admiration for her spirit, recognition of her worth as something more than decorative property.
“But you offer no love,” she whispered.
“No,” he agreed, though something passed across his features too quickly to interpret. “But I offer honesty. Respect. The freedom to be yourself without apology. Can Ashcombe promise the same?”
Before she could answer, Jenny’s voice carried a note of warning from her position by the door. “Your Ladyship, His Lordship has been pacing the hallway. I fear he may return soon.”
The reminder of Father’s presence sent fresh urgency coursing through her veins. In minutes, perhaps less, she would be forced to accept Lord Ashcombe’s proposal. The announcement would appear in tomorrow’s papers, and her fate would be sealed.
Unless she chose differently.
“If I said yes,” she whispered, “how would we manage it? Father will never consent.”
“Leave your father to me.” Edmund’s smile was sharp as a blade. “A duke’s wishes carry considerable weight, even with ambitious earls.”
The promise of protection in his words made something flutter to life in her chest. When had anyone last offered to defend her choices rather than simply override them?
“The scandal—your reputation—”
“Will become your burden as well. I won’t lie about that. Society will whisper about the dangerous duke and his mysterious duchess.” His expression softened almost imperceptibly. “But I think you’re strong enough to weather their whispers. I think you might even enjoy shocking them.”
Despite everything, she found herself smiling. The idea of shocking London’s gossiping matrons held undeniable appeal.
“You’re asking me to leap from one precipice to another.”
“Perhaps. But one leads to slow suffocation, while the other leads to the possibility of flight.” Edmund extended his hand, palm up. “The choice is yours, Lady Isadora. But choose quickly—your father approaches.”
The sound of boots on marble was growing louder, accompanied by Father’s determined stride. In moments he would burst through the door demanding answers she wasn’t prepared to give.
Unless she gave him an answer he wasn’t prepared to hear.
She looked down at Edmund’s outstretched hand—strong, scarred, marked by whatever violence had shaped him. If she took it, her life would change irrevocably. There would be no safety net of familiar expectations.
But there would also be no Lord Ashcombe. No slow death by degrees. There would be purpose, challenge, the chance to matter.
And there would be Edmund himself—dangerous, compelling, honest about his limitations but respectful of her strengths.
The footsteps grew louder.
Isadora placed her hand in his.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I accept.”
Edmund’s fingers closed around hers, warm and sure. For just a moment his guard dropped completely, and she saw something that might have been relief, or gratitude, or perhaps wonder at what they were undertaking.
Then the library door burst open, and Father’s voice filled the room with outraged authority.
“Isadora! What is the meaning of this?”
Edmund turned toward the Earl with lazy confidence, not releasing her hand.
“The meaning, Wexford,” he said with dangerous pleasantness, “is that your daughter has just accepted my proposal of marriage. I trust you’ll want to wish us both very happy.”