Chapter 10
“Iwill not recite another word of this ridiculous poem about shepherdesses and their virtuous thoughts!” Lillian’s voice carried through the corridor, sharp with frustration. “It is insipid, childish, and beneath any person with half a brain! I despise it!”
Isadora froze outside the schoolroom door, her hand on the brass handle. She’d been heading to the library when the raised voices reached her—Lillian’s passionate declaration, Mrs. Hale’s scandalized response, and beneath it all, Edmund’s low rumble of authority.
“Miss Gray, you will mind your tongue this instant,” Mrs. Hale’s voice quavered. “Such language is entirely inappropriate for a young lady of your station. His Grace, please explain to your ward that—”
“Enough.” Edmund’s single word cut through the room like steel. “Lillian, you will apologize to Mrs. Hale immediately, and you will complete the recitation as assigned. Your opinions on your lessons are neither requested nor relevant.”
Through the crack in the door, Isadora could see Lillian standing beside her desk, slight frame rigid despite the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
“I am not a child,” she said now, her voice trembling but determined. “I am nearly sixteen years old, and I am capable of forming judgments about what I study.”
Mrs. Hale gasped as though the girl had uttered blasphemy. “Your Grace, I must insist she be corrected immediately.”
“She will be corrected,” Edmund replied simply, his voice low. Through the crack in the door, Isadora could see him moving closer to Lillian. “You will apologize, complete your lessons, and conduct yourself as befits your position. Is that understood?”
The girl merely nodded and Isadora could feel the anger boiling over in her stomach.
Here was everything wrong with how society treated intelligent women distilled into one bitter observation from a girl who should have been celebrated for her quick mind rather than punished for it.
The pain in Lillian’s voice, the rigid control in Edmund’s posture, Mrs. Hale’s satisfied smugness—it crystallized into perfect clarity about what needed to happen.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside, silk morning dress rustling in the sudden silence that followed her entrance.
The schoolroom felt smaller with all four of them in it, the Christmas decorations that had seemed cheerful yesterday now appearing forced and artificial against the backdrop of this confrontation.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward her—Mrs. Hale’s alarmed, Lillian’s hopeful, Edmund’s coolly assessing. His gaze swept over her with the sort of attention that made her skin warm beneath her modest neckline, though his expression remained carefully neutral.
“Forgive the interruption,” she said, voice carrying the calm authority she’d learned during years of managing her father’s household tensions. “I could not help but overhear, and I felt compelled to offer my perspective.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, his tone held the sort of warning that most people were wise enough to heed. “This is a matter of discipline, Isadora. It does not require your intervention.”
The icy use of her name stung, but she refused to be dismissed so easily.
“Perhaps not,” she replied, moving until she stood beside Lillian’s desk.
The girl’s relief at having an ally was palpable, her rigid posture softening slightly as though she could finally breathe properly again.
“But it does concern the education of a young woman who will soon need to move through society with confidence and intelligence. On that subject, I believe I might have insight to offer.”
She turned to face Mrs. Hale directly, noting how the older woman’s hands had begun their nervous twisting—a gesture that seemed to be endemic among the Abbey’s staff whenever they found themselves the focus of attention. “How long have you been responsible for Lillian’s education?”
“Nearly six months, Your Grace,” the governess replied stiffly, drawing herself up with wounded dignity. “Since His Grace determined Miss Gray required more structured guidance in her studies.”
“And what, precisely, does that structured guidance entail?”
Mrs. Hale’s chest puffed with pride at the opportunity to defend her methods.
“The curriculum I have implemented focuses on the essential accomplishments required of a properly bred young lady. Poetry suitable for feminine sensibilities, basic history and geography, French conversation, watercolor painting, and of course, deportment and household management. Everything necessary to prepare Miss Gray for marriage to a gentleman of appropriate standing.”
The recitation sounded rehearsed, as though Mrs. Hale had delivered this same speech to justify her methods before. Isadora wondered how many other bright young minds had been systematically dulled by such an approach to education.
“I see.” Isadora picked up one of the books from Lillian’s desk—a slim volume bound in pink leather with gilt lettering that proclaimed it to be “Moral Tales for Young Ladies of Breeding.” She flipped through several pages, noting the infantile language and simpering moral lessons that would insult a ten-year-old’s intelligence, much less someone of Lillian’s obvious intellectual capacity.
“And you believe these materials adequately challenge a mind of Lillian’s caliber? ”
The question was posed mildly, but Edmund’s eyes sharpened with warning. He recognized that tone—the same careful politeness she’d employed when dismantling arguments in her father’s drawing room, the prelude to observations that left opponents scrambling for dignity.
“The materials are entirely appropriate for a young lady of Miss Gray’s station,” Mrs. Hale replied, though uncertainty had crept into her voice.
The woman was beginning to sense that this conversation was not proceeding according to her expectations.
“His Grace specifically requested that her education focus on practical accomplishments rather than... unsuitable intellectual pursuits.”
“She is fifteen, Your Grace,” Isadora said, turning to address Edmund directly.
Her heart hammered against her stays as she met his penetrating stare, but she refused to let intimidation deflect her from what needed to be said.
The Christmas morning light streaming through the schoolroom windows caught the scar along his jaw, making it appear more pronounced, a stark reminder of whatever violence had shaped him.
“She needs guidance and instruction, not scolding. What she requires is a governess trained to prepare her for society, not to be treated as if she were still in the nursery.”
Edmund went completely still—the predatory stillness that preceded either violence or the sort of cutting words that could destroy a person’s composure entirely.
When he spoke, his voice carried the precise enunciation that made every syllable feel like a weapon being deployed with surgical accuracy.
“She has no need for society.”
The words hung flat and final between them, but Isadora had not come this far to be dismissed with such casual dismissal of a young woman’s future.
Behind those four words lay everything that was wrong with how he approached his guardianship—fear disguised as protection, control masquerading as care.
“She has every need for it,” she replied, refusing to lower her gaze despite the way his green eyes seemed to burn through her composure.
“Would you have her hidden away forever? Without proper teaching, she will suffer for it. A girl of her intelligence deserves better than to be kept ignorant of the world she must eventually enter. Surely you would not wish that for James’s daughter. ”
The mention of Lillian’s father struck home with devastating accuracy. Edmund’s face went white around his scar, and for a moment a shadow settled in the depths of his eyes. She had found his weakness—the guilt he carried over his friend’s death, the weight of promises made to a dying man.
Lillian looked between them with wide eyes, clearly sensing the undercurrents of tension that had nothing to do with educational philosophy and everything to do with the complex dance of authority and attraction that seemed to follow wherever she and Edmund occupied the same space.
The girl’s breathing had quickened, and Isadora could see her torn between hope for change and terror of the consequences if this confrontation went badly.
Mrs. Hale, uncomfortable under the weight of the charged atmosphere that had nothing to do with curriculum disputes, cleared her throat delicately. “Perhaps... that is, if Your Grace would excuse me, I believe I should review the lesson plans for tomorrow’s instruction...”
She gathered her materials with hands that shook slightly, the pink-bound books and carefully prepared notes scattered across the desk in her haste to escape. Her curtsy was performed with the speed of someone desperate to avoid whatever explosion was building between the Duke and his new Duchess.
Edmund stepped closer, his boots silent on the polished floor despite his size.
He moved with the controlled grace of a predator, and when he reached speaking distance, Isadora could catch the familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and bergamot and something darker that made her pulse flutter in ways she refused to examine too closely.
“You presume too much, Lady Isadora,” he said coldly. “I am her guardian. I shall decide what is best for her.”
But Isadora had spent too many years learning how to understand stubborn masculine pride to be cowed by displays of authority, no matter how magnificently they were performed.
She had watched her father intimidate lesser men with similar tactics, had learned to recognize when power was being wielded to avoid rather than engage with uncomfortable truths.