Chapter 11
“So tell me, Edmund,” Tobias drawled from his leather chair beside the fire, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler with the practiced ease of a man who’d spent the better part of a decade perfecting such gestures, “how fares married life? Have you frightened the poor girl into silence already?”
Edmund’s grip tightened on his own glass, the Waterford crystal warming beneath his fingers as he stared into the depths of whiskey that had done nothing to burn away the memory of hazel eyes blazing with righteous fury.
White’s Club hummed with its usual evening atmosphere—the soft murmur of political gossip, the crack of newspapers being folded with deliberate precision, the occasional burst of laughter from the card room where fortunes changed hands with each turn of the deck.
Christmas holly adorned the mantels, their red berries bright as drops of blood against the dark paneling, while evergreen garlands wound around marble columns released the sharp scent of winter into air thick with tobacco smoke and masculine authority.
Yet despite the familiar comfort of his sanctuary, Edmund felt as unsettled as he had three hours ago when he’d fled his own schoolroom like a green boy who’d never faced down an opponent across twenty paces of frost-covered ground.
“She is impossible,” he said finally, the words emerging rougher than he’d intended. “Presumptuous. Stubborn to the point of folly.”
The accusation should have carried more conviction, but even to his own ears it sounded hollow.
How could he explain to Tobias—to anyone—the way Isadora had looked when she’d accused him of being afraid?
The way her chin had lifted in defiance that was both maddening and magnificent, the way her voice had remained steady even as she challenged everything he’d built his guardianship upon?
“Ah,” Tobias said, taking a leisurely sip that suggested he was savoring far more than aged whiskey. “A perfect match for you, then.”
“I will not be mocked.” Edmund’s voice carried the edge that had once settled disputes with steel and powder, but his oldest friend merely smiled with the sort of infuriating calm that came from twenty years of surviving Edmund’s darker moods.
“My dear friend, I wouldn’t dream of mocking you.
I’m merely observing that after a decade of terrorizing London society with your scowls and perfectly controlled silences, you’ve finally met someone who refuses to be intimidated.
” Tobias’s dark eyes sparkled with unholy amusement. “How refreshing for you both.”
Edmund set his glass down with enough force to make the side table rattle, though he was careful not to shatter the crystal.
He’d learned long ago that displays of genuine temper only encouraged Tobias’s more irritating tendencies.
“She challenges me in front of my ward, undermines my authority, and speaks as if she knows better than I do about matters concerning my own household.”
The words spilled out despite his better judgment, carrying with them the frustration that had been building since that morning’s confrontation.
How dare she waltz into his carefully ordered world and begin rearranging everything according to her own notions of what constituted proper treatment of an adolescent girl?
How dare she look at him with those knowing eyes that seemed to see straight through every defense he’d spent years constructing?
He paused, glaring into his glass as though the whiskey might provide answers to questions he wasn’t prepared to ask. “And the most infuriating part of it all, Tobias, is that sometimes she does know better.”
The admission escaped before he could stop it, raw and unwilling as a confession dragged from a prisoner under interrogation.
Because that was the truth that had been eating at him since he’d stalked away from the schoolroom—Isadora had been right about Lillian’s education, right about the girl’s need for intellectual challenge, right about his own failures as a guardian.
Tobias chuckled outright now, the sound rich with genuine delight. “Sweet heaven above, the Duke of Rothwell has found a woman who gives him orders. Tell me again how you’ll never fall in love.”
“Love.” Edmund spat the word like poison. “This has nothing to do with such romantic nonsense. I married her for practical reasons, and she’s proving rather less biddable than I anticipated. That’s all.”
But even as he spoke, Edmund could feel the lie burning his throat.
Because if their confrontation had been purely about household management and educational philosophy, why couldn’t he stop thinking about the way her breath had caught when he’d stepped closer?
Why did he keep remembering the flush that had spread across her cheekbones when their eyes had locked in that charged moment before he’d fled like a coward?
“Of course,” Tobias agreed with the sort of bland courtesy that fooled absolutely no one.
“Purely practical. Which is why you’ve been staring into that whiskey for the past quarter hour as though it contained the secrets of the universe, and why you’ve missed three attempts at conversation from Pemberton and Ashford. ”
Edmund glanced toward the cluster of chairs near the windows, where indeed Lord Pemberton and Lord Ashford sat looking slightly offended at having been ignored.
Both men had been attempting to catch his attention with the sort of tentative gestures that suggested they wanted his opinion on whatever political matter was currently exercising the House of Lords, but he’d been too lost in brooding to notice.
The realization that his composure was so obviously shattered sent a fresh wave of irritation through his chest. He prided himself on maintaining perfect control regardless of circumstances, yet one morning’s worth of domestic discord had reduced him to the sort of moody introspection that belonged in Gothic novels rather than gentlemen’s clubs.
“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “I’m simply unaccustomed to having my judgment questioned by someone who’s been in my household for less than a week.”
“Or perhaps,” Tobias replied with the sort of gentle persistence that made him invaluable as both friend and political ally, “you’re discovering that absolute authority becomes rather lonely after a while.
When was the last time anyone at Rothwell Abbey offered you an opinion that wasn’t carefully calculated to meet your expectations? ”
The question struck uncomfortably close to truths Edmund preferred not to examine.
When indeed? His servants anticipated his needs with the sort of nervous efficiency that spoke more of fear than loyalty.
Lillian had learned to swallow her questions and complaints rather than risk his displeasure.
Even Mrs. Hale, for all her rigid propriety, chose her words with the careful precision of someone who understood that disagreement with the Duke’s preferences could prove professionally hazardous.
Only Isadora had looked him in the eye and told him he was wrong. Only she had stood her ground when he’d tried to intimidate her into submission, had matched his intensity with her own rather than wilting beneath the force of his disapproval.
The memory of her voice—calm and steady despite the way her hands had been trembling—sent something that might have been longing through his chest. When had anyone last cared enough about his ward’s welfare to risk his anger in her defense?
“Woolgathering again,” Tobias observed mildly. “This is becoming a concerning habit, my friend. Perhaps you should consider returning home to continue this fascinating internal debate in the privacy of your own study.”
Before Edmund could form a suitable reply, the club’s main doors opened to admit a familiar figure.
Bickham—the same predatory fool who’d been prowling around Lillian at the Cavendish musicale—entered with the sort of swagger that suggested he’d already visited several establishments before arriving at White’s.
His cravat was askew, his color high, and when he spotted Edmund near the fire, his expression shifted from wine-flushed bonhomie to something approaching calculation.
“Rothwell!” he called out with the sort of false heartiness that made Edmund’s jaw clench. “Just the man I was hoping to see. Wanted to congratulate you on your recent nuptials. Quite the surprise, that. Lady Isadora seemed so... particular in her standards.”
The words were delivered with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and Edmund felt something cold and familiar settle in his chest. This was the moment when his reputation for danger typically proved its worth—when lesser men realized they’d made the mistake of assuming his title and wealth made him safe to provoke.
“Bickham.” Edmund’s voice carried the sort of quiet menace that had once preceded dawn appointments in secluded fields. He rose from his chair with fluid grace, every line of his body conveying barely leashed violence. “How... unexpected to see you here.”
The temperature in their corner of the club seemed to drop several degrees. Conversations faltered as heads turned toward the developing confrontation, drawn by the sort of primitive instinct that recognized predator and prey even in the civilized confines of St. James’s Street.
Bickham’s smile wavered slightly, but he pressed on with the sort of desperate bravado that suggested either too much wine or insufficient intelligence.
“Yes, well, I thought I might offer my congratulations in person. And perhaps apologize for any... misunderstanding that may have occurred at the Cavendish musicale. Your… new wife seemed to take exception to my conversation with your ward, though I’m sure she misinterpreted my intentions entirely. ”