Chapter 11 #2
The euphemism hung in the air between them like a gauntlet thrown down. Around them, the club had fallen silent except for the crackle of fires and the soft whisper of pages being turned by men pretending not to listen while hanging on every word.
Edmund took a step closer, close enough that Bickham had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. This close, he could smell the wine on the man’s breath, could see the slight tremor in his hands that suggested his courage was largely liquid in nature.
“Misinterpreted,” Edmund repeated, his voice dropping to the sort of dangerous quiet that had earned him his reputation for settling disagreements permanently.
“How fascinating. Tell me, Bickham, what precisely would you call a grown man cornering a fifteen-year-old girl in a darkened corridor and offering to show her parts of the house where she might be... more comfortable?”
The blood drained from Bickham’s face with gratifying speed. “I say, Rothwell, that’s rather a dramatic interpretation of a perfectly innocent—”
“Innocent.” Edmund smiled, and the expression contained all the warmth of January frost. “Yes, I’m sure your intentions toward my ward were entirely innocent. Just as I’m sure you’ll have no objection to explaining those intentions to her father’s memory, should the occasion arise.”
It was a threat wrapped in silk, delivered with the sort of casual precision that spoke of a man entirely comfortable with violence as a means of resolving disputes.
The mention of James’s death—and by implication, the duel that had taken his life—sent a ripple of unease through their audience.
Everyone knew the story, knew that the Dangerous Duke had ended up killing his closest friend and walked away with nothing but a scar to mark the encounter.
Bickham swayed slightly, whether from wine or fear was impossible to determine. “There’s no need for... that is, I’m sure we can resolve any misunderstanding without resorting to... dramatic measures.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain we can,” Edmund agreed, his tone remaining conversational despite the menace that radiated from every line of his body.
“You see, Bickham, I find myself in an unusually charitable mood this evening. Perhaps it’s the season—Christmas does encourage thoughts of forgiveness and goodwill toward men, doesn’t it?
So I’m prepared to overlook your behavior at the musicale, provided you demonstrate the wisdom to avoid any future. .. misunderstandings.”
He leaned closer, close enough that his next words were audible only to Bickham despite the strained silence that had settled over their corner of the room.
“But should you find yourself in my ward’s vicinity again—at any social gathering, on any street corner, in any circumstance whatsoever—I will consider it a deliberate provocation requiring immediate correction. ”
A chill went through the room at his words and Bickham nodded frantically, his face pale.
“Excellent,” Edmund said, stepping back with the sort of satisfied grace that suggested the matter was concluded to his satisfaction. “I do so enjoy when reasonable men reach reasonable agreements. Don’t you, Tobias?”
“Absolutely riveting,” Tobias replied, though his tone suggested he was more entertained than concerned by the display of intimidation he’d just witnessed. “Nothing quite like a civilized discussion between gentlemen to resolve potential differences of opinion.”
Bickham made some inarticulate sound that might have been agreement, bobbed what could charitably be called a bow, and fled toward the card room with the haste of a man suddenly remembering urgent business elsewhere.
Silence stretched for several heartbeats before normal conversation gradually resumed, though Edmund could feel the weight of curious glances from around the room.
His reputation for danger had been well-earned through years of refusing to tolerate disrespect, and tonight’s display would doubtless be discussed in drawing rooms across London by tomorrow evening.
He settled back into his chair with movements that spoke of complete satisfaction, reaching for his whiskey as though nothing more significant than a discussion of the weather had just concluded.
“Well,” Tobias observed mildly, “that was refreshing. It’s been months since I’ve seen you remind someone why challenging your family’s welfare is inadvisable. Though I do hope your new duchess appreciates the lengths to which you’ll go to protect what’s yours.”
The casual observation struck Edmund like a physical blow.
What’s yours. Was that how he thought of Isadora now?
As a possession to be protected rather than a person to be respected?
The possibility was deeply unsettling, particularly given the way his pulse had quickened when Tobias had suggested she might appreciate his protective instincts.
“She is my wife,” he said carefully, testing the words. “I would naturally defend her reputation, just as I would defend any member of my household.”
“Naturally,” Tobias agreed, though something in his expression suggested he’d heard more in Edmund’s tone than had been intended.
“Though I notice you were rather more... creative in your approach to Bickham’s correction than usual.
Mentioning James’s memory, for instance.
That particular weapon hasn’t emerged from your arsenal in some time. ”
The observation was delivered with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested Tobias was probing for information rather than making accusations.
But Edmund could hear the unspoken question beneath his friend’s words: why had the threat to Lillian prompted such a visceral response?
Why had he felt compelled to invoke the most painful chapter of his past in defense of a girl he claimed to view as nothing more than an obligation?
“Bickham required a reminder about the consequences of poor judgment,” Edmund replied, which was true enough without being particularly illuminating. “His behavior at the musicale suggested he’d forgotten certain basic principles of civilized conduct.”
“And your duchess’s intervention in that situation? How did she demonstrate such remarkable timing in appearing precisely when Lillian required rescue?”
The question was posed with Tobias’s usual casual precision, but Edmund could hear the deeper inquiry. His friend was wondering about Isadora’s motivations, her methods, perhaps even her worthiness of the protection Edmund had just demonstrated so dramatically.
“She was attending the same event. She observed Bickham’s behavior and chose to intervene.
” Edmund took a careful sip of whiskey, using the gesture to buy time while he considered how much he was prepared to reveal.
“It was... admirable. She acted without hesitation to protect someone weaker than herself.”
“Admirable,” Tobias repeated thoughtfully.
“And I suspect rather attractive to a man who’s spent the better part of a decade convinced that genuine selflessness no longer existed among the ton.
Tell me, Edmund—when you observed her protecting Lillian, did it perhaps remind you of why you fell in love with the idea of marriage in the first place? ”
The question was delivered with surgical precision, designed to penetrate defenses that Edmund hadn’t realized he’d lowered.
Because Tobias was right, in his infuriatingly perceptive way.
Watching Isadora stand between Bickham and his intended victim had stirred something in Edmund’s chest that had nothing to do with gratitude and everything to do with recognition.
Here was a woman who understood that strength carried responsibility, that power should be used to protect rather than exploit.
Here was someone worthy of the protection he’d just offered, whether she knew it or not.
“I acted out of simple practicality,” Edmund said firmly, though the words felt less convincing than they had a week ago. “Nothing more romantic than that.”
“Of course,” Tobias replied with the sort of bland agreement that suggested he believed nothing of the sort.
“Which brings us back to the fascinating question of why this practical arrangement has you so thoroughly unsettled. What exactly did your practical duchess do today that’s left you brooding like Hamlet contemplating skulls? ”
The comparison was more accurate than Edmund cared to acknowledge.
He had been brooding, and over questions that seemed to multiply rather than resolve themselves the more he considered them.
Questions about authority and protection, about the difference between being respected and being feared, about whether the walls he’d built around his heart were keeping danger out or keeping life at bay.
It was not something he wanted to ponder on any longer than necessary. It felt far too dangerous.