Chapter 15 #2
He should send a note requesting her presence in the morning.
He should approach this conversation with the formal distance that characterized all their interactions.
He should absolutely not go to her private chambers this late in the evening, when propriety demanded he keep appropriate distance from a wife he barely knew.
But Edmund had never been particularly good at doing what he should. It was one of his more consistent failures.
He found himself in the corridor before conscious decision had been made, boots silent on carpet runners decorated with Christmas greenery that Mrs. Pemberton had arranged with her newfound enthusiasm.
Candles burned in wall sconces, their flames dancing behind glass chimneys, casting shadows that transformed familiar passages into something almost mysterious.
The house felt different at night. Less oppressive, perhaps. Or maybe Isadora’s presence had already begun working transformation he was too stubborn to acknowledge.
Her chambers occupied the east wing—the Duchess’s traditional domain that had stood empty since his mother’s death.
Edmund had ordered them opened and aired for Isadora’s arrival, though he’d avoided visiting them himself.
Too many memories lived in those rooms, too many ghosts of the woman who’d taught him that gentleness wasn’t weakness.
Now he stood outside her door like some nervous suitor rather than the master of this house. His hand was raised to knock before he’d quite decided to do so, and the sound of his knuckles against oak seemed unnaturally loud in the evening quiet.
“Come in.”
Her voice carried through the door, slightly muffled but clear enough. Edmund pushed the door open and stepped into warmth that had nothing to do with the fire blazing in her hearth.
Isadora sat before her dressing table in a wrapper of deep green velvet that made her chestnut hair appear almost auburn in the candlelight.
She’d been brushing it—the silver-backed brush lay abandoned beside scattered hairpins—and the loose waves falling past her shoulders made her look younger than her three-and-twenty years.
More vulnerable than the composed duchess who’d challenged him in front of his ward and household staff.
She turned to face him, surprise flickering across her features before being replaced by careful neutrality. “Your Grace. I wasn’t expecting you.”
The formal address stung despite being entirely appropriate. They’d been married less than a fortnight—hardly enough time to establish the sort of intimacy that would make given names natural between them.
“Forgive the intrusion.” Edmund remained near the door, very aware that propriety demanded he not enter his wife’s private chambers uninvited. “I have a matter to discuss that cannot wait until morning.”
One elegant eyebrow rose at this pronouncement. “Indeed? What manner of matter requires such urgency?”
Edmund forced himself to step fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt far too final.
Christmas candles burned on every surface—she’d clearly been decorating, transforming the austere chambers into something approaching festive.
Holly arranged in crystal vases, evergreen boughs wound with scarlet ribbon, the scent of pine and beeswax thick enough to taste.
His mother would have approved.
“We are to attend dinner with Lord and Lady Fairfax,” he said, the words emerging more curtly than intended. “Three days hence, on Christmas Eve. I require your company.”
Isadora merely looked at him, her face impassive. “Require?”
“Request,” Edmund amended, though the correction tasted like surrender. “I request that you accompany me to the Fairfax dinner.”
She rose from her dressing table with fluid grace, the green wrapper rustling as she moved. “And why, precisely, must we attend this dinner? I was under the impression you’d declined social obligations for years.”
Because his isolation had become untenable. Because Lillian needed him to be something more than the Dangerous Duke. Because the whispers about his household were growing louder and more damaging with each passing week.
Because he was desperate, though he’d die before admitting it.
“The neighborhood has begun asking questions,” he said carefully, choosing words that wouldn’t reveal too much. “About my sudden acquisition of both ward and wife. About Lillian’s parentage and your... willingness to bind yourself to my reputation.”
Understanding dawned in her hazel eyes. “They’re wondering what scandal forced me to marry you.”
“Among other speculations, yes.” Edmund began to pace, unable to remain still under the weight of her attention.
“The gossip grows more pointed with each week. Questions about whether Lillian is actually my daughter rather than my ward. Whether you knew about her existence before accepting my proposal. Whether our hasty marriage suggests some impropriety that required immediate correction.”
“And attending a Christmas dinner will somehow silence these rumors?”
“It will demonstrate that we are a normal household. Respectable. The sort of family that accepts social invitations and participates in seasonal festivities like everyone else.” He stopped pacing to face her directly.
“It will show them that the Dangerous Duke has reformed. That marriage has gentled whatever wildness earned me that particular epithet.”
Isadora studied him with the sort of penetrating attention that made Edmund want to check his cravat for imperfections. “And has it? Has marriage gentled you?”
The question struck closer to truths he wasn’t prepared to examine. “That’s irrelevant. What matters is perception.”
“So we’re to perform reformation we haven’t actually achieved?” Her voice carried an edge now, sharp enough to draw blood. “Pretend devotion neither of us feels for the entertainment of Yorkshire gossips?”
“Yes.” The admission tasted bitter, but Edmund had never learned to sweeten unpleasant truths.
“For Lillian’s sake, if nothing else. Her prospects depend on my reputation, and my reputation currently sits somewhere between ‘dangerous eccentric’ and ‘possible murderer.’ If we want her to have any chance at decent marriage, we need to convince society that I’ve become worthy of raising James’s daughter. ”
Something shifted in Isadora’s expression at the mention of Lillian. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”
This was it, then. The moment when he revealed the full extent of his desperation and hoped she possessed enough compassion—or pragmatism—to agree.
“We must appear united,” Edmund said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite the heat building in his chest. “The whispers about me have gone on long enough. It is time society believes I have changed.” He paused, gathering nerve he hadn’t known he possessed.
“You will smile at me. Laugh at my attempts at conversation as though they charm you. You will look at me as though you—”
The words stuck in his throat, too revealing to speak aloud.
“As though I what?” Isadora prompted, her voice softer now.
“As though you are a wife in love with her husband.” The admission escaped in a rush, heat flooding his face in a way that hadn’t happened since he was a green boy facing his first duel.
“I need society to believe this marriage is genuine. That you chose me rather than being forced into it. That our household contains warmth and affection rather than cold practicality.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the fire’s crackle and the wind’s howl beyond her windows.
Edmund could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, could taste the vulnerability of what he’d just asked.
He was requesting that she playact the very thing their arrangement specifically excluded—emotion, connection, the dangerous territory of genuine feeling.
“So now you require me to pretend devotion?” Isadora’s voice held careful neutrality that revealed nothing of her thoughts. “To manufacture affection I don’t feel for the benefit of an audience I don’t know?”
“Yes.” Edmund forced himself to hold her gaze, refusing to flinch from the judgment he deserved.
“For my ward’s sake. For my name’s sake.
” He paused. “And for yours. Whether you like it or not, you’re the Duchess of Rothwell now.
Your reputation is bound to mine, and mine is currently destroying any chance Lillian has for happiness. ”
Isadora moved to the window, her green wrapper catching firelight as she stared out at snow-covered grounds. Edmund watched the line of her shoulders, the proud set of her head, waiting for either agreement or the refusal he probably deserved.
“You’re asking me to lie,” she said finally.
“I’m asking you to perform. There’s a difference.”
She turned back to face him, and the expression in her eyes made his breath catch. “Is there? Because from where I stand, pretending to feel something I don’t seems rather like dishonesty regardless of what pretty name we give it.”
“Then call it what you will.” Edmund heard desperation creeping into his voice, hated himself for it.
“But know that without your help, everything I’ve tried to build for Lillian crumbles.
Society will never accept her if they continue seeing me as the Dangerous Duke who killed his best friend.
And they won’t stop seeing me that way unless someone convinces them I’m capable of inspiring genuine affection. ”
“And you believe I’m capable of such convincing performance?”
“I’ve seen you manage your father’s political gatherings with perfect grace despite detesting half the guests.
I’ve watched you navigate social situations that would destroy lesser women without ever breaking composure.
” Edmund took a step closer, drawn by something he couldn’t name.
“If anyone can make society believe the impossible, it’s you. ”
The compliment hung between them, more honest than he’d intended.
Because it was true—Isadora possessed a strength and intelligence that had captivated him from their first meeting.
She could face down predators in darkened corridors and challenge his authority in front of his household with equal composure.
If anyone could transform his reputation through sheer force of will, it was this woman who’d married him to escape one trap only to find herself in another.
“And what happens after the dinner?” Isadora asked quietly. “Do we continue this performance indefinitely? Pretend devotion at every social gathering until even we forget it’s pretense?”
The question carried implications Edmund wasn’t prepared to examine.
What did happen after? Did they maintain this charade for weeks, months, years?
Did they eventually forget where performance ended and reality began?
Did the lie become truth through repetition, like alchemists claimed base metal could become gold through sufficient transformation?
“We do whatever is necessary,” he said, the non-answer revealing more than any honesty could. “Whatever protects Lillian and gives her the future she deserves.”
Isadora studied his face with an intensity that made him want to look away. “You truly love that girl, don’t you? Beneath all the distance and control and determined isolation, you actually care what becomes of her.”
The observation was too accurate to deny, too painful to acknowledge. “She is my responsibility.”
“She’s more than that.” Isadora moved closer, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of lavender that clung to her hair. “She’s James’s daughter. Your dearest friend’s legacy. And you’re terrified you’ll fail her the way you believe you failed him.”
Edmund’s hands clenched at his sides, every instinct screaming to deny the accusation. But standing in her chambers with Christmas candles burning and snow falling beyond the windows, he found himself incapable of the comfortable lies that had sustained him for years.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I’m terrified. Of failing Lillian.
Of proving James’s faith in me was misplaced.
Of being exactly as inadequate as I’ve always suspected.
” He met her eyes directly, refusing to flinch from whatever judgment he saw there.
“So yes, I’m asking you to lie. To pretend affection for a man who offers you nothing but his failures and his desperate need for help he doesn’t deserve.
And I’ll understand entirely if you refuse. ”
The admission cost him everything—every scrap of pride, every carefully maintained wall.
For an uncomfortable, silent minute, the pair could only stare at one another. Then Isadora nodded.
“I’ll do it,” she said quietly. “I’ll be your devoted duchess at the Fairfax dinner.
I’ll smile and laugh and look at you as though my heart beats faster when you enter a room.
” Her hand dropped away, leaving his skin burning where she’d touched him.
“But not because you’re asking me to lie, Edmund.
Because you’re finally telling me the truth. ”
She dismissed him with another nod, a simple one—and he walked out, feeling once more that he had married a woman who was dangerous in a different way people supposed he was.