Chapter 16
“You must try the syllabub, Your Grace—Cook outdid herself this year, adding just a hint of orange to complement the Christmas spices.”
Lady Fairfax’s voice carried across the dining table with the determined cheer of a woman hosting what she clearly believed would be the social event of the season.
Around them, Fairfax House blazed with Christmas glory—holly and ivy wound through every available surface, candles burning in crystal holders that cast dancing light across silver and porcelain, the scent of roasted goose and plum pudding thick enough to make Isadora’s stays feel uncomfortably tight.
She smiled at their hostess with practiced warmth, very aware of Edmund’s presence beside her. “How thoughtful. I confess I’ve never tasted syllabub with orange—it sounds divine.”
The lie came easily. She’d been lying all evening, every word and gesture carefully calculated to present the picture of wedded bliss that Edmund required.
And heaven help her, it was working. She could see it in the way Lord Wilcox watched them with barely concealed surprise, in Lady Blackwood’s grudging approval, in the whispers that rippled around the table whenever Edmund leaned close to murmur something in her ear.
The Dangerous Duke was reformed. Domesticated. Transformed by marriage into something approaching civilized.
If only they knew.
Edmund’s hand settled at the small of her back as a footman approached to refill her wine glass—a gesture of casual possession that appeared entirely natural.
To anyone watching, he was simply a devoted husband ensuring his wife’s comfort.
But Isadora could feel the heat of his palm through burgundy silk, could sense the tension in his fingers that suggested this proximity cost him something.
“Careful,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “You’re drinking rather quickly.”
The observation was delivered quietly enough that only she could hear, his tone carrying concern that might have been genuine or merely part of their performance.
Isadora couldn’t tell anymore. The line between pretense and reality had blurred somewhere between the third course and Lord Fairfax’s lengthy anecdote about hunting accidents.
“Perhaps I require fortification,” she whispered back, pitching her voice low enough to maintain their illusion of intimate conversation. “Your neighbor appears determined to discuss every pheasant shot in Yorkshire since the turn of the century.”
Edmund’s lips curved—barely, but enough that those watching would note it. The Dangerous Duke smiling at his wife’s wit. Another crack in the armor of his reputation.
“Patience,” he said, his hand moving in what appeared to be a comforting caress against her spine. “We’ve nearly survived the meal. Only dessert and port remain before we can make our escape.”
The word “we” sent an odd flutter through Isadora’s chest. When had they become a unit? When had “you and I” transformed into “we” without her noticing?
“I didn’t realize you were so eager to return home,” she said, allowing herself to lean slightly into his touch.
Around them, she could sense attention sharpening—Lady Blackwood’s eyes narrowing with calculation, Lady Fairfax’s knowing smile.
They were eating this up, she realized. The spectacle of the isolated Duke unable to bear separation from his new bride.
“I’m eager,” Edmund replied, his voice dropping to a register that made her skin warm, “to end this interminable evening and reclaim some peace.”
There—that edge of genuine feeling beneath the performance. He truly was miserable, she realized. Not merely playing the role of uncomfortable nobleman enduring social obligation, but actually suffering through every moment of forced pleasantry and careful conversation.
The knowledge should have pleased her. Instead, it made her want to place her hand over his where it still rested against her back, to offer comfort that went beyond their agreed-upon charade.
Dangerous thinking.
“The syllabub, Your Grace.” A footman appeared at her elbow with a crystal dish containing something pale and trembling. Isadora accepted it with a smile that felt increasingly difficult to maintain.
“Tell me, Lady Rothwell,” Lady Blackwood’s voice cut through the general conversation like a blade through butter, “how are you finding Yorkshire? It must be quite different from the excitement of London.”
The question carried undertones Isadora had learned to recognize during three seasons navigating the ton’s treacherous waters. This was a test, an attempt to discover whether the new Duchess regretted her hasty marriage to a man whose reputation preceded him like storm clouds.
“Yorkshire has a beauty all its own,” Isadora replied quickly. “The Abbey, especially, is quite magnificent.”
“Indeed?” Lady Blackwood’s eyebrows climbed toward her elaborate coiffure. “I wouldn’t have thought a young lady of your vivacity would appreciate such isolation. Particularly given His Grace’s preference for solitude.”
There it was—the barb hidden beneath polite inquiry. You’ve married a recluse, the older woman was saying. A man who’ll keep you locked away from society just as he’s kept himself isolated for years.
“His Grace has been nothing but attentive,” Isadora said, turning to look at Edmund with what she hoped appeared like genuine affection. “I find his company far more stimulating than the endless rounds of gossip that constitute most London drawing room conversation.”
She watched color rise in his cheeks—actual color, not the careful performance he’d been maintaining all evening. Had her compliment surprised him? Or was he merely playing his role with unexpected skill?
“You’re too kind,” Edmund murmured, his green eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “Though I suspect you flatter me beyond my deserving.”
“Nonsense.” The word emerged before caution could stop it, her voice carrying conviction that went beyond their agreed-upon performance. “You underestimate yourself, my lord.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to confusion giving way to something she couldn’t name. His hand moved from her back to capture her fingers where they rested on the table, raising them to his lips in a gesture that appeared entirely spontaneous.
The kiss he pressed to her knuckles was brief, proper, exactly the sort of thing a devoted husband might do in company. But the heat of his mouth through her glove sent fire racing up her arm, and when his eyes met hers over their joined hands, she saw her own confusion reflected back.
This wasn’t supposed to feel real.
Around them, whispers intensified. Lady Fairfax actually sighed with romantic satisfaction. Lord Wilcox raised his glass in an approving toast. Even Lady Blackwood’s skeptical expression softened into something approaching approval.
They were winning. Convincing Yorkshire society that the Dangerous Duke had transformed into a devoted husband. Proving that marriage had gentled whatever wildness had earned Edmund his fearsome reputation.
But at what cost?
Edmund released her hand slowly, his attention returning to his untouched syllabub with studied casualness. But Isadora could see the tension in his shoulders, could sense the effort it cost him to maintain composure after that unscripted moment of apparent tenderness.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced conversation and careful performance.
Isadora laughed at Lord Fairfax’s stories, offered opinions on Christmas decorations that she didn’t actually possess, allowed Edmund to refill her wine glass with the sort of attentive care that suggested he monitored her every need.
And through it all, she was intensely aware of him.
The way his jaw tightened when someone mentioned the duel—obliquely, couched in references to “past difficulties”—that had defined his reputation.
The slight relaxation of his posture when conversation shifted to safer topics like estate management or the season’s hunting.
When Lady Fairfax finally suggested the ladies withdraw while the gentlemen enjoyed their port, Isadora felt Edmund’s hand at her elbow, steadying her as she rose.
The gesture was unnecessary—she was perfectly capable of standing without assistance—but she understood its purpose.
One more demonstration of his devotion, his attentiveness, his transformation from dangerous recluse into proper husband.
“Don’t be too long,” she said softly, the words meant for him alone but pitched to carry to their audience. “I shall miss your company.”
His fingers tightened briefly against her arm. “I’ll join you as soon as courtesy permits.”
The promise in his voice sounded almost genuine. Isadora allowed herself to be swept away with the other ladies, very aware of Edmund’s gaze following her progress across the dining room.
The drawing room where they gathered was a riot of Christmas excess—more greenery, more candles, a fire blazing hot enough to make Isadora’s cheeks flush within moments of entering.
Lady Fairfax settled into her favorite chair with the satisfied air of a general surveying a successful campaign, while the other ladies arranged themselves according to rank and familiarity.
“You must tell us everything,” Lady Blackwood said without preamble, fixing Isadora with a stare that had probably reduced lesser women to stammering confession. “How did you manage to capture the Duke of Rothwell? We’d all quite given up hope that he would ever marry.”
Isadora accepted the tea that appeared at her elbow, using the gesture to buy time while she constructed an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much. “I’m not certain I captured him, my lady. Rather, we discovered a mutual understanding that seemed worth pursuing.”