Chapter 16 #2
“Mutual understanding.” Lady Fairfax’s smile suggested she found this phrasing delightfully romantic. “How very modern of you both. Though I must say, Your Grace, His Grace appears quite besotted. The way he watches you—it’s positively tender.”
Was it? Isadora couldn’t tell anymore. Edmund’s performance had been flawless all evening, his every gesture and word calculated to convince their audience of his transformation.
But that moment when he’d kissed her hand—that had felt different.
Unscripted. Real in a way that made her pulse race with something she refused to examine too closely.
“We are still discovering each other,” she said carefully. “Marriage is rather new to us both.”
“But you must have known him before the wedding?” This from Lady Wilcox, whose curiosity was apparently stronger than her sense of propriety. “Or was it truly as sudden as the rumors suggest?”
Here was dangerous ground. Admitting the hasty nature of their marriage would confirm the incessant speculation about scandal and desperation. Claiming a long courtship, however, would be a too-blatant lie, one that would be easy to disprove.
“His Grace made his intentions clear,” Isadora replied at last. “And I found his proposal... compelling.”
The truth, if not the whole truth. Edmund’s proposal had been compelling—an escape from Lord Ashcombe’s doughy hands and her father’s ambitions, an opportunity to matter in ways she’d never been permitted.
The fact that love hadn’t entered into their arrangement was information these women didn’t require.
“Well, whatever the circumstances,” Lady Fairfax declared, “I think it’s perfectly lovely.
The Duke has been alone far too long. That business with poor Mr. Gray—” She stopped, apparently realizing she’d strayed into forbidden territory.
“Well. What’s past is past. The important thing is that you’ve brought him back to society. ”
Except she hadn’t, Isadora thought. Not really.
They’d simply performed a convincing charade for a few hours, pretending to be something neither of them actually was.
Once they returned to Rothwell Abbey, Edmund would retreat into his study and his isolation, and she would return to her chambers and her books, and the careful distance they maintained would reassert itself.
Unless—
The thought was dangerous enough that Isadora pushed it away before it could fully form. She was not going to start imagining that their performance held genuine feeling. She was not going to make the mistake of believing Edmund’s tender gestures meant anything beyond their agreed-upon deception.
She absolutely was not going to acknowledge the way her heart had raced when his lips touched her glove, or the heat that had flooded her chest when his eyes met hers with that unguarded confusion.
The gentlemen rejoined them after an interminable wait, bringing the scent of port and tobacco and masculine conversation. Edmund found her immediately, crossing the drawing room with movements that suggested urgency barely contained.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly, settling beside her on the settee with proximity that would have been improper between mere acquaintances. “You look flushed.”
“The room is rather warm,” Isadora replied, which was true but not the whole truth. The flush in her cheeks had less to do with Lady Fairfax’s excessive fires and more to do with Edmund’s nearness, the way his thigh pressed against hers through layers of silk and superfine.
“Shall we take our leave?” His voice carried hope that seemed genuine. “We’ve made the required appearance. Surely no one could fault us for retiring early.”
Isadora glanced at the clock—barely past ten. Early indeed for a Christmas Eve gathering. But Edmund’s expression held something approaching desperation, and she found herself nodding before considering the implications.
“Yes,” she said. “I confess I’m rather tired from the journey.”
The lie came easily. She wasn’t tired at all—was in fact more alive than she’d felt in weeks, every nerve humming with awareness of the man beside her. But escape sounded infinitely preferable to another hour of careful performance and Lady Blackwood’s penetrating stares.
Their departure created the expected flutter of polite protests and knowing smiles.
Lady Fairfax whispered something to Lady Wilcox that made both women giggle like girls rather than matrons.
Lord Fairfax clapped Edmund on the shoulder with the sort of masculine camaraderie reserved for fellow sufferers of matrimonial devotion.
“Can’t blame you for wanting to get home,” he said with a wink that made Isadora’s cheeks flame. “Young bride and all that. Perfectly understandable.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained cordial as he made their final farewells. And then they were outside in December darkness, snow crunching beneath their feet as they moved toward the carriage that waited with breathtaking patience.
Edmund handed her up without speaking, his movements stiff with tension that had nothing to do with cold. The interior of the carriage was dark except for a single lamp, its flame casting shadows that made his scarred face appear almost demonic.
They sat opposite each other—proper distance maintained despite having just spent hours pressed together in apparent intimacy. The silence between them felt thick enough to choke on, weighted with everything they weren’t saying.
The carriage lurched into motion, and Isadora watched Edmund’s profile as he stared out the window at snow-covered landscape. His hands were clenched in his lap, knuckles white with tension, and she could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
“That went well,” she offered finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.
“Yes.” The word emerged clipped, final. “They believed our performance. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Cooperation. As though she’d done him some business favor rather than spent hours pretending to be desperately in love with him. As though the heat between them had been entirely manufactured, carrying no echo of genuine feeling.
“You’re welcome,” Isadora replied, her own voice cooling to match his tone. “I trust Lillian’s prospects will benefit from this evening’s... cooperation.”
Something flickered across his expression—pain, perhaps, or regret. But it vanished so quickly she might have imagined it, replaced by the careful neutrality that seemed his default setting whenever genuine emotion threatened.
The rest of the journey passed in silence broken only by the crunch of wheels through snow and the occasional jingle of harness.
Isadora found herself remembering the way Edmund’s hand had felt against her back, the heat of his mouth on her glove, the confusion in his eyes when she’d complimented him with unscripted sincerity.
Had any of it been real? Or had she simply been too caught up in their performance to recognize acting when she saw it?
Rothwell Abbey appeared through the darkness like a medieval fortress, all stone and shadow and impenetrable walls.
Edmund handed her down without speaking, his touch brief and impersonal. They entered the house together, acknowledged the servants’ curious glances with careful courtesy, and moved through halls decorated with holly and ivy toward the drawing room where a fire had been laid against their return.
Isadora stopped just inside the doorway, very aware that they were alone now. No audience to perform for, no witnesses to their charade. Just the two of them and the questions that had been building all evening.
“Why did you marry me, Your Grace?”
The words escaped before wisdom could stop them, raw and demanding in the firelit silence. Edmund froze halfway to the sideboard, his shoulders going rigid beneath perfectly tailored superfine.
“We’ve discussed this,” he said without turning. “Lillian required appropriate female guidance—”
“Was it truly for Lillian?” Isadora stepped closer, her silk skirts rustling in the quiet. “Or only because you cannot bear to lose control of your life? Because a wife could be managed more easily than acknowledging you might actually need help?”
Now he turned, and the expression on his face made her breath catch. “Do not presume to know my reasons.”
“Then tell me what they are.” She moved until they were separated by only a few feet of carpet, close enough to see the firelight catching in his green eyes.
“Tell me what happened to you that you fear being seen. Why are you so terrified of vulnerability that you’d rather perform devotion than risk experiencing it? ”
His hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment she thought he might actually answer. His eyes locked with hers, holding storms she wanted desperately to understand. She could see him warring with himself, walls cracking just enough to let her glimpse the man beneath.
“Edmund—” she whispered, reaching toward him.
But just as quickly, the walls rose again. Shuttered. Impenetrable.
“It does not concern you,” he said, voice flat and final.
The dismissal stung worse than any slap could have. Isadora felt something crack in her chest—hope she hadn’t known she was harboring, foolish dreams about what they might become if he would only let her see him.
“I am your wife,” she whispered.
“Not a real one.”
The words hit like physical blows, brutal in their honesty. Edmund’s expression remained carefully neutral, but she could see something that might have been regret flickering in his eyes before he looked away.
Isadora straightened, pulling together the shreds of her dignity with movements that felt mechanical.
Her heart ached with a pain she had no right to feel—they’d agreed this was practical, purely business, nothing resembling genuine marriage.
But somewhere between his hand at her back and his lips on her glove, she’d started believing their performance might contain truth.
What a fool she’d been.
She lifted her chin, refusing to let him see how deeply his words had cut. “Forgive me for presuming otherwise, Your Grace.”
Then she turned and walked from the room with steady steps that betrayed nothing of the chaos roiling in her chest. Behind her, she heard Edmund’s sharp intake of breath, sensed him reaching toward her—
But she didn’t look back.
The corridor beyond was cold and dark despite Christmas candles burning in their sconces.
Isadora walked faster, silk slippers silent on marble that had witnessed three centuries of Ravensleigh failures and disappointments.
She would not cry. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d wounded her.
She would not acknowledge that somewhere in the space between performance and reality, she’d made the catastrophic mistake of caring about a man who’d explicitly promised her nothing beyond honesty and respect.
And the most honest thing Edmund Ravensleigh had ever said was that she wasn’t his real wife.
She just wished the truth didn’t sting quite so much.