Chapter 17 #2
Before Isadora could formulate a suitably cutting reply, the door opened again.
Edmund entered with movements that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else—his shoulders carried tension visible even beneath perfectly tailored superfine, and his jaw was set with the rigid control she’d come to recognize as his default when facing situations beyond his mastery.
But he’d come. Despite whatever discomfort this social call caused him, despite the careful distance they’d been maintaining, he’d requested permission to join them for tea.
“Lady Charlotte,” he said, executing a bow that was technically perfect yet somehow conveyed reluctance. “I hope I’m not intruding on private conversation.”
“Not at all, Your Grace.” Charlotte rose to curtsy, her movements carrying none of the nervous energy that seemed to characterize most people’s interactions with the Duke. “I’m delighted to finally meet you properly. Isadora speaks of you often.”
The lie was delivered with such smooth confidence that Isadora nearly choked on air. Edmund’s attention shifted to her, one dark eyebrow rising in question that she pretended not to notice.
“How kind of my wife,” he said, his voice carrying an edge she couldn’t quite interpret. “I hope her accounts have been... flattering.”
“Endlessly so,” Charlotte replied with a grin that suggested she was enjoying this far too much. “Though I confess I’m rather disappointed. All the rumors suggest you’re absolutely terrifying, but you seem perfectly civilized to me.”
Isadora’s mortification intensified. “Charlotte—”
“No, it’s quite all right,” Edmund interrupted, settling into the chair opposite with surprising grace. “I’m well aware of my reputation. Though I’m curious which particular rumors have reached Lady Charlotte’s ears.”
The invitation was delivered mildly enough, but Isadora caught the steel beneath silk. Edmund was testing Charlotte, assessing whether her boldness was genuine or merely performance designed to provoke reaction.
Charlotte, bless her fearless heart, met his gaze directly.
“Oh, the usual nonsense. That you once made a man weep simply by looking at him. That you’ve fought half a dozen duels and killed at least three opponents.
That you keep your household staff in terror through sheer force of personality.
” She paused, then added with deliberate provocation, “And of course, that you murdered your best friend in cold blood and somehow escaped justice.”
The temperature in the morning room dropped several degrees. Isadora’s breath caught, horror flooding through her chest at Charlotte’s audacity. But Edmund’s expression remained carefully neutral, only the slight tightening around his eyes betraying any reaction.
“An impressive collection of fiction,” he said quietly. “Though I’m disappointed the rumors haven’t become more creative over the years. These are the same accusations that followed me from London a decade ago.”
“So they’re false?” Charlotte leaned forward with genuine curiosity rather than mere gossip-mongering.
“Some are exaggerated. Others are outright fabrications.” Edmund accepted the tea that Isadora poured with trembling hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly enough to send heat racing up her arm.
“I have fought duels, though never with fatal outcome save one. I do maintain certain expectations regarding my household’s efficiency, though I like to think terror is an overstatement. And as for James Gray—”
He stopped, jaw working as though the words had lodged in his throat. Isadora watched emotions chase across his face—grief, guilt, something that looked almost like longing before being ruthlessly suppressed.
“James was my dearest friend,” Edmund continued, his voice dropping to something raw and honest. “His death was tragedy, not murder. And anyone who suggests otherwise is welcome to face me directly.”
Charlotte grinned brightly at this, despite his menacing tone.
“Well, I like you,” she declared, raising her teacup in salute. “You’re far more interesting than the stuffy dukes Papa keeps trying to marry me off to. At least you’re honest about your failures rather than pretending perfection.”
Edmund’s lips twitched—barely, but unmistakably. “I’m gratified to meet your exacting standards, Lady Charlotte.”
“Oh, call me Charlotte. We’re practically family now that you’ve married my dearest friend.” She shot Isadora a look that clearly said see? He’s not so frightening after all.
What followed was perhaps the most surreal half hour of Isadora’s life.
Charlotte, apparently determined to prove some point about Edmund’s humanity, launched into an enthusiastic discussion of literature that drew him out despite obvious reluctance.
She asked his opinion on Byron’s politics, debated the merits of Gothic novels versus social comedies, even managed to make him laugh when she described Lady Pemberton’s reaction to discovering her husband reading Frankenstein with apparent fascination.
And Edmund—heaven help her, Edmund was charming when he chose to be.
Not in the polished way of London drawing room gallants, but with genuine intelligence and dry wit that suggested the man James Gray had described in those letters Lillian had found.
The man who’d existed before grief and guilt had armored his heart.
Isadora found herself noticing things she’d been trying desperately to ignore.
The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed—genuine laughter, not the cold amusement she’d witnessed during their confrontations.
The elegant strength of his hands as he gestured to emphasize a point.
The way a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward, and how he pushed it back with movements that suggested the habit was unconscious.
The scar along his jaw caught firelight, making it appear less like a mark of violence and more like simple proof that he’d survived things that would have destroyed lesser men.
She was staring. Heaven help her, she was staring at her husband like some moonstruck girl rather than the sensible duchess she was supposed to be.
Charlotte caught her looking and grinned like the cat who’d discovered cream. Isadora forced her attention back to her teacup, but she could feel heat flooding her cheeks despite every effort at composure.
“I really must be going,” Charlotte announced abruptly, rising with suspicious eagerness. “The roads will be dreadful if I wait much longer, and Mama will have an apoplexy if I’m caught in another snowstorm.”
“But you just arrived—” Isadora began.
“Hours ago, darling. Time flies when conversation is stimulating.” Charlotte gathered her reticule and gloves with movements that suggested escape had been planned well in advance.
“Your Grace, it’s been absolutely delightful.
You are much less terrifying than advertised, though I suspect that’s deliberate misdirection on your part. ”
Edmund rose to see her out, executing another perfect bow. “Thank you for tolerating my intrusion on your visit, Lady Charlotte. I hope we’ll meet again under less... supervised circumstances.”
“Oh, I’m certain we will. Isadora simply adores having me around to provide scandalous advice about—” She caught herself, shooting Isadora a look of pure mischief. “Well. Various matters.”
Then she was gone in a flurry of farewells and silk, leaving Isadora alone with Edmund in a room that suddenly felt far too intimate despite its generous proportions.
They stood facing each other across the tea table, neither quite knowing what to say now that Charlotte’s chatter no longer filled the silence. Outside, snow continued its relentless fall, and somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour.
“Your friend is... spirited,” Edmund offered finally.
“She’s absolutely incorrigible.” But Isadora couldn’t quite suppress her smile. “Though I suspect she rather enjoyed making you uncomfortable with her boldness.”
“I wasn’t uncomfortable.” His hand moved to straighten teacups that didn’t require straightening, betraying the lie. “Merely... surprised by her directness.”
“She has that effect on people.”
Another silence, this one weighted with everything they weren’t saying.
Isadora moved to gather the tea things, using the mundane task as excuse to avoid eye contact.
But Edmund reached for the same plate at precisely the same moment, and their fingers collided with enough force to send porcelain rattling.
The contact lasted barely a second—hardly enough to register as touch rather than accident.
Isadora snatched her hand back as though the contact burned. “Forgive me, I—”
“No, it was my fault—”
They spoke simultaneously, both stumbling over their words when they heard the other’s voice.
Edmund’s eyes met hers, and she saw her own confusion reflected back—desire and uncertainty and fear all warring for dominance in green depths that had haunted her dreams since their disastrous confrontation.
“I should—” She gestured vaguely toward the door. “I have matters requiring attention. Thank you for joining us for tea. Charlotte appreciated it, I’m certain.”
The lie tasted bitter. Charlotte had appreciated it far too much, had read meanings into Edmund’s presence that Isadora desperately wanted to believe but couldn’t afford to trust.
“Isadora—”
But she was already moving, silk skirts rustling as she fled toward the doorway with as much dignity as outright retreat could allow.
She heard Edmund call her name again, sensed him reaching toward her, but she didn’t stop.
Couldn’t bear to face whatever he might say—whether apology or dismissal or some combination that would only make this impossible situation worse.
She rushed through the empty corridor, stumbled into her chambers and closed the door with force that rattled the frame. Then she simply stood there, back pressed against oak while her breathing slowly returned to something approaching normal.
Her hand—the one that had touched his—felt like it was still burning. She pressed it against her racing heart, feeling the wild rhythm beneath silk and stays and all the careful armor she’d constructed around her feelings.
This was impossible. Absolutely impossible. She couldn’t continue living like this—couldn’t keep pretending indifference while her treacherous body insisted on reacting to every accidental touch, every unguarded glance, every moment when Edmund’s carefully maintained walls showed cracks.
She’d married him for practical reasons. To escape Lord Ashcombe, to help Lillian, to gain the freedom a duchess’s rank could provide. Nothing in their arrangement had included falling for a man who’d explicitly promised her nothing beyond duty and respect.
Nothing had prepared her for the way her pulse raced when he entered a room, or the heat that flooded her chest when he smiled that rare, genuine smile. Nothing had warned her that a practical marriage could transform into something far more dangerous than any duel or scandal.
“What have I gotten myself into?” she whispered to the empty room.
But the question had no answer—only the steady thunder of her heart and the terrible certainty that whatever she felt for Edmund Ravensleigh, it was far too real to be dismissed as mere performance or practical arrangement.