Chapter 19
“The pheasant is rather dry this year, wouldn’t you say?”
Edmund made some noncommittal sound that might have been agreement, his attention fixed on Isadora three seats down, rather than Lord Hartley’s tedious observations about the evening’s fare.
She sat between Lady Fairfax and that insufferable bore Ashford, smiling with practiced grace that had become her armor against Yorkshire society’s endless curiosity.
Two hours they’d been trapped at this Blackwood dinner, and Edmund’s jaw ached from maintaining appropriate expressions while conversations swirled around him like smoke.
Politics, hunting, the unseasonable snow—safe topics designed to avoid genuine discourse while allowing everyone to demonstrate their wit and breeding.
Beneath it all ran darker currents. Whispers that never quite stopped, glances lingering too long on the scar along his jaw before darting away. The Duke of Rothwell might have married, might have brought his mysterious ward to Yorkshire, but he knew society would not forget who he was.
Dangerous. Scarred. The man who’d killed his best friend and somehow walked away unpunished.
Edmund’s fingers tightened around his wine glass until he feared that the crystal might crack.
Ten years since that grey dawn, yet the whispers followed him like ghosts he couldn’t exorcise.
He’d thought marriage might silence them—had hoped presenting himself as reformed might finally grant him peace.
What spectacular arrogance.
“His Grace seems rather distracted this evening,” Lady Hartley observed with pointed curiosity, the subtext of her tone showing him quite obviously that she hoped he would explain himself. Hungry for gossip, he knew. “I do hope everything is well at the Abbey?”
“Perfectly well, thank you.” The lie came easily, smoothed by years of practice. Nothing was well. But he would not admit that in front of these vultures.
Isadora laughed suddenly, the sound bright and musical, making Edmund’s chest tighten with possessive fury he had no right to feel.
She was playing her role perfectly, the devoted duchess charming Yorkshire’s minor nobility with effortless grace.
But he could see tension in her shoulders, could recognize the slight tightness around her eyes that suggested this performance was costing her.
She was doing this for Lillian. For his ward’s prospects, for the future he’d been too damaged to secure alone.
Guilt coursed through him.
“I must say, Your Grace,” Lord Fairfax boomed from the table’s head, “we’re all terribly curious about your ward. Young Miss Gray, isn’t it? Such a pretty thing, though rather shy when we encountered her at the Christmas service.”
Every muscle in Edmund’s body went rigid, battle instincts honed during military years screaming warnings about incoming attack.
“Lillian is adjusting well to Yorkshire,” he said carefully, each word measured against the possibility of giving offense that might be weaponized later.
“Quite sudden though, wasn’t it?” Lady Blackwood’s sharp eyes glittered with malice barely disguised as concern. “Your acquiring guardianship, I mean. One doesn’t typically inherit responsibility for teenage girls without some... extraordinary circumstances.”
Translation: Tell us about the scandal. Confirm that the girl is your bastard and your hasty marriage was designed to provide respectability.
Edmund’s hand moved to his scar—unconscious gesture he’d never managed to suppress when cornered. The raised tissue was smooth beneath his fingers, permanent reminder of the last time he’d let emotion override judgment.
“Miss Gray’s previous guardians passed away,” he replied, voice flat enough to discourage further inquiry. “As her father’s closest friend, I was honored to provide her a home.”
“Her father.” Lady Blackwood repeated the words with delicate emphasis. “Would that be the late Mr. James Gray? I seem to recall he died rather... tragically.”
The implication hung like poisoned incense. You killed him. And now you have the gall to play father to the orphan you created. What sort of monster are you?
“Quite a controversial figure, he was too,” someone commented.
Across the table, Isadora went very still. Her eyes found Edmund, whose heart raced wildly in his chest, beating against his ribcage with a ferocity he could not temper.
“Indeed, a tragic death. James Gray was the finest man I’ve ever known,” Edmund said quietly, willing his voice to remain steady despite rage building in his chest. “His daughter is fortunate to carry his blood.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Lord Fairfax interjected with false heartiness. “And how fortunate for the girl that you were willing to take her in. Must be rather difficult though, raising a child not your own? Particularly one of... uncertain provenance.”
Bastard. That’s what he meant. The illegitimate get of your dead friend and some woman whose name we’ll never know.
Edmund felt something crack in his chest—some final restraint holding back fury he’d been suppressing since entering this damned house.
These people with their perfect families and unblemished reputations, sitting in judgment of a fifteen-year-old girl whose only crime was being born to parents who hadn’t bothered with marriage vows.
“Lillian’s provenance is perfectly clear,” he said, his voice carrying cold authority that had once commanded men in battle. “She is James Gray’s daughter, and she has every right to the name she bears.”
“Of course, of course.” But Lord Fairfax’s smile suggested he believed nothing of the sort. “Though one does wonder about the mother. Such a mystery, isn’t it? Gray never married, as I recall.”
“The circumstances of her birth are no one’s concern but her own.” Edmund’s jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. “She is under my protection, and that should be sufficient for anyone with sense.”
Before he could formulate an excuse to leave, the gentlemen were rising for port and cigars—that sacred masculine ritual separating proper dinner parties from mere meals. Edmund found himself swept along toward Lord Blackwood’s study, leaving the ladies to their own conversations.
Where Isadora remained. Alone among women who he feared would tear her apart with the same casual cruelty they’d just demonstrated toward Lillian.
The thought made Edmund’s chest constrict.
But he couldn’t refuse the port without causing offense that would make matters worse.
So he followed into a study reeking of tobacco and masculine self-importance, accepted a glass he had no intention of drinking, and tried to appear interested in Lord Hartley’s tedious observations about crop rotation.
All while his mind remained fixed on the drawing room where his wife faced Yorkshire’s vultures alone.
“Your duchess is quite lovely,” Ashford observed, settling into the chair beside Edmund’s with easy confidence. “Wexford’s daughter, isn’t she? I’d heard she rejected several excellent offers before you appeared on the scene.”
The implication was clear: What did you offer that convinced her to overlook your damaged reputation?
“Lady Isadora possesses excellent judgment,” Edmund replied. “She recognized an advantageous match when presented with one.”
“Advantageous.” Lord Fairfax chuckled, the sound carrying undertones Edmund didn’t like. “Is that what we’re calling it? I’d heard the match was rather... sudden. Barely knew each other, from what the London gossips say.”
“London gossips say many things. Most of them false.”
“But surely—” Ashford leaned forward with avid curiosity that made Edmund want to plant his fist in the man’s face. “Surely there must have been some compelling reason for such haste? A lady of her breeding, marrying within weeks of your first meeting?”
She was expecting. You compromised her. She was desperate to escape some scandal and you were her only option.
Edmund could hear the unspoken accusations clearly as if they’d been shouted. His hand tightened around the port glass, and he forced himself to take a measured sip rather than hurling the contents into Ashford’s smug face.
“My wife and I recognized mutual compatibility,” he said, each word emerging with icy precision. “We saw no reason to delay what was clearly an advantageous alliance for both parties.”
“Mutual compatibility,” Lord Hartley repeated with a smirk.
“How very modern of you both. Though I must say, Your Grace, you’ve certainly been the subject of much speculation since your return to society.
First the mysterious ward, then the hasty marriage—one can hardly blame people for wondering about the connections between these events. ”
The implication was unmistakable. They thought Lillian was his bastard, instead of James’s, that Isadora had been coerced into marriage to provide respectability for his indiscretion.
Edmund set down his port with deliberate care, not trusting himself to hold the glass without shattering it.
“I wonder,” he said quietly, his voice dropping to the dangerous register that had once preceded duels, “what speculation interests you most, Hartley? Or should I guess based on the tenor of this conversation?”
The older man paled slightly but pressed on with wine-fueled boldness. “Well, one can’t help but notice the timing. Your ward arrives, suddenly you’re in need of a wife—”
“My ward arrived because her guardians died,” Edmund interrupted, his patience fracturing. “My marriage occurred because I recognized that a fifteen-year-old girl requires female guidance I cannot provide. There is no scandal beyond what small minds choose to manufacture.”
“Of course not, of course not,” Lord Blackwood interjected hastily. “I’m sure Hartley meant no offense, Your Grace. Merely natural curiosity about—”
“Curiosity.” Edmund rose from his chair with movements that made several gentlemen flinch. “Is that what we’re calling malicious gossip designed to destroy a child’s reputation? How curious indeed.”