Chapter 20
He had come far too close, Edmund realized in the days that passed, to admitting that he cared for her.
He could see the fear in her eyes—and he wondered if it was fear of him withdrawing, or fear of him staying.
Days had passed since they had held hands in the carriage on the way back from that disastrous dinner.
Days since he had admitted to wanting to protect her—which to him, was as vulnerable as he could be.
And in the days that passed, Edmund made a point of avoiding his wife save for breakfast and some dinners. He couldn’t look at her and see the worry in her eyes, couldn’t explain the feelings he did not understand himself.
So, he’d begun keeping to his study and remaining quiet… A quiet that was now interrupted, where he stood in the library, by the irritated sound of her voice.
“Why will you not trust me?”
The question struck through the library like lightning, without warning or preamble.
Edmund stood before the fire, watching whiskey swirl amber in his glass. He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to—he had recognized her footsteps even before she spoke.
Outside, the storm that had been gathering all evening had finally broken over Rothwell Abbey.
Rain lashed the windows. Thunder rattled ancient glass in its frames.
Mrs. Pemberton’s Christmas garland draped along the mantel filled the room with pine and winter berries—sickeningly sweet in the overheated air.
“You should be abed,” he said simply, trying to keep his voice devoid of emotion. “The hour is late.”
But Isadora had clearly endured enough of his silence. Enough of his walls.
“Why are you avoiding me? Why do you withdraw from me like this? Why can you not trust me?”
The questions hit like a fist to the ribs. Edmund’s fingers tightened around crystal until it groaned. Slowly—because sudden movements would betray too much—he turned.
Isadora stood just inside the doorway. Still dressed though her hair had come loose. She must have rushed through corridors to reach him. Her chest rose and fell with emotion barely contained, hazel eyes blazing in the firelight.
She had endured enough of his silence. Enough of his walls.
That much was written clearly in the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin.
“Trust.” He tested the word. “An interesting commodity to demand from a stranger.”
“We are not strangers.” She stepped closer, silk skirts whispering against carpet. “We are husband and wife. We live under the same roof, share the same table. Yet you hide behind cold words and half-truths. You owe me honesty, Your Grace.”
The formality stung worse than any curse.
Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Isadora.”
The warning emerged soft. Dangerous. The sort of quiet that had silenced Parliament and preceded duels.
Most people possessed the wisdom to recognize when they’d pushed too far.
But she pressed on, braver than her trembling heart admitted.
“No.” One word. Absolute conviction. “I will not be dismissed. Not anymore. I will not stand by while you martyr yourself on some past tragedy I’m not permitted to understand. Tell me what happened. Tell me why they call you dangerous.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Lightning illuminated her face in harsh white before plunging them back to shadows. Thunder followed—closer now, the storm reaching its peak.
Edmund stared at this woman who’d somehow slipped beneath every defense. She stood there trembling slightly, yet refusing to yield ground. Brave. Foolish. Magnificent in her stubborn determination to breach walls that had kept everyone else at bay for ten years.
The crack in his chest widened.
“You want truth?” Rougher than intended. Edmund set down his whiskey because his hands had begun to shake. “Very well. But do not claim later that you weren’t warned. Some doors are better left closed.”
He moved to the window. Stared out at rain-lashed darkness. In the glass, he could see her reflection—watching, waiting with that terrible patience.
Then he turned to face her fully.
Let the scar catch firelight. Let her see it properly, see what ten years of guilt had carved into more than flesh.
“The duel,” he said at last. The word tasted of blood and winter mornings. “I fought for honor, for friendship, and lost everything. My best friend died. And the world has never forgiven me for surviving.”
Silence.
Isadora’s expression didn’t change. No shock, no horror, none of the reactions Edmund had braced himself against. She merely stood there, eyes fixed on his face.
“James Gray,” she said quietly. “Lillian’s father.”
“James.” His throat felt raw. Edmund returned to the sideboard, poured fresh whiskey because his hands needed occupation and his mouth needed something other than confession.
“We grew up together. Estate boundaries meant nothing when we were boys climbing trees and stealing Cook’s pies.
Brothers in everything but blood, our fathers used to say. ”
He took a long swallow. Fire burned down his throat.
“When some drunken fool accused him of cheating at cards—in front of half the ton, mind you—I challenged Lord Markham to meet me at dawn.”
“You wanted to defend your friend.” Not a question. Statement delivered with approval that made his chest constrict.
“I did what honor demanded.” He moved restlessly, unable to remain still under memory’s weight. “James was my brother in everything but blood. When Markham called him a cheat and a liar, there was no question what I would do.”
Thunder shook the windows. The Christmas garland trembled, sending dried berries scattering across the hearth like drops of blood.
“But something went wrong,” Isadora said softly.
“Everything went wrong.” Edmund’s hand tightened around his glass.
“James insisted on standing as my second. Said he wouldn’t let me fight alone for his honor.
I tried to refuse—told him it was my duel, my right to defend him.
But he was stubborn. Always so damned stubborn. Never a great swordsman either.”
He paused. Gathered courage for the part that still woke him before dawn, sweating and gasping.
“We met in a field outside London three days before Christmas. Markham and his second. James and Tobias standing for me. The morning was cold. Frost covering everything. Our breath misted in the air like souls departing bodies.”
Lightning illuminated the library again. Isadora had moved closer during his recitation, drawn by the story or by him—he couldn’t determine which and didn’t dare examine the question too closely.
“I was overconfident,” Edmund continued. His hand moved unconsciously to the scar, tracing the length of it. “But Markham was skilled. His blade caught me here—sliced across my jaw. Should have been worse.”
Thunder rolled and for a second, the sound brought Edmund back to himself, to the library and the warmth and the woman watching him with eyes that held no judgment.
“And then?” Barely audible over the storm.
“Then I pressed forward.” Edmund opened his eyes, met her gaze directly.
Let her see everything—the guilt, the grief, the ten years of isolation wrapped around him like chains.
“Blood was streaming down my face. He started mocking me, taunting me… I was angry—angrier than I’d ever been.
I lunged. Markham stepped back. And James—”
His voice cracked.
“James had moved closer. Too close. Trying to see if my wound was serious, trying to help. He was right behind Markham when I thrust forward.”
The words lodged in his throat like broken glass.
“My blade scraped Markham’s shoulder. Should have stopped there. Would have, if Markham hadn’t twisted away. But he did, and my blade—”
Isadora’s breath caught audibly.
“It caught James in the chest.” Edmund’s fingers clenched around the tumbler. “He fell. Just—fell. And I dropped my sword. Caught him. Held him while blood soaked through my coat, while Tobias screamed for a surgeon, while Markham and his second stood there in horror.”
The fire crackled. Logs shifted with a sound like breaking bones.
“He died in my arms.” Flat. Final. “Took maybe five minutes. Long enough to know it was over. Long enough to speak.”
Silence stretched between them. Isadora’s face had gone pale, one hand pressed to her mouth.
“And… he forgave me. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said.
‘I do not blame you, so do not dare blame yourself’.
Instead, he gave himself the fault. Claimed that he shouldn’t have stood so close.
” Edmund’s voice dropped to barely above whisper.
“And then he told me about Lillian. About the daughter no one knew existed. Made me promise to protect her when the time came.”
He moved to refill his glass with hands that trembled. Behind him, Isadora’s quiet breathing. The weight of her gaze.
“I promised. What else could I do while my dearest friend bled out in December frost?”
“The seconds tried to testify to the truth at the inquest,” Edmund continued.
“Tobias in particular was quite eloquent about the accidental nature of James’s death.
But society saw only that I’d called a duel and James Gray had died.
That I’d survived with nothing but a scar while my dearest friend was buried.
The details mattered less than the scandal. ”
“So they called you murderer,” Isadora said. Anger threading through her voice now. “They branded you dangerous and cruel, and you let them believe it.”
“What choice did I have?” Edmund turned to face her.
For the first time in ten years, he felt the full weight of his isolation crash over him.
“The truth was too complicated. Too easily dismissed as convenient fabrication. James died because of me—because of my foolishness, because of my temper. Because I let rage control me. And I failed him in every way that mattered.”