Chapter 20 #2
“That is guilt speaking.” Isadora moved closer. Close enough now that he could see firelight reflected in her eyes, could catch the faint scent of rosewater and something uniquely her. “Guilt and grief and ten years of punishing yourself for tragedy you couldn’t prevent.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Don’t I?” She stepped closer still, and Edmund found himself backed against the sideboard. “I understand what it means to carry blame that isn’t yours but feels like it should be. I understand the weight of responsibility for things beyond our control. This was an accident, Edmund.”
Her voice had dropped to something soft, but underneath ran steel that reminded him why he’d married this woman.
“You’ve locked yourself away for ten years,” Isadora continued. “Built walls around your heart and convinced yourself you deserve isolation. You’ve let them call you dangerous because somewhere in your damaged mind, you believe you should suffer.”
“I should suffer.” The admission tore from him.
“James is dead because of me. Because I was a foolish imbecile who thought I could challenge anyone and overcome, because I didn’t look at what I was doing, because I let my temper get the best of me.
What right do I have to happiness when he lies cold in the ground? ”
“Every right.” Her hand lifted. “You have every right to live, Edmund. To feel joy and connection and all the things you’ve denied yourself. James’s death was tragedy, but it wasn’t murder. It was accident and fate and terrible timing.”
Without thinking, Isadora reached up, and her fingertips brushed the scar.
The touch seared through him like lightning. Edmund went utterly still, every muscle locked as her fingers traced the length of the mark from jaw to chin. Gentle. Tentative. As though the scar were something precious rather than shameful.
No one had touched it since the surgeon who’d stitched the wound. He’d made certain of that, flinching away from servants who came too close, turning his scarred side from society’s stares.
But Isadora touched it as though it represented survival rather than failure.
“Enough,” he growled.
His hand shot up, closing around her wrist. Not harsh, but unyielding. The contact sent electricity racing up his arm, made his breath catch.
“Leave me,” he said, though his grip gentled even as he spoke, thumb settling over the pulse point that raced against his touch.
“I will not,” she whispered.
They stood frozen. Connected by that single point of contact while rain lashed the windows and thunder rolled across Yorkshire. Edmund felt the control he’d maintained for a decade beginning to fracture. Something wild and desperate clawing at walls he’d built.
Her wrist was delicate in his grasp. Fragile as bird bones. He could feel her trembling—not with fear but with something else entirely. Something that matched the heat building in his own chest.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said roughly. “No idea what you’re asking.”
“Then show me.” Her free hand lifted, palm settling against his chest over his heart. She could feel it racing beneath wool and linen. “Show me what frightens you so much that you’d rather live in isolation than risk feeling anything real.”
Edmund stared down at her. This woman who’d somehow slipped beneath every defense. Her touch against his scar felt like absolution he didn’t deserve. But the heat in her eyes, the way her lips parted as she looked up at him—that was something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
Something he’d denied himself for ten years because wanting anything felt like betrayal.
“Then I will show you,” he said, voice emerging as barely more than a growl, “why they call me the Dangerous Duke.”
His hand released her wrist only to slide to her waist, pulling her closer with a lack of finesse that should have scandalized them both. Her palm remained against his chest, fingers curling into fabric. His other hand came up to frame her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone.
They were inches apart. Close enough that Edmund could count gold flecks in her hazel eyes, could feel the warmth of her breath against his mouth. Could see in her expression not fear but anticipation. Challenge. A courage that matched the storm howling around ancient stones.
“Isadora,” he breathed. Her name on his lips felt like prayer and confession combined.
She lifted onto her toes, closing the distance by fractions. Her eyes fluttered half-closed. Edmund’s hand tightened at her waist, drawing her flush against him. He could feel her heart racing to match his own.
His head bent toward hers. Her fingers tangled in his waistcoat. Their lips were a breath apart, the space between them charged with ten years of denial about to shatter—
Thunder cracked directly overhead with apocalyptic force.
The windows rattled violently. Something in the chimney shrieked as wind tore through ancient stone. The entire library seemed to shake, nature itself intervening at the precise moment Edmund’s control would have finally, completely broken.
They froze. Still pressed together but no longer moving. The thunder’s echo rolled away across the moors, leaving them in sudden silence broken only by rain and crackling fire.
Isadora drew in a sharp breath. Reality crashed back.
Edmund’s hands fell away as though burned, though every fiber of his being screamed to pull her back. To finish what they’d started despite the storm’s warning.
She stepped back. Just enough to create distance that felt simultaneously insufficient and insurmountable. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, lips still parted, eyes wide with awareness of how close they’d come.
“Goodnight, Edmund,” she said softly.
His name on her lips—the first time she’d used it since their wedding. The intimacy of it, spoken in that breathless voice with her eyes still dark with barely banked desire, nearly undid what little control he’d salvaged.
Edmund stood there, every muscle locked against the urge to close the distance again. His hands clenched at his sides. Jaw tight enough to ache.
She didn’t move toward the door. Didn’t flee. She simply stood there in the firelight, watching him with eyes that saw too much. Promised too much.
The storm raged on outside. Lightning illuminated her face before plunging them back to shadows. Thunder answered, more distant now.
And in the library of Rothwell Abbey, surrounded by ghosts of Christmas past and wreckage of ten years’ isolation, Edmund Ravensleigh and his wife stood separated by mere feet that felt like miles—connected by a moment interrupted and a truth finally spoken.