Chapter 21
“You’re staring again.”
Tobias’s voice cut through Edmund’s concentration and the latter looked up darkly. Tobias was grinning as though he found the situation particularly funny.
“You keep staring,” he went on.
Edmund didn’t bother denying it. Simply took a long swallow of port and returned his attention to the drawing room doorway where Isadora had disappeared moments before. He’d been unable to stop staring at her, the grace of her movements, the twinkle of her eye. “I was merely observing.”
“Observing.” Tobias settled into the chair opposite with the sort of knowing smile that had irritated Edmund since their school days. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Because from where I’m sitting, it looked remarkably like a man who can’t tear his eyes away from his own wife.”
“She was laughing with Lillian. I was ensuring appropriate decorum.”
“Ah yes. Decorum. That explains why you’ve been ‘ensuring’ it for the past three days with the dedication of a man possessed.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened. Three days since the library.
Three days since he’d confessed the truth about James’s death and nearly kissed his wife in front of a roaring fire while thunder shook the rafters.
Three days of exquisite torture as he tried—and failed—to maintain the careful distance that had served him so well before she’d touched his scar with those gentle fingers.
“I have no idea what you’re implying.”
“Don’t you?” Tobias leaned forward, voice dropping. “You watched her through the entire Christmas luncheon yesterday. Tracked her movements like a hawk following prey. And when she reached for the salt at precisely the same moment you did, I thought you might actually combust from the contact.”
Edmund had thought the same thing. That brief brush of fingers had sent electricity racing up his arm, made his breath catch in a way that had nothing to do with seasoning requirements.
“Your imagination runs wild, old friend.”
“My imagination is perfectly sound. What’s wild is the way you’re torturing yourself.” Tobias rose, moving to the sideboard to refill his glass. “You care for her. It’s written across your face every time she enters a room. Why not simply—”
“Because this is a practical arrangement,” Edmund cut in. The words tasted like ash. “Nothing more.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Perhaps eventually you’ll believe it.”
After Tobias departed—muttering something about stubborn fools and wasted opportunities—Edmund remained in his chair. Staring at the fire. Trying not to think about hazel eyes and the way Isadora’s voice had softened when she’d said his name.
Trying. Failing.
The truth was Tobias had understated the problem considerably. Edmund wasn’t merely watching Isadora. He was cataloguing her. Every gesture, every smile, every moment when she tilted her head just so while listening to Lillian’s enthusiastic descriptions of poetry.
At meals, he tracked the graceful movement of her hands.
The way she cut her food with precise efficiency, the delicate arch of her wrist when she lifted her teacup.
He noticed when she was genuinely amused versus simply being polite—the real laughter reached her eyes, made them sparkle like whiskey in sunlight.
When she played the pianoforte in the drawing room, he found excuses to pass by.
Lingered in corridors to hear the music drifting through closed doors.
Mozart mostly, though occasionally something more modern.
Her fingers moved across the keys with confidence that suggested years of practice, and he wondered what else those hands could do with such skill.
And in the gardens—heaven help him, the gardens were worst of all.
He’d taken to watching from his study window as she walked with Lillian among the winter roses.
The girl had bloomed under Isadora’s influence, laughing more freely than Edmund had ever heard.
And Isadora herself seemed lighter there, unburdened by the careful performance she maintained in company.
He told himself it was paternal concern. Interest in Lillian’s wellbeing. Nothing to do with the way Isadora’s auburn hair caught the weak December sunlight, or how her laughter carried across frost-covered lawns.
He was lying to himself. Again.
The struggle was constant. Isadora was everywhere—in the breakfast room with her quiet morning greetings, in the library selecting books, in corridors decorated with Christmas greenery that reminded him forcibly of their near-kiss.
Her presence had seeped into every corner of Rothwell Abbey, brightening spaces that had been cold and empty for years.
Her wit slipped beneath his defenses with alarming regularity. She’d made him laugh twice at dinner the previous evening with her dry observations about Yorkshire society. Actually laugh, not the rusty approximation he’d managed before. The sound had startled them both.
And her touch—that casual brush of fingers against his scar—lingered in his memory like a brand. He could still feel the ghost of her fingertips tracing the mark. Gentle where everyone else flinched away. Accepting where society saw only shame.
He could not afford desire. Could not allow hope. These were the truths he repeated like prayers.
And yet every time she entered a room, his resolve crumbled a little more.
It was frustrating beyond anything he had ever experienced. He felt suffocated by everything, by her presence and her absence. He knew not what to do with any of it.
The gallery was Edmund’s refuge when the house felt too small and the walls too close. Perhaps, he thought, that was where he ought to be now. Just to find some form of relief.
Which was why he rushed to the gallery, where he stood before the portrait of his mother, studying features he’d nearly forgotten.
She’d died when he was twelve, leaving him with only fragments of memory—her laughter, the way she’d smelled of lavender, the warmth in her eyes when she’d looked at his father.
She was the one who had taught him to feel, encouraged him to be kind.
He often how a woman as soft and gentle as her could love his father, who had taken pride in being a ‘hard’ man.
The other duchesses lined the walls in silent judgment. Generations of Ravensleigh women who’d navigated the treacherous waters of duty and expectation. Some had succeeded. Others had drowned under the weight.
He wondered which category Isadora would fall into. If their practical arrangement would eventually suffocate her spirit, or if she was strong enough to thrive despite the constraints.
“The fifth duchess has your eyes.”
Edmund’s entire body went rigid. He hadn’t heard her approach—had been too lost in thought to notice footsteps on marble.
Isadora stood several feet away, studying the portrait in question. She’d changed for dinner, wore deep green silk that brought out the warm tones in her hair. The Christmas candles Mrs. Pemberton had lit throughout the gallery cast her face in soft light.
“My great-great-grandmother,” Edmund managed. His voice sounded rougher than intended. “She was reportedly quite formidable.”
“I can see the resemblance.” Isadora moved closer to examine the painting. “Though she lacks your particular intensity. Or perhaps the artist was too intimidated to capture it properly.”
Despite everything, Edmund felt his lips twitch. “Are you suggesting I’m intimidating, Your Grace?”
“I’m suggesting you cultivate an intimidating presence to keep the world at arm’s length.” She turned to face him directly. “Whether it actually works is another matter entirely.”
They stood there in the lamplight. Close enough for conversation but carefully maintaining distance. Edmund could smell rosewater and something uniquely her—some combination of soap and woman that made his chest tight.
“You’re studying the duchesses,” he observed. Safer topic than whatever dangerous current was pulling them together.
“I thought it wise to understand the women who came before me. To see what they endured in this role.” Her gaze traveled along the portraits. “They all look rather solemn. As though being Duchess of Rothwell was a burden to be borne rather than a position to celebrate.”
“Perhaps it was. Is.” Edmund moved to stand beside her, studying the faces he’d known all his life. “The weight of expectation. The duty to produce heirs and manage households and represent the family name without ever revealing the cost of such performance.”
“Is that what you think marriage should be? Performance without substance?”
The question landed like a blow. Edmund’s hands clenched behind his back.
“I think marriage in our class is rarely about personal happiness. It’s alliance and duty and the continuation of bloodlines.” Even as he said it, the words felt hollow. “What we feel matters less than what we provide.”
“How desperately sad.” Isadora’s voice had softened. “To go through life never knowing genuine connection. Never allowing yourself to care because caring might complicate the careful performance.”
She was talking about him. About the walls he’d built and the isolation he maintained.
Edmund should have changed the subject and offered some cutting remark to reestablish distance.
Instead he found himself saying, “My parents defied that expectation. They married for love—scandalous in their generation. And for twenty years, they were genuinely happy.”
“What happened?”
“She died. Fever took her in a matter of days.” The old grief rose, familiar and worn smooth by years. “My father never recovered. Spent the next fifteen years existing rather than living, until his heart finally gave out. I sometimes wonder if he died of grief rather than any physical ailment.”
Isadora turned to face him fully. “And you decided that loving someone was too dangerous. That the pain of loss outweighed any possible joy.”