Chapter 22
“The coffee is cold.”
Edmund’s voice was flat and he blankly stared at his cup. Didn’t look up. Didn’t meet Isadora’s eyes across the breakfast table.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t.
Because looking at her meant remembering the gallery. Her touch against his scar. The way she’d felt in his arms before terror had driven him to push her away.
“I’ll have Henderson bring fresh.” Isadora’s tone matched his—carefully neutral, stripped of warmth.
She rose from the table. Left without another word.
Edmund sat alone with eggs he couldn’t eat and toast that tasted like ash. The Christmas centerpiece mocked him with its festive cheer. Holly and ivy wound through silver. Red berries bright as blood.
He’d kissed her two days ago. Allowed himself one moment of complete honesty. One perfect instant where the walls had crumbled and he’d shown her everything he felt.
Then he’d fled like the coward he was.
I apologize, Your Grace. This cannot happen.
The words still tasted like poison.
Henderson returned with fresh coffee. Poured without comment. But Edmund caught the disappointment in the butler’s careful neutrality. The household had noticed. Of course they had. Servants always knew when their masters were destroying themselves.
Edmund drank the coffee. Bitter. Hot enough to burn.
Better than thinking about Isadora’s face when he’d pushed her away. Better than remembering how she’d looked at him—like he’d broken something precious she’d been foolish enough to offer.
He finished his breakfast alone. Left for his study without seeing her again.
It was safer that way. Cleaner.
Cold.
The afternoon found Edmund at his desk, pretending to work.
Ledgers spread before him. Account books that required attention. Correspondence from his steward about tenant concerns and crop rotations and a dozen other matters that typically demanded his complete focus.
He couldn’t concentrate on any of it.
Every time he tried, his mind replayed the gallery. Her whispered challenge. The way she’d risen onto her toes. How close they’d been to—
Edmund slammed the ledger shut. Rose and moved to the window.
Outside, winter sunshine struggled through clouds. Weak December light that barely warmed the frost-covered grounds. He could see the rose garden from here. The beds Isadora had begun tending before everything fell apart.
She was there now. Walking among the dormant plants with Lillian at her side. The girl was animated—gesturing, clearly telling some story. And Isadora listened with the sort of patient attention that had become second nature to her.
They looked like family. Like mother and daughter.
The image made Edmund’s chest constrict.
He’d wanted this. Had married Isadora specifically to provide Lillian with feminine guidance. To give the girl a chance at normalcy despite the circumstances of her birth.
And it was working. Lillian had bloomed under Isadora’s influence. Laughed more. Showed less of the careful wariness she’d carried since arriving at the Abbey. Actually seemed happy.
But watching them together hurt in ways Edmund hadn’t anticipated. Because it reminded him forcibly of what he’d nearly claimed. What he’d pushed away out of fear.
A knock at the door.
“Enter.”
Mrs. Pemberton appeared. The housekeeper’s expression carried the sort of careful neutrality that suggested this wasn’t a social call.
“Your Grace. A word, if I may.”
Edmund gestured her in. Braced himself.
“Her Grace has requested that several rooms be opened for cleaning and airing. The drawing room, the music room, the gallery.” Mrs. Pemberton’s tone remained professional. “She feels the house would benefit from more light and warmth. Particularly with Christmas approaching.”
Translation: Isadora was trying to brighten the house despite Edmund’s determined efforts to keep it cold and closed.
“Tell Her Grace she may arrange the household as she sees fit.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” But Mrs. Pemberton didn’t leave. Simply stood there with that careful expression.
“Was there something else?”
“If I may observe, Your Grace—the staff have noticed a certain... tension. Between you and Her Grace. And Miss Lillian has been asking questions.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened. “What sort of questions?”
“Whether duchesses are meant to cry in empty rooms when they think no one is watching.”
The words struck like fists. Edmund turned back to the window.
“That will be all, Mrs. Pemberton.”
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. Left with disappointment written in the set of her shoulders.
Edmund remained at the window. Watching Isadora and Lillian. Watching what he’d nearly had and pushed away.
The cold was safer. The isolation more familiar.
Even if it felt like dying slowly from the inside out.
Dinner that evening was torture.
They sat at opposite ends of the table—Edmund at the head, Isadora at the foot, miles of polished mahogany between them. Lillian occupied the middle, glancing between them with worry that she poorly concealed.
No one spoke beyond necessary pleasantries. Servants moved through their duties with funeral quiet. The Christmas decorations throughout the dining room seemed to mock the atmosphere with their festive cheer.
Edmund cut his pheasant with mechanical precision. Chewed without tasting. Forced himself not to look at Isadora.
But he was aware of her every movement. The graceful way she handled her fork. The slight tension in her shoulders. The careful control she maintained that couldn’t quite hide the hurt underneath.
“Will we be attending the Fairfax Christmas gathering?” Lillian’s voice cut through the silence. Tentative. Testing.
“That depends,” Edmund said. Noncommittal. Safe.
“On what?”
“On whether your lessons are completed satisfactorily. On whether Mrs. Hale feels you’re ready for such an appearance.”
Lillian’s expression fell. “But it’s only a small gathering. Not even a formal ball. Just families from the neighborhood celebrating—”
“I will decide.”
Too sharp. Edmund heard it in his own voice. Saw Lillian flinch. But he couldn’t soften the blow. Couldn’t explain that the thought of presenting her to society—even Yorkshire’s modest version of it—terrified him.
Because society would judge. Would whisper. Would look at Lillian and see illegitimacy and scandal and all the things Edmund had spent fifteen years trying to protect her from.
Better to keep her safe at Rothwell Abbey. Safe and isolated and miserable.
Isadora’s fork clinked against her plate. Edmund glanced up despite himself.
She was staring at him. Eyes bright with something that looked like anger barely leashed.
“Perhaps we might discuss this privately,” she said. Calm. Measured. “After dinner.”
A command disguised as suggestion. Edmund’s jaw tightened.
“There’s nothing to discuss. Lillian isn’t ready—”
“With respect, Your Grace, I believe she is. And I believe this conversation requires more than your unilateral decision.”
The words carried edges. Challenge barely concealed.
Edmund set down his fork. “Very well. My study. After dinner.”
He rose before propriety allowed. Left the dining room without another word.
Behind him, silence. Then the soft murmur of Isadora’s voice as she tried to comfort Lillian.
Edmund fled to his study. Poured whiskey with shaking hands. Stared at flames while his mind replayed dinner’s disaster.
He was destroying everything. Driving away the people who cared about him. Proving every accusation society had ever leveled.
The Dangerous Duke. Cold. Cruel. Incapable of tenderness.
Perhaps they were right.
Isadora arrived precisely fifteen minutes after dinner concluded.
Edmund heard her footsteps in the corridor. He recognized the determined cadence. Braced himself.
She entered without knocking and closed the door behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.
“We need to discuss Lillian.”
No greeting. No preamble. Straight to the attack.
Edmund took a swallow of whiskey. “There’s nothing to discuss. She’s not ready for society.”
“She’s nearly sixteen.” Isadora moved closer to his desk. “In one month, she’ll be of age to begin appearing in company. She should be preparing for that. Learning to dance, to converse, to navigate social situations she’ll inevitably face.”
“She has time—”
“She has one month,” Isadora insisted, her voice firm. “And you’re keeping her locked away like some shameful secret. Denying her the preparation she desperately needs because you’re terrified of society’s judgment.”
The accusation landed like a blow. It was true, which made it all the more devastating.
“I’m protecting her—”
“You’re smothering her.” Isadora’s voice hardened. “You asked me to be your wife so I could help you with her. But when I try, you push me away. You dismiss my suggestions. You treat my involvement as interference rather than partnership.”
Edmund rose from his chair. “She is mine, not yours.”
The words emerged harsher than intended. Possessive. Designed to wound.
Isadora’s face went pale. But she didn’t retreat.
“Then what am I?” Her voice dropped. Dangerous quiet. “What am I to you, Edmund?”
He should have seen the trap and recognized the question for what it was—a final chance to be honest. To admit what he felt before fear destroyed everything.
But Edmund was too angry. Too terrified. Too consumed by the need to push away before she could hurt him.
“You are my wife in name. Nothing more.”
“Your wife in name.” She repeated the words slowly. Testing their weight. “Yet you kiss me as if I am something more. You look at me like—” Her voice cracked. “Do you even know what you want?”
For a long, brutal moment, Edmund stood frozen.
The truth clawed at his throat. You are my wife. I love you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
The words burned. Desperate to escape. To finally give voice to feelings he’d been denying since the gallery. Since before the gallery. Since she’d first touched his scar without flinching.
But fear stopped him cold.