Chapter 23
“You’re destroying everything, you know.”
Tobias’s voice cut through the club’s evening hum with the sort of brutal honesty only twenty years of friendship could justify.
Edmund didn’t look up from his whiskey. Simply stared at amber liquid and wished his friend would leave him to drown in peace.
“She’s gone, Tobias. What more is there to destroy?”
“Lillian, for one. Your reputation, for another. Whatever shred of decency you might still possess.” Tobias settled into the chair opposite. “Though I suppose that last bit departed along with your wife.”
The words landed like blows. Edmund’s hand tightened around his glass.
It had been a week since Isadora fled. Seven days of prowling Rothwell Abbey’s empty corridors while guilt consumed him from within. Seven days of watching Lillian weep at her lessons, of seeing invitations mysteriously vanish, of feeling the walls close in as society’s judgment grew sharper.
Seven days of understanding—too late, always too late—exactly what he’d destroyed.
“I don’t need a lecture,” Edmund said flatly.
“No. You need someone to tell you what a complete fool you’ve been.” Tobias leaned forward. “Do you know what they’re saying? The scandal sheets are having a field day. The Dangerous Duke has driven away his bride. Questions about the duel are resurfacing. And Lillian—”
He stopped. Something in his expression made Edmund’s chest tighten.
“What about Lillian?”
“They’re targeting her now. Calling her tainted.
Suggesting she’s somehow connected to James’s death through illegitimacy and scandal.
” Tobias’s voice hardened. “Her debut is over before it’s begun.
Invitations are being quietly withdrawn.
Mothers are steering their daughters away from any association with Rothwell Abbey. ”
Edmund set down his glass. Carefully. Because throwing it would require energy he didn’t possess.
“I’ll speak to—”
“To whom, exactly?” Tobias cut in. “You’ve spent ten years refusing to defend yourself. Letting society believe the worst because you were too consumed by guilt to fight back. And now that silence is destroying the people you claim to protect.”
The accusation struck deep. True. Devastating.
“I thought—” Edmund stopped. Started again. “I thought silence was safer. That engaging with gossip would only make things worse.”
“You thought wrong.” Tobias rose. Moved to the window overlooking St. James’s Street. “Your silence isn’t protection. It’s cowardice. And it’s given your enemies exactly the weapon they need to destroy everything you care about.”
Edmund followed his friend’s gaze. Outside, London continued its restless evening dance. Carriages passing. Gentlemen entering clubs. Life continuing as though his world hadn’t shattered.
“What would you have me do?”
“Fight.” Simple. Absolute. “Tell the truth about the duel. Defend Lillian publicly. And for the love of everything holy, go after your wife before she disappears to France and you lose her forever.”
The mention of France struck like a fist. Edmund had received Isadora’s letter three days ago. Read it until the words blurred. Understood with devastating clarity that she was leaving not just London but England entirely.
Fleeing from him. From their marriage. From everything he’d destroyed through fear and pride.
“She doesn’t want—”
“She doesn’t want a husband who pushes her away every time things become real.” Tobias turned from the window. “But she might want a man who finally finds the courage to fight for what he loves.”
“I called her nothing more than convenience,” Edmund said quietly. The confession scraped his throat raw. “Looked her in the eyes and told her she meant nothing. Why would she give me another chance after that?”
“Because she loves you, you fool.” Tobias’s voice carried something between pity and frustration. “Despite everything—the walls, the coldness, the cruelty—she loves you. I’ve seen it in the way she looked at you. The way she defended you to society even after you’d driven her away.”
He moved closer. Put a hand on Edmund’s shoulder.
“But love has limits. And if you don’t act now—if you don’t prove you’re worth her forgiveness—she’ll be on a ship to France within days. And you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting that you were too much a coward to stop her.”
Edmund sat there in silence. Tobias’s words echoing in his mind alongside Mrs. Crawford’s letters describing Lillian’s tears, alongside Mrs. Pemberton’s disappointment, alongside the memory of Isadora’s face when he’d rejected her.
You let the duel own you.
The truth struck with the force of revelation.
He’d spent ten years letting James’s death define him. Letting guilt consume him. Using the tragedy as excuse to avoid living, to push away anyone who dared to care, to hide behind walls built from shame and fear.
And now that shame—not the duel itself, but his response to it—had doomed them all.
Lillian’s future destroyed by association with a man too proud to defend himself. Isadora driven away by cruelty disguised as protection. His own life reduced to prowling empty corridors and drinking until oblivion claimed him.
This wasn’t honor. Wasn’t protection.
It was cowardice wearing virtue’s mask.
Edmund rose. The movement felt significant. As though he were shedding ten years of careful isolation in a single gesture.
“Where is she?”
Tobias’s expression shifted. Hope flickering across features that had shown only disappointment moments before.
“Last I heard, she’s staying with Lady Charlotte Wyndham. Planning to depart for Southampton tomorrow morning. Packet ship sails for France in the afternoon.”
Tomorrow morning. Hours, not days.
If Edmund was going to act, it had to be now.
“I need a horse.”
“Take mine. He’s fast and doesn’t tire easily.” Tobias gripped Edmund’s shoulder. “And Edmund? Don’t let pride stop you. Don’t let fear win again. Just tell her the truth and pray it’s enough.”
Edmund nodded. Couldn’t speak past the tightness in his throat.
He’d spent ten years hiding from truth. From feeling. From the vulnerability that came with actually caring about someone.
Time to stop hiding.
Time to fight for what he’d nearly destroyed.
Edmund rode through the night.
London fell away behind him—gaslights and noise giving way to countryside draped in December darkness. His horse’s hooves struck frozen ground in steady rhythm that matched his racing heart.
Cold bit through his greatcoat. Made his face numb, his hands stiff on the reins. But Edmund barely noticed. He could only think of Isadora’s face when he’d called her nothing more than convenience. He could only hear her voice asking what she was to him.
He could only remember that he’d had the answer—"You are my wife. I love you."—but fear had choked the words until only cruelty remained.
The miles passed in blur of frost-covered fields and sleeping villages. Edmund pushed his horse harder than wise, driven by desperation and the terrible certainty that if he didn’t reach her in time, he’d lose her forever.
Dawn was breaking when he finally saw it.
The coaching inn. Modest establishment on the Southampton road where travelers stopped to change horses or take refreshment before continuing their journeys.
And in the courtyard—
Isadora.
Even from a distance, even in the weak morning light, Edmund would have known her anywhere. The way she carried herself. The tilt of her head as she spoke to the innkeeper.
The trunk being loaded onto the carriage that would carry her away from him.
Edmund dismounted before his horse had fully stopped. Stumbled slightly—exhaustion and cold making his movements clumsy—but caught himself.
Crossed the courtyard while dawn broke over frosted fields and his heart hammered against his ribs.
“Isadora!”
His voice rang out across the courtyard. Loud. Desperate. Nothing like the careful control he’d maintained for ten years.
She turned.
And the look on her face—shock giving way to something harder, something that looked uncomfortably like anger—nearly stopped him where he stood.
“You should not be here.” Her voice was cold, carefully controlled. “You’ve hurt me enough.”
The words struck like physical blows. But Edmund had ridden through the night for this. Had finally found courage he should have claimed weeks ago.
He wouldn’t retreat now.
“I know.” He moved closer but stopped several feet away because closing the full distance felt presumptuous. “I know I’ve hurt you. Know I’ve said things that can’t be unsaid. But Isadora, please. Just listen.”
“Why should I?” She turned away from him, back toward the carriage. “So you can deliver more pretty lies? Tell me again how I’m nothing more than convenience? Explain once more why you kissed me like I mattered, then pushed me away like I was something shameful?”
“Because I was wrong.” The confession tore from him. “About everything. All those things they whisper—the duel, the dishonor, the lies about Lily—none of it matters. I thought I was protecting you both by keeping silent, by holding you at arm’s length. But I see it now. I made everything worse.”
Isadora turned to face him. And the devastation in her eyes—the evidence of pain he’d caused—made Edmund want to fall to his knees.
“Why should I believe you?” Her voice wavered. “You’ve said before that you cared. That our marriage might mean something. And every time I dared to hope, you pushed me away. Why should this time be different?”
“Because I will not hide from the truth anymore.” Edmund moved closer.
Close enough to see tears threatening to spill.
Close enough that reaching out would close the remaining distance between them.
“Because I’ve spent a week watching Lillian weep.
Watching invitations vanish. Watching my silence destroy everything I claimed to protect. ”
He drew breath. Steadied himself.