Chapter 16
Sixteen
Three days had passed since their wedding night, and Isobel was beginning to understand the strange rhythm of married life.
She sat in the morning room, embroidery forgotten in her lap, watching out the window as Andrew walked through the snow-covered gardens.
The door opened behind her.
"Your Grace, His Grace asks if you would join him in the gardens," Mrs. Brendan said with a knowing smile.
Isobel set aside her embroidery and made her way outside. The air felt crisp against her skin.
"There you are," Andrew said as she approached, that devastating smile already in place. "I left you alone at breakfast for three days," he pointed out. “What a poor husband I have been.”
"And you've not been present for dinner each evening," she reminded him. "But you’ve walked with me in the gardens twice. You've asked about my day and listened to the answers. That's more than many wives can say of their husbands after three days of marriage."
"The bar is remarkably low, it seems."
"It is," she agreed. "Which makes it easier for you to exceed my expectations."
He laughed again, and she felt something warm unfurl in her chest. These moments—when he dropped the careful control and just existed beside her—these were the moments that made her believe their marriage could be more than convenient.
"Have dinner with me tonight," he said suddenly. "Not in the dining room with the staff hovering. In my study. Just us."
Her heart stuttered. "Just us?"
"Just us. I'll have Cook prepare a tray. We can be informal. Relaxed." His smile turned slightly wicked. "Unless you're afraid of being alone with me, Duchess."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Then prove it. Seven o'clock. My study."
He walked away before Isobel could mention her sister.
She had been hoping to speak to the Duke about Joan’s situation and had meant to raise it while they strolled through the gardens, where servants would be less likely to linger.
No matter. That conversation could be had over dinner tonight.
"You're late again."
Andrew paused in the entrance hall, his hand still on the door he'd just closed. Isobel stood at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown, a candle flickering in her hand, casting dancing shadows across her face.
"I wasn't aware I needed permission to come and go from my own home, Duchess." His words came slower than usual, slightly slurred at the edges.
She descended the stairs with measured steps, her bare feet silent against the marble. "You don't. But you do need to stop stumbling about like a drunkard and waking the entire household."
"I'm not stumbling." He straightened, though the slight sway rather contradicted his claim.
"You're drunk."
"Barely." Andrew waved a dismissive hand, then seemed to lose track of the gesture halfway through. "Just had a few drinks. Business discussions require a certain... lubrication."
Isobel reached the bottom step and studied him in the candlelight. His cravat hung loose around his neck and his dark hair was disheveled.
"Business discussions that last until three in the morning?" She kept her voice carefully neutral, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "How very dedicated you are."
"The Mayfair Fox doesn't run itself." He moved past her toward the stairs, gripping the banister with more force than necessary. "Some of us have responsibilities we cannot shirk."
"Some of us have wives we've been avoiding for a week."
He stopped mid-step. "I haven't been avoiding you."
"No?" Isobel climbed two steps so she could meet his eyes. "Then what do you call dining separately, leaving before breakfast, and returning after I've retired each night?"
"Giving you space." Andrew turned to face her fully. "Isn't that what you wanted? Freedom?"
"Freedom and abandonment are not the same thing, Your Grace."
Something flickered across his face—pain, perhaps, or regret. "I'm not abandoning you. I'm simply... managing my affairs."
"Your affairs." The word tasted bitter. "How very specific a term."
"Don't." His voice dropped low. "Don't do that. Don't twist my words into something ugly when you know perfectly well what I mean."
Isobel lifted her chin. "Do I? Because all I know is that my husband of one week prefers the company of his gambling house to his own wife. What else am I to think?"
"Perhaps that I'm trying very hard not to..." He trailed off, jaw clenching.
"Not to what?"
"Nothing. It's late. You should retire." He turned to continue up the stairs.
"Andrew, wait. Please." The plea slipped out unbidden, and they both froze at the intimacy of it. She hadn't asked him for anything so specifically or imploringly until this moment.
He stopped but didn't turn around.
She climbed another step, close enough now to smell the brandy on his breath mixed with that forest-rain scent that seemed to cling to him. "I know what it's like to have a difficult father."
His shoulders tensed.
"I know what it means to carry burdens that aren't yours to carry," she continued softly. "To feel responsible for fixing what others have broken. It must have been painful, rebuilding everything alone."
"I wasn't alone." His voice was rough. "I had Mrs. Brendan and my cousins. "
"But you were alone in the ways that mattered." Isobel moved closer, her hand hovering near his back before she thought better of touching him. "No one else could bear the weight of restoring your family's name. That was yours alone."
He let out a long breath, his head dropping forward. "Do you know what the worst part was?"
"Tell me."
"Every day, I would look in the mirror and search for him.
For any sign that I was becoming him." Andrew's hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"The gambling, the drinking, the women—I watched him destroy everything our family had built over generations.
And I was terrified that one day I would wake up and realize I had become exactly what I despised. "
"But you didn't." Isobel's chest tightened at the raw pain in his voice.
She had not the heart to tell him the truth.
From what she knew, Andrew did gamble, drink, and consort with various women.
Instead of reminding him of those facts and forcing him to face what he had become, she searched his weary eyes and told the story she knew he needed to hear.
"You built something from nothing. You succeeded where he failed. "
"Did I?" He laughed, though there was an edge to it.
"The Mayfair Fox used to be the most sought-after establishment in London.
Now I see empty tables on nights when the place should be full.
Patrons who once fought for membership now avoid my gaze at social events.
" He turned to face her. "My reputation isn't ruined, but it's tarnished.
And in our world, perception is everything. "
"So, you married me to restore that perception. Allow time and our bond to…"
"I married because it was the smart move." Andrew's tone was matter-of-fact and controlled. "The club is profitable. Very profitable. But it could be more. It should be what it was—the premier destination, not just another gambling house."
"And me?"
"You are my wife. A beautiful, intelligent woman who happens to challenge me at every turn." A ghost of his usual smirk appeared. "I rather enjoy it, actually. You’re not like the others. You don’t simper or fawn."
"That's not what I asked."
Andrew's jaw tightened. "The club has been my life for twelve years. Everything I've built, everything I've accomplished—it all stems from that establishment. I won't apologize for prioritizing my business dealings."
"No one's asking you to apologize." Isobel leaned forward. "But Andrew, if you keep holding everyone at arm's length, including me, you're going to end up alone. Wealthy, successful, and completely alone."
"Better alone than destroyed," Andrew said coolly.
He’d been avoiding her since that night they were supposed to have dinner in his study.
She had planned to speak to him candidly about Joan’s future and try to better understand what she might expect from him going forward. But the Duke did not meet her on that occasion. And he did not share breakfast with her the next morning, either.
While she stewed over what was to become of her and her sister, Andrew caroused at his gaming hell and did things Isobel could not fathom.
He comes home drunk. Smelling of brandy and…
She leaned in slightly, catching another scent beneath the alcohol—perfume. Something floral and cloying that definitely wasn't hers.
The ache in her chest turned to ice.
"I should let you rest," she said, her voice carefully controlled as she stepped back. "You've clearly had a trying evening."
Andrew frowned. "Duchess."
"Goodnight, Your Grace." She turned and ascended the stairs, refusing to look back even though she felt his gaze burning into her.
She disappeared down the hallway toward her chambers, her heart a leaden weight in her chest.
She'd been a fool to soften toward him or to think that the moments they spent together signified affection on his part.
He was probably with another woman tonight. Maybe several.
And she was the pathetic wife waiting at home like some loyal dog.
Never again.
The morning light was soft through the drawing room windows as Isobel sat doing some painting, though her mind was far from the art.
Joan had sent a note yesterday—brief, carefully worded, but Isobel could read between the lines. Father was drinking more. The creditors had stopped calling, but his temper hadn't improved.
"Your Grace, you have a visitor," Mrs. Brendan announced. "The Duchess of Stormglen."
"Eleanor?" Isobel set aside her embroidery as Eleanor swept in, looking elegant in a deep green walking dress.
"Don't look so surprised," Eleanor said with a warm smile. "I promised you a wedding gift, didn't I? And I've been a terrible cousin-in-law for taking so long to deliver it."
She gestured, and a footman entered carrying a large, wrapped package.