Chapter 16 #2
"Eleanor, you shouldn't have."
"Nonsense. Open it."
Isobel unwrapped the package carefully, gasping when she saw the exquisite dress that lay beneath.
"Eleanor, this is too much."
"It's exactly enough." Eleanor sat beside her.
Isobel's throat tightened. "Thank you. Truly."
"Now." Eleanor's expression turned more serious. "How are you really? And don't give me pleasantries. I want the truth."
Isobel glanced toward the door, ensuring they were alone. "I'm... managing. Andrew is attentive when he's here, but he's often at the club. And I'm worried about Joan."
"Your sister?"
"She's still with our father. I thought…
I hoped that once I was settled, Andrew might help me find her a suitable match.
Someone kind. Someone who would take her away from that house.
" Isobel twisted her hands in her lap. "But I don't know how to ask him.
We're still learning each other, and I don't want him to think I married him just to extract favors. "
"Have you spoken to him about it?"
"Not yet. The timing never seems right."
Eleanor took her hand. "Isobel, if you don't ask for what you need, you'll never receive it. Andrew is many things—stubborn, proud, occasionally infuriating—but he's not cruel. If you explain your concerns about Joan, I believe he'll help."
"What if he refuses?"
"Then at least you'll know where you stand." Eleanor squeezed her hand. "But I don't think he will refuse. Not when it matters to you."
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
Isobel felt heat rise in her cheeks. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?” Eleanor stood. "Now, I expect you to wear that dress to a ball soon. I’ll love to see what a beauty you are. And I expect an invitation too."
After Eleanor left, Isobel sat staring at the dress, her mind churning.
Perhaps Eleanor was right. Perhaps it was time to stop waiting for the perfect moment and simply ask Andrew for what she needed.
For Joan's sake, if not her own.
The next morning, Isobel found Andrew in the breakfast room, looking remarkably composed for a man who'd stumbled home reeking of brandy a few days ago.
"Good morning, Duchess." His voice was steady, controlled, showing no sign of the vulnerability he'd displayed that night.
"Good morning." She sat across from him, accepting tea from a footman. "How are you feeling?"
"Perfectly well, thank you." He turned the page of his newspaper casually.
"That’s good, though I was concerned when you arrived home in such a state the other night." She aimed to keep her own voice just as nonchalant as his, but Isobel knew that she slightly missed the mark.
"I'd had a drink or two. Nothing more." His eyes remained on the newspaper. "Gentlemen sometimes indulge. It's hardly noteworthy."
"Andrew."
"I believe Mrs. Brendan mentioned you needed new calling cards ordered?" He finally looked at her, his expression perfectly pleasant and completely closed off. "As my Duchess, you should have the finest. I'll have my secretary arrange it."
She recognized the deflection for what it was—a man reasserting control after being vulnerable in a way that clearly made him uncomfortable in the harsh light of morning.
"That's thoughtful of you."
"I take care of what's mine." The words were matter of fact. There was a reminder lingering there that he was still the Duke of Foxdrey, still the man who commanded the Mayfair Fox, and was still in control despite the other night's lapse.
"Is that what I am? Yours to take care of?"
His gaze sharpened, and for a moment she saw the shrewd business owner beneath the polished exterior. "You're my wife. That means you're under my protection. My responsibility. Yes, Isobel, you're mine. Does that trouble you?"
The possessiveness in his voice should have angered her. Should have triggered all her fears about being controlled, owned, and treated as property.
Instead, it sent an unwelcome shiver of heat through her.
"No," she admitted quietly. "It doesn't trouble me."
"Good." He returned to his newspaper, the moment of intensity passing as quickly as it had appeared. "Because I take my responsibilities very seriously. You'll want for nothing as my Duchess."
"Except perhaps honesty?"
The newspaper lowered. "I beg your pardon?"
"The other night, you told me what was on your mind.
You spoke openly about your father. This morning, you're pretending as if that conversation never happened.
" She met his gaze steadily. "Which version is real, Andrew?
The man who came home troubled and let me see his fears?
Or this one, who's acting as if nothing of consequence occurred? "
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he folded the newspaper with precise movements and set it aside.
"Both are real," he said finally. "The man you saw the other night exists. But he's not the one who runs a business or navigates the ton or protects his wife from gossip. That requires control, Isobel. It requires a certain... performance."
“You think I know nothing of that subject?” Isobel scoffed harshly.
“I had to pretend all was well for years while my father fostered one bad habit after another. I do not know how many times I had to escort my father from a room discreetly so that my family could avoid embarrassment because he had over imbibed. Even now that I have left his house, I still worry about my sister. Joan is there and she is…”
Andrew stood then and moved around the table to stand beside her chair. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. The touch was firm and possessive.
“We have much in common, my feral darling. We have both struggled to claw our ways out of the depths.” He sighed heavily. “We understand each other completely.
She turned toward him slowly. But then, before she could say anything further, before she could ask him to help rescue her little sister from her desperate situation, Andrew relinquished his hold on her shoulder and stalked out of the room.
Isobel was left sitting there, with her tea growing cold, wondering which version of Andrew Pasley, the Duke of Foxdrey, she had married.
Was this man troubled, broken, and simply trying to find a better way to live his life? Or, was he haunted so greatly by the ghost of his father that he had copied the old man’s vices and made them his own?
A few days later, Isobel stood outside Andrew's chambers, her hand raised to knock, her heart hammering so hard she could barely breathe.
She'd spent nearly a week convincing herself this was necessary. That she had every right to demand answers. That she wouldn't be one of those wives who turned a blind eye while their husbands carried on with mistresses.
But now, standing here, doubt crept in.
What if he confirms your worst fears? What if he laughs at you for even asking?
No. She squared her shoulders. She deserved to know the truth.
She knocked firmly.
"Enter."
His voice sent a shiver down her spine—low, distracted, slightly irritated at the interruption.
Isobel pushed open the door and stepped inside, then froze.
Andrew stood in the middle of his chambers, a towel wrapped around his hips, water still dripping from his dark hair. His chest was bare, all those ridges of muscle she'd only felt through fabric now on full display. Droplets traced paths down his skin before disappearing beneath the towel.
Her mouth went dry.
"Isobel." He stilled and surprise flickered across his face before transforming into something darker. "This is unexpected."
"I—" She forced her eyes up to his face, refusing to let her gaze wander. "I need to speak with you."
"Clearly." A slow smile curved his lips. "Though most wives wait until their husbands are dressed before storming into their chambers."
"I wasn't storming." She stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her. "I was... entering with purpose."
"Ah yes, purposeful determination. We Pasleys are quite familiar with that particular form of locomotion." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "What can I do for you, Duchess? Or should I ask what you'd like me to do to you?" Heat flooded her cheeks. "Don't be vulgar."
"Vulgar?" He moved closer, each step deliberate. "I'm simply clarifying the nature of your visit. After all, a wife doesn't typically invade her husband's chambers right after his bath unless she has... specific intentions."
"My intentions involve having a conversation." Isobel held her ground even as her pulse raced. "A serious conversation that doesn't involve your insufferable attempts at seduction."
"My attempts are never insufferable. Successful, perhaps. Maddening, certainly. But never insufferable." He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his damp skin. "Now, what's so urgent that it couldn't wait until I was properly clothed?"
She tried to focus, but it was nearly impossible with him standing there half-naked, smelling of soap and that damn forest-rain scent. "How would you like it if I were out every night?"
Andrew's eyebrows rose. "Is that what this is about?"
"Answer the question."
"Technically, you're free to do as you please." He crossed his arms, the movement making muscles flex in ways that shouldn't be legal. "I promised you freedom, did I not?"
"But?" She heard the slight edge in his voice, the tension beneath the casual words.
"But what?" He tilted his head, studying her.
"You like to be in control, Andrew. Don't pretend otherwise." Isobel took a step back, finding that she needed space to think. "If I were to leave this house as you do, you would surely have something to say about my behavior."
He moved forward, matching her retreat step for step.
Her back hit the door. She expected him to say something, but he remained quiet and watchful. She eyed him cooly, then continued, "So, I can also go out at night?"