Chapter 17
Seventeen
"Your Grace, another round for the table?"
Andrew glanced up from the ledger he'd been pretending to study, noting the eager faces of three lords gathered around the hazard table he was on. Their pockets were deep, their losses thus far minimal, the kind of players who kept establishments like the Mayfair Fox thriving.
"By all means," he said, nodding to the footman. "And ensure Lord Bancroft's glass never runs dry. A man celebrating his son's engagement deserves the finest."
Lord Bancroft raised his glass with a broad smile. "You're too generous, Your Grace. I must say, marriage seems to agree with you. You're far more genial than your reputation suggested."
"My reputation is often exaggerated," Andrew replied smoothly, though he noted the shift in the room with quiet satisfaction.
It had been weeks since the wedding, and finally the change was palpable.
Men who'd previously avoided his establishment now returned, their wives apparently mollified by his newly respectable status.
The whispers that had threatened to destroy everything he'd built were transforming into something far more palatable, admiration for the rake who'd finally settled down.
If only they knew how unsettled I actually am.
"The Duchess of Foxdrey," Lord Mansfield said from across the room, his tone speculative. "I understand she is Lord Leyton's daughter? The one who was…"
"Rescued from a most unfortunate situation," Andrew cut in, his voice pleasant but brooking no argument. "My wife is not a subject for idle speculation, gentlemen. I trust we understand each other?"
The room fell silent for a heartbeat before Lord Mansfield dipped his head. "Of course, Your Grace. My apologies."
Andrew returned to his ledger, but his attention was fractured.
Every number on the page might as well have been written in ancient Greek for all the sense they made.
His mind kept drifting to his house, to his chambers, to whether Isobel was asleep yet or if she was still awake, perhaps reading by candlelight in that dressing gown that somehow made her look both modest and utterly devastating.
Stop it. You came here to avoid thinking about her.
But that was proving impossible.
He'd spent the entire week trying to maintain distance, to give her the space she claimed to want, and to prove he wasn't the controlling monster she expected him to be. Yet every night when he returned home, there was a hollow ache in his chest that no amount of brandy could fill.
Andrew scanned the gaming floor, expecting chaos. Instead, he found Lady Holford standing by the hazard table, speaking calmly to a dealer whose hands shook slightly.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Lord Beckett claims the card was misdealt, my lady.”
Annette leaned in, inspected the deck, and straightened. “Reshuffle. Fresh hand. Both players will agree?” Her tone allowed no disagreement.
The two men nodded at once.
Andrew paused mid-step. He had half-expected to be needed. He wasn’t.
A sudden shout rose near the bar. A young lord, flushed from drink, stumbled into a passing servant. Before Andrew could move, Annette caught the man by the elbow.
“My lord,” she said lightly, “if you knock over my staff, I shall charge you double for the brandy.”
The man blinked, then laughed. “Yes, yes—apologies. Carry on.”
She guided him away with effortless ease.
Andrew folded his arms. “When did she learn to do that?” He said to himself.
Across the room, another worker approached Annette with a whisper. She nodded, sent a footman to replace a tired dealer, and turned to check the accounts table next.
Andrew followed her to the back office, lingering by the door as she reviewed a ledger.
“You’ve been busy,” he said.
Annette looked up, surprised. “Your Grace. I thought you’d already left.”
“No.” He stepped inside. “Apparently I’m unnecessary tonight.”
Her brow lifted. “Unnecessary?”
“Well,” Andrew drawled, “I’ve watched you settle disputes, redirect drunks, and reorganize my entire workforce in the span of half an hour.”
Annette closed the ledger. “I’ve been observing you for the past year.”
“Yes, but you’ve never taken the lead like this.”
She hesitated. “You were… occupied, these past weeks. Someone had to ensure things continued running smoothly.”
“And they did,” Andrew admitted. “Better than I expected.”
Annette blinked, clearly taken aback. “That is… very high praise, Your Grace.”
“It’s the truth.” He glanced toward the floor beyond the door.
She gave a small, almost reluctant smile. “Well. Then I shall continue doing so.”
Andrew nodded, feeling something shift. “Good. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He stepped back onto the gaming floor, watching as she strode off to address another issue. He didn’t feel the urge to intervene.
For the first time… he trusted someone else with the club.
Andrew grabbed his coat and stepped out into the cold night air.
The ride home in his carriage should have cleared his head. Instead, it only made things worse.
With each step, the pull toward his house, toward her, grew stronger. It was irrational, this need to see Isobel, to hear her voice even if she was only hurling insults at him. But rationality had abandoned him somewhere around the third day of their marriage.
I should go straight home. She might still be awake. I could knock on her door. We could talk...
No. He couldn't. Because if he knocked on that door and she answered in her dressing gown with her hair loose and those amber eyes still sharp despite the late hour, he wasn't certain he'd have the strength to keep his promise. To wait for her to come to him willingly.
His feet carried him past his own street and toward Norman's townhouse instead.
The door was opened by a footman, who looked momentarily startled before bowing.
“The Duke of Foxdrey,” he announced, stepping aside.
Norman appeared in the doorway behind him, still dressed despite the late hour. "Andrew? What are you doing here?"
"I need a drink."
Norman studied him for a moment, then stepped aside. "Come in."
They settled in Norman's study, glasses of whiskey in hand. Norman waited patiently while Andrew stared into his glass, searching for words that wouldn't make him sound like a complete fool.
"You know you cannot continue these nightly escapades," Norman said finally, his tone gentle but firm.
"I'm not having escapades."
"Seems to me that you are." Norman leaned back in his chair." And you are running from something. Or someone. Given that you just got married, I'm going to assume it's your wife."
Andrew took a long drink. "I'm not running."
Norman's voice held a note of exasperation. "What's really going on?"
"I don't know!" The words burst out of him. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Norman. I wanted a convenient arrangement, something simple and beneficial to us both. But nothing about Isobel is simple. And somehow that makes me want her more."
"So, you're hiding at your club?"
"I'm maintaining the business that defines who I am," Andrew shot back. "The Mayfair Fox is everything I've built. It's proof that I'm not my father, that I can succeed where he failed. Without it, I'm nothing."
"You truly believe that?" Norman shook his head. "You're more than your business, Andrew. You always have been."
"Am I?" Andrew set his glass down harder than necessary. "Then tell me who I am without it. Because I don't know."
“You are one of the hardest-working people I know. You are determined, smart, and have a knack for charming others.” Norman was quiet for a moment. "But you're also afraid."
"I'm not. I want to make her trust me," he said quietly.
"I want her to feel safe with me, to know that I'm not her father or any of the other men who've controlled her.
But how can I do that when the two things that define me are the very things she despises?
The club she sees as a scourge, and the women, though I haven't touched another woman since I proposed. "
"Haven't you?" Norman's eyebrow arched. "Because from what Kitty tells me, you've been spending an awful lot of time at said club. Gossip goes around a lot."
"That's different."
"Is it? To her?" Norman leaned forward. "Andrew, I'm going to tell you something I learned the hard way: you cannot have it all. You need to choose your priorities. And whatever you choose, there will be consequences."
"That's not helpful."
"It's honest." Norman picked up his own glass. "When's the last time you thought about another woman? Before Isobel, I mean. When's the last time any of your other former... companions... crossed your mind?"
Andrew opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again.
He couldn't remember.
Even before the marriage, since the moment he'd proposed, every woman he'd encountered had seemed pale and uninteresting compared to his feral darling. The thought of anyone else touching him the way Isobel had, with fire and frustration and an honesty that left him raw, was impossible to imagine.
Norman's laugh was knowing. "That's what I thought."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're already far deeper in than you realize." Norman raised his glass in a mock toast. "Welcome to matrimony, cousin. Where every certainty you ever had goes up in flames, and somehow you're grateful for it."
Andrew stared at him. "That's not it. I'm not grateful."
"Keep telling yourself that." Norman's smile was infuriatingly haughty. "But I give it another week before you're completely undone by that woman. Two at most."
"You're enjoying this far too much."
"Someone should." Norman drained his glass. "Now go home to your wife. And for God's sake, actually talk to her instead of avoiding her like a coward."
Andrew stood outside his own bedchamber door, every instinct warring within him.
It was nearly two in the morning. Isobel would be asleep by now. He should retire to his own chambers, get some rest, perhaps attempt a proper conversation with her tomorrow over breakfast.