Chapter 19
Nineteen
The front door closed behind Eleanor's family with a decisive click, and suddenly the entrance hall felt cavernously empty. Andrew stood on one side, Isobel on the other, and between them sat the dog, his tail wagging as he looked from one to the other as if awaiting instructions.
"Well," Andrew said, breaking the silence. "That was..."
"Hectic?" Isobel supplied.
"I was going to say illuminating." He watched her carefully, noting the slight flush still coloring her cheeks. Eleanor had said something during their walk. He'd wager his entire fortune on it. "My cousin has never been subtle in her meddling."
"No, she hasn't." Isobel knelt, and the dog immediately bound over to her, nearly knocking her backward in his enthusiasm. "Though I suppose we should be grateful she didn't bring more puppies. Or suggest we take Darling as well."
"Ramsay would have murdered me in my sleep." Andrew moved closer. "Though I confess, I'm rather fond of this little menace."
"Are you?" She looked up at him, amber eyes reflecting the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. "You didn't seem particularly enthused when Eleanor first revealed him."
"I've grown attached in the last few hours." He crouched down beside her, reaching out to scratch behind the dog’s ears. "He has good taste in people."
Their fingers brushed as they both petted the puppy, and Andrew felt that familiar spark, the one that made his blood warm and his thoughts scatter.
The puppy chose that moment to wriggle free, springing away from them with a delighted bark. It scampered toward the tall windows and began worrying the long ends of the curtains, tail wagging furiously.
"Here, boy," Isobel called softly, moving back a few steps. "Come here."
The dog tilted his head, considering, then trotted over to her.
The puppy abandoned the curtains at once and bounded back—not to Andrew, but to Isobel. It placed its paws on her skirts and made an earnest, clumsy attempt to climb into her lap.
Andrew felt his competitive instincts flare. "That's hardly fair. You moved first."
"I wasn't aware there were rules." But her smile was mischievous as she watched him.
"Everything has rules, Duchess." He shifted to the opposite side of the hall. "Here boy."
The puppy looked at him, then back at Isobel, then promptly sat down exactly halfway between them.
"Clever creature," Isobel murmured. "He's already learned not to take sides."
"Nonsense. He simply hasn't realized yet that I'm the superior choice." Andrew clicked his tongue. "Come on, boy. I'll give you the best scraps from dinner. Prime cuts of beef. Perhaps even some of Cook's famous kidney pie."
"You're trying to bribe a puppy?" Isobel laughed, the sound lighting something warm in Andrew's chest. "How very like you."
"I prefer to think of it as strategic negotiation." He patted his knee. "What do you say, boy? Surely a duke's company is worth something?"
"I'll read to you," Isobel countered, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Every evening. Whatever book you like. Well, whatever book I can convince you to sit still for."
"Books," Andrew scoffed. "The puppy wants adventure, not stories."
"Stories are adventures."
"Not the same at all."
The dog yawned, apparently unimpressed with both their arguments, and laid down with his head on his paws.
"I believe that's his vote of confidence in both of us," Isobel said dryly.
"Or he's just tired from terrorizing my household for the past three hours." Andrew moved closer, unable to help himself. "Though I notice he's positioned himself closer to you."
"Perhaps he has excellent judgement."
"Perhaps he's been swayed by a pretty face and doesn't yet understand the value of consistency and reliability."
Isobel's eyebrow arched. "Are you comparing yourself to a reliable puppy?"
"I'm comparing myself to the obviously superior choice that is being unfairly overlooked in favor of—" He stopped, realizing how absurd he sounded. "Good God, I'm arguing with my wife over a dog's affections."
"Why do you have to turn everything into a wager?" But there was no heat in her words, only fondness that made his chest tight.
"It's not a wager. It's a friendly competition."
"Those are the same thing."
"They're completely different." He leaned forward and positioned himself this time so that he was directly in front of the dog. "Watch. I'll demonstrate the proper technique for winning a puppy's loyalty."
"There's a technique?"
"Obviously." Andrew lowered his voice to what he hoped was an appealing tone. "Come here, boy. Come to me, and I'll... I'll let you sleep on my bed. How's that for an offer?"
"You're going to regret that promise when he's muddy," Isobel warned.
"A small price to pay for victory." He held out his hand. "Come on, boy. Don't make me beg."
The dog stood, stretched, and then laid its head in Isobel’s lap before heaving a contented sigh.
Andrew pressed a hand to his chest in mock devastation. "Betrayed. By a dog."
Isobel's laugh rang out again, bright and unrestrained. "Perhaps you're losing your touch, Your Grace."
"Impossible. I never lose." But he couldn't keep the smile from his face as he watched her gather scratch the dog gently behind the ears. The puppy immediately settled against her as if he'd always belonged there.
"You just lost to a woman and a puppy," she pointed out.
"The first time I've lost to both in the same day." Andrew laughed internally at what had just unfolded between them. If his staff found the Duke and Duchess of Foxdrey sitting on the entrance hall floor like children, so be it. "Actually, that's not quite accurate. This is my second rejection."
"Second?" She looked at him curiously. "Who else rejected you?"
"My wife."
Her expression shifted, amusement fading into something more guarded. "I haven't rejected you."
"Haven't you?" He kept his tone light, but there was an edge beneath it. "Every time I get close, you pull away. Every time we start to breach the distance between us, you find a reason to retreat."
"That's not—" She stopped, jaw tightening. "You're the one who told me to return to my room the other night."
They stared at each other, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. The dog, apparently sensing the shift in mood, whined softly and burrowed deeper into Isobel's lap.
"We should name him," Isobel said finally, breaking the spell. "We can't keep calling him 'the puppy' or 'menace.'"
"No, I suppose not." Andrew was grateful for the change in subject, even if part of him wanted to push further, to demand she acknowledge the wanting he saw in her eyes. "Though 'menace' has a certain ring to it."
"We are not naming our dog Menace."
"Our dog." He smiled. "I rather like the sound of that."
Her cheeks flushed pink. "You know what I meant."
"I do. But I enjoy watching you fluster." He reached over to pet the dog, his hand deliberately brushing against Isobel's. "What about Mischief?"
"Better than Menace, but still no."
"Trouble?"
"Are you simply going to suggest every word for 'poorly behaved'?"
"Would you prefer something noble? Prince? Duke? Lord Barkington?"
She laughed despite herself. "Lord Barkington?"
"Too much?"
"Far too much." She looked down at the puppy, who had fallen asleep in her lap, small body rising and falling with each breath. "He needs a name that means something. Not just a jest."
Andrew watched her stroke the puppy's fur with gentle fingers, and something in his chest cracked open.
This was the Isobel he was coming to know, the one beneath the sharp wit and defensive walls. The one who cared deeply, who wanted things to matter, who looked at a sleeping puppy with such tenderness it made his throat tight.
"What about Chance?" he heard himself say.
She looked up. "Chance?"
"Eleanor said he was meant to help us learn to work together. To share responsibility." He met her gaze. "Perhaps he's our second chance at getting things right."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning that had nothing to do with dogs.
"Chance," Isobel repeated softly, testing the name. Then she smiled, a real smile, unguarded and warm. "Yes. That's perfect."
"We finally agree on something."
"Don't get used to it."
"I wouldn't dream of it. I rather enjoy our arguments." He stood, offering her his hand. "Though perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere other than the floor? My knees aren't what they used to be."
"You're thirty-one, not ancient."
"Tell that to my knees." But he pulled her up gently, Chance stirring but not waking in her arms. "It's grown late. We should both retire."
He walked her to the stairs, acutely aware of how close she stood, how the candlelight caught gold in her hair, how her lips parted slightly as she looked up at him.
"Goodnight, Andrew," she said softly.
His name on her lips was sweeter than any endearment. "Goodnight, Duchess."
She smiled once more, then continued up the stairs with Chance still sleeping peacefully in her arms.
Andrew watched until she disappeared down the hallway, then made his way to his own chambers. His mind was full of amber eyes and soft smiles and the way she'd said his name.
The bathwater was growing cold, but Isobel couldn't bring herself to get out.
She kept replaying the afternoon, Andrew on the floor, competing with her for a puppy's affection. The easy laughter between them. The way he'd looked at her when he suggested the name Chance, as if he was offering her something far more significant than a name for a dog.
My second rejection. My wife.
The words circled in her mind, refusing to let go.
He'd implied she was the one pulling away, the one rejecting him.
But that wasn't fair, was it? He was the one who'd sent her back to her room last night when every part of her had been screaming to stay.
When she'd been seconds away from begging him to kiss her properly, to stop this maddening dance they'd been doing for weeks.
"Insufferable man," she muttered, sinking deeper into the water.
But even as she said it, she knew the anger was directed as much at herself as at him.
Because the truth was, she had been pulling away.
Every time they got close, every time she felt that warmth spreading through her chest, she retreated behind her walls and her sharp words and her determination not to need him.
Eleanor's words from the garden echoed in her mind:
If you never give him a chance, you'll never know what you might have had.
"Damn meddling Duchesses," Isobel said to the empty room.
But Eleanor had been right. They'd been circling each other for weeks, both too proud and too frightened to make the first move. And if something didn't change, they'd spend their entire marriage in this frustrating limbo, wanting but not having, desiring but not daring.
Well, she was done being a coward.
She stood abruptly, water sloshing over the sides of the tub. Selene had left her nightgown and dressing gown laid out on the bed, and Isobel dried herself quickly before pulling them on. Her hair hung damp down her back, but she didn't care about propriety or proper appearances.
She was going to march to Andrew's chambers and tell him exactly what she thought about his accusation of rejection.
She was going to make him understand that she wasn't the only one maintaining distance.
That his games and his teasing and his careful control were just as much barriers as her walls.
And then... well, she'd figure out the rest when she got there.
Decision made, she strode to her door and yanked it open—
And nearly collided with Andrew.
He stood in her doorway, hand raised as if he'd been about to knock, his cravat missing and his shirt partially unbuttoned. His dark hair was mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it, and his eyes widened as he took in her appearance—damp hair, thin nightclothes, bare feet.
"I was just coming to find you," they both said at once.
Then stopped.
Stared.
"You were?" Isobel asked, her prepared speech evaporating from her mind.
"I was." His voice was rougher than usual, his gaze traveling over her face with an intensity that made her skin prickle with awareness. "I couldn't stop thinking about what I said earlier. About rejection."
"Neither could I."
"I need to—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "May I come in?"
She stepped back, letting him enter, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.