Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Andrew woke to the unfamiliar weight of another person in his bed.
For a moment, disoriented by sleep, he tensed, then memory flooded back. Isobel. Her begging.
He reminded himself that she had asked him to stay, not the other way around. He was in her bed.
The exquisite torture of bringing her to completion while denying himself. The way she'd fallen asleep in his arms, trusting and soft and utterly devastating.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, and studied her face in the early morning light filtering through the curtains.
Her honey-colored hair was spread across his pillow, her lips slightly parted, one hand curled beneath her cheek. She looked peaceful. Younger, somehow, without the defensive walls she maintained while awake.
He'd bedded more women than he cared to count. Had prided himself on his skill, on his ability to give pleasure with practiced precision. But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for what it felt like to watch Isobel come apart beneath his hands.
The way she'd begged. The trust in her eyes when she finally let go. The little sounds she'd made that were for him and him alone.
It had been intoxicating. Addictive. Utterly different from anything he'd experienced before.
Because it mattered. She mattered. In a way that made every previous encounter seem hollow by comparison.
God, I'm in trouble.
Isobel stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a heartbeat, confusion crossed her features—then recognition, followed by a blush that spread down her neck and disappeared beneath the neckline of her nightgown.
"Good morning," he said softly, fighting the urge to pull her closer and pick up where they'd left off last night.
"Good morning." Her voice was husky from sleep, and it did absolutely nothing to help his already tenuous control. "You stayed."
"You asked me to."
"I did." She seemed surprised by her own boldness. "I wasn't certain you would."
"I promised I would give you everything you asked for." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "That includes staying when you request it."
He paused.
"And besides I feel like I need to do it again," he admitted.
"And again. Like I want to chase that feeling of watching you lose control.
Of being the one you trust enough to let down your guard with.
" He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip.
"Like I'm an addict who's just discovered his favorite vice. "
Her breath hitched. "Andrew."
"But—" he continued, rolling away from her before he did something foolish, "we should probably get dressed and have breakfast like proper married people. Otherwise, I'm liable to scandalize the servants by keeping you in bed all day."
"Would that be so terrible?" The question was soft, almost shy.
He groaned. "Don't tempt me, wild cat. I'm already hanging on by a thread."
She sat up, the bedclothes pooling around her waist. Her hair was a tangle, her nightgown askew, and she'd never looked more beautiful. "Then perhaps you should go. Before that thread snaps entirely."
"Practical and cruel." But he was already standing, retrieving his shirt from where he'd discarded it last night. "Very well, Duchess. I'll see you at breakfast."
He fled before he could change his mind about leaving.
"More tea, Your Grace?" Mrs. Brendan asked, hovering at his elbow.
"No, thank you." He hadn't touched his breakfast. His appetite was entirely focused on the woman across from him.
Isobel's lips curved slightly, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. She took a delicate bite of toast, and he found himself transfixed by her mouth.
Get yourself together, man. You're acting like a besotted fool.
"I received an invitation this morning," he said, forcing himself to focus on something other than the memory of her gasps. "Lord and Lady Pembroke are hosting a garden party tomorrow afternoon. I thought it might be an excellent opportunity to help Joan meet some suitable gentlemen.”
Isobel's expression shifted, pleasure lighting her eyes.
He reached for his coffee, grateful to have something to occupy his hands. "We'll attend together as a devoted couple and ensure your sister is introduced to the most eligible bachelors in attendance."
"Thank you." She set down her toast, her gaze soft. "This means a great deal to me. To both of us."
"I know." And he did. He understood how important Joan's happiness was to Isobel, how she'd spent years protecting her sister from their father's cruelty. "We'll make certain she finds someone worthy of her. Someone kind."
"Someone unlike my father," Isobel said quietly.
"Yes." Andrew held her gaze. "Someone who will cherish her. Who will give her the family she dreams of. Who will never make her feel small or frightened or controlled."
"Someone like you?" she teased.
The words hung between them, weighted with meaning.
"I'm hardly a paragon of virtue," he said, his voice rough.
"No." Isobel's smile was gentle. "But you're not awful either, Andrew Pasley. Whether you believe it or not."
He didn't know how to respond to that, so he simply inclined his head and returned to his breakfast, acutely aware of her eyes on him.
This woman was going to be the death of him.
And he was starting to think he'd die happy.
Joan spotted her first. “Isobel!” she exclaimed, gathering her skirts as she hurried across the hall of the Wharton townhouse.
Joan was visiting Norman and Kitty often at Wharton at Andrew’s direction—an interim solution rather than a comfortable one.
Isobel barely had time to brace before her sister wrapped her arms around her. She laughed softly, holding her just as tightly. “I’ve missed you.”
“You disappeared into married life,” Joan said, half-teasing, half-accusing. “I began to think the title of Duchess swallowed you whole.”
“It tried,” Isobel murmured, smiling. “But I escaped long enough to come see you.”
Joan pulled back, studying her. “You look different.”
“Different how?”
“Happier,” Joan said simply.
Isobel blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”
Joan shrugged lightly. “A little. Enough for me to notice.”
They walked arm in arm toward the garden doors. Isobel squeezed her sister’s hand. “And you? Has Father given you any peace?”
“As much peace as he is capable of,” Joan said wryly. “But everyone is talking about the Season. I suppose I must consider suitors.”
Isobel stopped walking, turning to face her fully. “Then you won’t do it alone. I’ll help you.”
Joan’s eyes brightened. “Truly?”
“Of course.” Isobel brushed a curl from Joan’s cheek. “We survived that house together. We will survive the ton together too. And I will make certain you choose someone kind.”
Joan exhaled, relieved. “I knew you wouldn’t forget me.”
“I could never forget you,” Isobel said firmly. “You’re the first person I think of. Always.”
Joan leaned her head on Isobel’s shoulder. “Then I suppose I can face a ballroom or two.”
Isobel smiled. “Good. Because we shall start with one this week.”
Joan grinned nervously. “You will stay with me the whole time?”
“Every moment,” Isobel promised.
The Pembroke garden party was in full bloom. Crocuses and tulips lined the walking paths, their perfume heavy in the crisp afternoon air making everyone feel rejuvenated.
Tables draped in white linen dotted the lawn, laden with refreshments. Ladies in pastel gowns clustered like butterflies, their parasols creating patches of shade.
And everywhere, people were staring.
"They're looking at us," Isobel murmured to Joan as they navigated through the crowd.
"Of course they are." Joan's eyes sparkled with mischief. "You're here with your devastatingly handsome husband, and you haven't stopped smiling since we arrived. The ton is probably taking bets on how long before the notorious Mayfair Fox is completely domesticated."
"Andrew's not—" Isobel stopped, catching sight of her husband across the lawn.
He stood with a group of gentlemen, looking every inch the Duke in his dark blue coat and buff breeches.
As if sensing her gaze, he looked up and smiled—a real smile, unguarded and warm—before returning to his conversation.
Her heart did something foolish in her chest.
"You're glowing," Joan observed, linking their arms as they walked. "I haven't seen you this happy in... well, ever, actually."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm simply enjoying the weather." But she couldn't keep the smile from her face.
"Mm-hmm. And it has nothing to do with the fact that you just referred to your husband as 'Andrew' instead of 'the Fox' or 'that rake' or any of the other charming epithets you've used over the past months?"
Isobel felt her cheeks warm. "I may have been... premature... in some of my judgments."
"May have been?" Joan laughed. "Is this the same husband you insisted was going to be your ruin?" She squeezed Isobel’s arm. "What changed?"
Everything. Nothing. She didn't know how to explain what had shifted between them—the vulnerability they'd shared, the trust that was slowly building, the way her body still hummed with the memory of his touch.
"He makes me feel things I didn't think I was capable of feeling." The admission felt like opening a door she'd kept locked for years. "When I'm with him, I forget to be afraid. I forget all the reasons I was supposed to guard my heart."
Joan's expression softened. "You're falling in love with him."
"Don't be absurd." But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. She was falling. Had been falling since the moment he'd held her after he had given her body pleasure. Since he'd promised to help Joan. Since he'd looked at her like she was something precious instead of convenient.
"It's not absurd. It's wonderful." Joan paused beside a rose bush, turning to face her fully. "But I can see the worry in your eyes. What are you afraid of?"