Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
“Disgraceful!" The word carried across the lawn, loud enough to turn heads. "Absolutely disgraceful that such a man would be permitted among decent Society.”
The afternoon had taken on a dreamlike quality.
Isobel stood beside Andrew, watching Joan and Lord Ashford stroll through the gardens, their heads bent together in animated conversation.
The sun was warm, the company pleasant, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt. .. content.
And then a man’s voice shattered the peace.
Isobel felt Andrew tense beside her, his hand tightening on her waist.
"I am Lord Dalton and someone should inform Lady Pembroke that she's allowed a fox into the henhouse.” The man went on, his face flushed with either alcohol or anger. "Though I suppose standards have fallen considerably if we're now welcoming proprietors of gambling dens to respectable gatherings."
Several people nearby shifted uncomfortably, casting sidelong glances at Andrew. Isobel's stomach twisted with a protective anger she hadn't known she could feel.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice carrying with crystalline clarity as she stepped away from her husband’s side. "Lord Dalton, is it? I couldn't help but overhear your commentary. Pray tell, to whom are you referring?"
Dalton turned to her, his lips curling into a sneer. "There is only one sly fox in London, madam. Or should I say, Your Grace?" He made the title sound like an insult. "Though I confess, I'm surprised you're not already hiding in shame, given the nature of your husband's... enterprises."
"My husband," Isobel said, her voice steady despite the fury burning in her chest, "is far more than his business.
He is a duke. A devoted husband. A man who has worked tirelessly to restore his family's legacy after his father nearly destroyed it.
Perhaps you should consider the full measure of a man before casting judgment based on a single aspect of his life. "
"A single aspect?" Dalton laughed, harsh and cruel. "Your husband runs a gambling house that has ruined countless families. He lures men with promises of fortune and strips them of everything they own. He's a parasite dressed in fine clothing, preying on those weaker than himself."
"That's quite enough."
Andrew's voice cut through the garden like a blade, cold and precise. He moved to Isobel's side in three long strides, positioning himself slightly in front of her—not caging, but protecting.
"You will apologize to my wife for speaking rudely to her," Andrew said, his tone deceptively calm. "Now."
"I will do no such thing." Dalton drew himself up, though he had to tilt his head back to meet Andrew's eyes. "I simply told the truth. If your Duchess cannot handle hearing about her husband's true nature—"
"What kind of excuse for a man," Andrew interrupted, his voice dropping to something dangerous, "speaks to a lady in such a manner? What kind of coward hides behind cruel words directed at a woman?"
"I'm no coward!" Dalton's face turned purple. "I'm simply the only one brave enough to say what everyone else is thinking. You're a disgrace to your title, Foxdrey. A shame to every decent man here."
Andrew regarded him calmly. “That is a curious accusation to hear from a man who had to be escorted from my club for causing a public disturbance. One might think you would be cautious about drawing attention to faults on such a subject.”
Andrew saw that got him quiet.
"Prove you're not a coward." Andrew's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Meet me at dawn. Choose your weapon. We'll settle this like gentlemen, though I use that term loosely where you're concerned."
Isobel's heart stopped. "Andrew, no."
"A duel?" Dalton said and there was a tremor beneath it. "You would challenge me to a duel over a few honest words?"
"I would challenge any man who insults my wife.
" Andrew took a step forward, and Dalton stumbled back.
"So yes, Dalton. Name your second. Tomorrow at dawn.
Unless, of course, you'd prefer to admit that you're nothing more than a blustering fool who speaks brave words only when he thinks there will be no consequences. "
The garden had gone utterly silent. Every eye was fixed on the two men, watching the standoff with undisguised fascination.
Isobel felt frozen, her mind racing with images of Andrew bleeding on some foggy field, of pistols and surgeons and—
"Wait!" Dalton's voice cracked slightly. "There's no need for such extremes. I merely spoke out of turn. The heat of the afternoon, perhaps. Too much sun."
"Then you'll apologize." Andrew's voice remained cold. "To my wife. On your knees, if necessary."
"Andrew," Isobel said quietly, touching his arm. She could feel the tension thrumming through him, barely leashed violence ready to spring. "Please."
He glanced at her, and something in her expression seemed to reach him. His jaw unclenched fractionally.
"An apology," he said to Dalton. "A sincere one. Or I'll see you at dawn regardless of your excuses."
Dalton looked between them, then at the crowd of witnesses. His shoulders sagged in defeat.
"Your Grace," he said stiffly, not quite meeting Isobel's eyes. "I spoke hastily and without consideration. I apologize for any offense given."
"Accepted," Isobel said, though the word tasted like ash.
Andrew stared at Dalton for a long moment, as if weighing whether the apology was sufficient. Finally, he nodded.
"Stay away from my wife," he said quietly. "Stay away from me. And if I hear that you've spoken one word against either of us, I will ruin you so thoroughly that bankruptcy will seem a mercy. Do we understand each other?"
Dalton nodded mutely.
"Good." Andrew turned to Isobel, his expression softening. "I believe we should collect your sister and take our leave. This party has lost its appeal."
Isobel nodded, still trembling in the aftermath because of the rush of adrenaline that hit her midway. Andrew's hand found the small of her back as he guided her through the suddenly parting crowd, people stepping aside as if afraid to be caught in the wake of his anger.
They found Joan and Lord Ashford by the hedge maze, both looking concerned at their approach.
"Is everything all right?" Joan asked, her gaze flickering between Isobel's pale face and Andrew's rigid posture.
"Everything is fine," Andrew said, his voice carefully controlled. "However, I believe it's time we returned home. Lord Ashford, a pleasure to see you again. Do call on us next week as we discussed."
"Of course, Your Grace." Lord Ashford bowed, then turned to Joan with a warm smile. "Miss Leyton, I've very much enjoyed our conversation. I hope to continue it soon."
Joan curtsied, her cheeks flushed. "As do I, Lord Ashford."
The carriage ride home was silent at first. Joan sat across from them, her eyes moving between Isobel and Andrew with poorly concealed curiosity. But she remained blessedly quiet, seeming to sense that now was not the time for questions.
Finally, unable to bear the tension any longer, Joan spoke. "I should check on Father when we arrive. Make certain he hasn't gotten himself into any trouble."
It was a transparent excuse, but Isobel was grateful for it. The moment the carriage stopped, Joan practically fled, leaving Isobel and Andrew alone in the dim interior.
"Andrew," Isobel began, "Why does Lord Dalton hate you so much?" The question burst out of her, all the confusion and concern of the afternoon crystallizing into those simple words. "What happened between you?"
Andrew was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working as if he was trying to decide how much to tell her.
"The truth," she pressed. "Please. I deserve to know why that man looks at you with such loathing."
"You do," Andrew agreed. He let out a long breath. "Dalton is one of many men who lost substantial sums at the Mayfair Fox. He gambled away most of his fortune over the course of several months. When the debts came due, he blamed me for his losses rather than his own lack of restraint."
"So, he's another man ruined by gambling at your club," Isobel said quietly.
"Yes." Andrew's voice was flat. "Though I would argue that he ruined himself. No one forced him to place those bets. No one held a gun to his head and demanded that he return night after night, doubling down on losses he couldn't afford."
Isobel absorbed this, turning it over in her mind. Part of her wanted to be angry, to see this as confirmation of all her worst fears about the Mayfair Fox and what it represented.
But another part, the part that was coming to know Andrew, to understand him, recognized the weariness in his voice. The resignation of a man who'd been blamed for others' choices one too many times.
"Thank you," she said finally.
His head whipped toward her. "What?"
"Thank you. For telling me the truth. For not trying to deflect or charm your way out of answering." She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "And thank you for standing up for me. For defending me against him."
"I will always defend you," Andrew said fiercely. "Anyone who thinks they can speak to you that way will answer to me."
"But you shouldn't feel the need to duel every person who makes a scene or says something cruel." She squeezed his hand. "I'm not so fragile that I need you to risk your life over words."
"It wasn't about the scene." His free hand came up to cup her face, tilting it so she was forced to meet his blazing gaze. "That man went after what is mine. My wife. And I needed to establish very clearly what happens when people dare to mistreat what belongs to me."
The possessiveness in his voice should have alarmed her. Should have triggered all her fears about being controlled, about being seen as property rather than person.
Instead, it sent heat curling through her belly.
"What is yours," she repeated softly.
"Yes." His thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "Mine to protect. Mine to cherish. Mine to defend against anyone foolish enough to threaten you. Is that a problem?"
She stared at him; this complicated man who'd somehow become essential to her existence. Who looked at her like she was precious. Who'd been willing to duel for her honor even knowing how much it would distress her.
There was possession in his words, yes. But there was also devotion. Protection.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not a problem.”
Relief and something more, raw and urgent, flashed in his eyes. “Good.”
He kissed her then, pressing his mouth to hers with force, lips and tongue claiming her. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, while the other gripped her waist, holding her tight. She gasped, part surprise, part need, and he answered with pressure, moving his lips, exploring, tasting.
Her hands dug into his coat, trying to anchor herself, while his fingers dug into her waist, keeping her from pulling away.
Every brush of his tongue against hers sent shivers down her spine.
Her knees threatened to buckle, and he shifted, pressing her against him, deepening the kiss until her breath came in ragged bursts.
He drew back only briefly to look at her, lips swollen, chest heaving, before claiming her again. She moaned, her hands roaming over him, pulling him impossibly closer, and he groaned into the kiss, letting the world outside disappear.
When he finally pulled back, both were gasping for air, flushed and trembling.
“We should go inside,” he said, voice rough. “Before I forget we’re in a carriage on a public street and scandalize the neighbors.”
"Yes," Isobel agreed, though she made no move to pull away from him. "We should."
They didn't move.
Andrew laughed, the sound strained. "You're making this very difficult, Duchess."
"Am I?" She smiled, feeling bold and reckless and utterly alive. "Perhaps I'm tired of being proper."
His eyes darkened. "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."
"What if I do mean them?"
"Then," he said, his hand sliding up her thigh in a way that made her breath catch, "we should definitely go inside. Right now. Before I lose what little control I have left."
This time, they moved.
Andrew practically dragged her from the carriage and up the front steps, his hand at her back burning through the fabric of her dress. They made it through the front door, into the entrance hall—
And stopped.
Mrs. Brendan stood there with Chance at her heels, her expression apologetic. "Your Grace, forgive the interruption, but you have a visitor. He says it's urgent."
"Who?" Andrew bit out, his frustration evident.
"A Mr. Bartholomew Greene, Your Grace. He claims to be from the magistrate's office." Mrs. Brendan's voice dropped. "He's asking questions about the Mayfair Fox."
All the heat drained from the moment. Andrew's hand fell away from Isobel's back, his expression shifting to something cold and controlled.
"Where is he?"
"The drawing room, Your Grace."
Andrew nodded, his jaw set. He turned to Isobel, and she saw the walls coming back up, the careful distance returning.
"I should handle this alone," he said.
"No." Isobel straightened her shoulders. "I'm your wife. Whatever this is, we face it together."
"Isobel, go rest."
"Together," she repeated firmly. "Or not at all."
For a moment, she thought he would argue. Then something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or gratitude—and he nodded.
"Together then," he said quietly, taking her hand.
They walked toward the drawing room and whatever waited there. Isobel couldn’t help but believe they were becoming partners. Truly becoming partners. She only hoped they were strong enough to weather whatever storm was coming.