Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
"No, Chance. Sit."
The puppy tilted his head, tail wagging, and promptly rolled onto his back with his legs in the air.
"That's not sitting," Andrew said, fighting back a smile. "That's the exact opposite of sitting."
Isobel laughed from her position on the garden bench, her embroidery forgotten in her lap. "Perhaps he's interpreting the command creatively."
"He's being deliberately obstinate." Andrew crouched down, scratching Chance's exposed belly. "Aren't you, boy? You know exactly what I'm asking, you're just choosing to ignore it."
"Rather like his owner," Isobel murmured.
"I heard that."
"You were meant to."
Andrew straightened, crossing his arms and fixing her with a mock-stern look. "Are you implying I'm obstinate, Duchess?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating it as observable fact." She set her embroidery aside and stood, brushing imaginary wrinkles from her morning dress. "Now, let me show you how it's done."
She walked over to where Chance had righted himself and was now attempting to dig a hole in the manicured lawn. "Chance. Come here, darling."
The puppy immediately bounded over to her, sitting perfectly at her feet and looking up with adoring eyes.
"Show off," Andrew muttered.
"It's not showing off if it's simply superior technique." Isobel produced a small piece of chicken from her pocket. She couldn’t help but smile and rewarded Chance with both the treat and enthusiastic praise. "Good boy! Such a clever, wonderful boy!"
"You're bribing him."
"I prefer to think of it as positive reinforcement." She glanced at her husband, eyes dancing with amusement. "Perhaps you should try it. Being kind rather than demanding."
"I am kind." But even as he said it, he knew she was right. He'd been approaching the dog's training the same way he approached everything else, with the expectation of immediate obedience and perfect results.
Old habits.
"Watch," Isobel called Chance back to her and demonstrated the sitting command again, this time with patient repetition and more chicken. Within minutes, the puppy was sitting on command with reasonable consistency.
"You make it look easy," Andrew said, grudging admiration in his voice.
"That's because I'm not treating him like a recalcitrant member of Parliament who needs to be browbeaten into compliance." She held out a piece of chicken to Andrew. "Here. You try."
He took it, acutely aware of how her fingers brushed his palm. Even that small touch sent electricity racing up his arm.
Focus on the dog.
"Chance." He held out the chicken. "Come."
The puppy looked at him, looked at the chicken, then looked back at Isobel as if seeking permission.
"Traitor," Andrew said, but there was no heat in it.
Isobel laughed again, a sound he was becoming dangerously addicted to. "He's loyal to the person who's been consistently kind to him. You could learn something from that."
"I'm kind to him."
"You're demanding of him. There's a difference." She moved closer, standing beside Andrew so they both faced the puppy. "Try again, but softer this time. Like you're asking a favor rather than issuing an order."
Andrew swallowed hard, trying to ignore her proximity, the light floral scent of her perfume, the way the afternoon sun caught gold in her hair.
"Chance," he said, his voice gentler. "Come here, boy. Please."
This time, the puppy trotted over without hesitation. Andrew gave him the chicken, and Chance's tail wagged so hard his entire back end wiggled.
"There," Isobel said softly. "See what happens when you ask instead of demand?"
She wasn't talking about the dog anymore. Andrew knew that with bone-deep certainty.
He turned to look at her, finding her already watching him with those knowing amber eyes.
"Is that what you need from me?" he asked quietly. "To be asked instead of commanded?"
"I need to be seen as a partner, not a subordinate." Her gaze didn't waver. "I need to know that I'm not just another possession to be managed and controlled."
"You're not," He stopped and took a breath. "You've never been that to me. A possession."
"Haven't I?" There was no accusation in her voice, just honest curiosity. "When you defended me against Dalton, you said I was yours. That he went after what belonged to you."
Andrew's jaw tightened. "That's different. That was about—"
"Protection. I know." She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. "And I understood that. I even appreciated it. But sometimes, Andrew, I wonder where I truly stand in your priorities."
The words struck him powerfully. It had been a long time since his wife mentioned his list of priorities. He thought that he’d shown her dozens of times how much she meant to him, but still, she wondered.
"What do you mean?"
She looked away, focusing on Chance as the puppy investigated a butterfly. "The Mayfair Fox. It's still the most important thing to you, isn't it? More important than... than this." She gestured between them. "Than us."
"No." The word came out too forcefully, and he gentled his tone. "No, Isobel. You're—" He struggled to find the right words, the ones that would convey what he felt without making himself too vulnerable. "You're important to me. Very important."
"But not more important than the club."
It wasn't a question, and he couldn't bring himself to lie.
"The Mayfair Fox is..." He raked a hand through his hair. "It's everything I've built from nothing.”
"You're a man who's kind to puppies when he lets his guard down." She smiled sadly. "You're so much more than that club, Andrew. I wish you could see that."
"And I wish you could understand what it means to build something from ruins." His voice roughened. "To take the very thing that destroyed your family and turn it into your salvation. The Mayfair Fox isn't just a business."
"I do understand that." Her hand moved to his face, cupping his cheek with such tenderness it made his chest ache. "But what happens when you have to choose? When the club and your marriage can't both be priorities?"
"That won't happen."
"Won't it?" She dropped her hand. "You haven't been to the Mayfair Fox in weeks, Andrew. How long before that starts to feel wrong? How long before you resent me for keeping you away?"
The question struck too close to truths he'd been avoiding.
Because she was right. The absence of the club gnawed at him sometimes, a phantom limb he couldn't quite forget. He missed the energy of it, the control, the satisfaction of running something he'd built with his own hands.
Andrew had not dismissed Isobel when Mr. Greene arrived. Instead, he had gestured for her to sit beside him, his hand briefly resting at the small of her back as though daring anyone to object.
Greene had done nothing of the sort — though his eyes had flicked, more than once, toward Isobel before returning to Andrew.
“The rumors about the Mayfair Fox are spreading again,” Greene had said carefully. “If we allow the managers to take care of it.”
“No,” Andrew interrupted. “I’ll handle it.”
Greene hesitated. “Your Grace, there are questions being asked. Investors. Patrons. They want reassurance.”
Andrew leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Then I will give it to them.”
Isobel had watched the exchange in silence, unease stirring. There had been too many questions, too much weight placed squarely on Andrew’s shoulders — and not once had he considered stepping back.
He couldn't imagine going back to the way things were before Isobel. Coming home late to an empty house. Sleeping alone. Living a life that was full of everything except what mattered.
"That won’t happen," he said finally.
She stepped back, putting distance between them. "I can't be second to anything. Not anymore. I spent my entire childhood being second to my father's gambling, to his needs, to his pride. I won't spend my marriage the same way."
"You're not."
"Aren't I?" Her voice was quiet but firm.
"I know you’re going back to the club, Andrew.
I knew it the moment Mr. Greene appeared and demanded to know more about your business.
I can see in your eyes that you are eager to go check on the place.
But must you go? Can you not just stay here with me instead? "
He opened his mouth to answer and realized he couldn't.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they weren't saying.
"I should check on the dinner preparations," Isobel said finally. "Mrs. Brendan wanted to discuss the menu for when Lord Ashford calls next week."
She walked away, leaving him standing in the garden with a half-trained puppy and a heart full of questions he didn't know how to answer.
"You look troubled."
Andrew glanced up from his untouched whiskey to find Norman settling into the chair across from him. They were in Andrew's study, the fire crackling in the hearth, rain pattering against the windows.
"I'm fine.”
"You're brooding. There's a difference." Norman stretched his legs out. "What's happened?"
"Nothing's happened. Everything is perfectly fine."
"Andrew." Norman's voice took on that patient tone that meant he wasn't going anywhere until Andrew talked.
"I've known you since we were children. I can tell when something's eating at you.
So either tell me what it is, or I'll be forced to guess, and my guesses tend to be embarrassingly accurate. "
Despite himself, Andrew smiled. "Fine. It's Isobel."
"More trouble?"
"Not trouble. Just..." Andrew set down his glass. "Complications."
"Marriage is complicated—especially during the first year when the bride and groom are just getting used to one another’s quirks." Norman leaned forward. "What sort of complications?"
"She thinks the Mayfair Fox is more important to me than she is."
"Ah." Norman sat back. "And is it?"
"No. Of course not." The answer came automatically, but even as he said it, doubt crept in.