Chapter 23 #2
Was it true? He'd spent the past month prioritizing Isobel—attending social events, staying home for dinner, training a ridiculous puppy. He'd been present in a way he never had been before, not with any woman.
But the club still called to him. He still thought about it constantly, worried about it, felt its absence like a missing piece of himself.
"The problem," Andrew said slowly, "is that I don't know how to give all my priorities the proper amount of attention. I want to be the man who runs the Mayfair Fox and the husband Isobel deserves. They feel like two different people, and I can't figure out how to reconcile them."
"Why do they have to be different people?" Norman asked. "Why can't you be both?"
"Because the Mayfair Fox requires everything.
My time, my attention, my presence. And so does marriage.
So does she." Andrew scrubbed a hand down his face.
"This is the first time since I created the club that I haven't been there almost every night.
The first time I've let someone else handle the day-to-day operations.
And part of me feels like I'm abandoning it. Like I'm letting it fail."
"Is it failing?"
"No. Annette's doing a fine job managing things." That should have made him feel better. Instead, it made him feel oddly... unnecessary.
"Then what's really bothering you?" Norman's gaze was too knowing. "Because this doesn't sound like a man worried about his business. This sounds like a man afraid of who he is without it."
"I don't—" Andrew stopped, forced himself to be honest. "You're right. Without the Mayfair Fox, I'm just the son of a drunk and a gambler. I'm the Duke who inherited ruins and barely rebuilt them in time."
"You're a good man," Norman cut in firmly. "A loyal friend. A protective cousin. And from what I can see, a husband who's actually trying, which is more than most men in our circles can claim."
"Trying isn't enough. Not for Isobel." Andrew picked up his whiskey again, staring into the amber liquid. "She deserves someone who can give her everything. Someone who isn't constantly torn between two different versions of himself."
"Have you considered that maybe Isobel doesn't want everything?" Norman asked. "Maybe she just wants you. The real you, flaws and complications and identity crises included."
"She wants me to choose."
"Does she? Or does she just want to know where she stands?" Norman leaned forward again. "There's a difference between asking someone to give up a part of themselves and asking them to make room for you in their priorities."
Andrew was quiet, turning that over in his mind.
"Let me ask you something," Norman continued. "Could you spend the rest of your life without another woman?"
The question was so unexpected that Andrew actually laughed. "What?"
"It's a simple question. Before Isobel, you had a reputation. Multiple affairs, many women. Could you give that up permanently? Spend the rest of your life with only your wife?"
Andrew opened his mouth to answer, and realized the words came easily.
"Yes. I could. I have." He set down his glass, certainty settling in his chest. "I haven't thought about another woman since the day I proposed to Isobel. The idea of being with anyone else feels... wrong. Impossible. Like trying to breathe underwater."
Norman's smile was infuriatingly smug. "There it is."
"There what is?"
"You're in love with her, you fool."
"I'm not." Andrew stopped. Was he?
He thought about Isobel's laugh. The way she looked at him like she could see past all his carefully constructed defenses. The feel of her in his arms, the taste of her on his lips. The way his entire world seemed to shift on its axis when she walked into a room.
The way nothing—not the club, not his reputation, not his carefully built identity—mattered as much as making her happy.
"Oh God," he said faintly. "I care for her."
Norman laughed, loud and delighted. "Finally! I was beginning to think you'd never figure it out."
"When did this happen?" Andrew felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. "How did this happen?"
"Gradually, I imagine. Then all at once." Norman raised his glass in a toast. "Welcome to the club, cousin. The 'Hopelessly Besotted Husbands' club. Membership: permanent. Benefits: terrifying. Worth it: absolutely."
"She doesn't know."
"Then tell her."
"I can't just—" Andrew stood, pacing to the window. "What if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I'm alone in this?"
"You're not." Norman's voice was certain. "I've seen the way she looks at you when you're not watching. The way she defended you to that ass Dalton. The way she lights up when you walk into a room. Trust me, Andrew. You're not alone in this."
Andrew pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his mind racing.
He was in love with his wife.
The woman he'd married for convenience. For business. For respectability.
He'd gone and fallen completely, irrevocably in love with her.
And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
"Norman?" he said without turning around.
"Yes?"
"If I have to choose between the Mayfair Fox and Isobel..." He took a breath. "I'm choosing her. I think I've been choosing her for weeks now. I just didn't realize it."
"Good man." Norman stood, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now you just need to tell her that. And preferably before you do something stupid like try to keep juggling both and end up losing everything."
"Helpful as always," Andrew said dryly.
"That's what I'm here for." Norman headed for the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, I think Isobel will surprise you. She's not asking you to give up the club entirely. She's just asking you to make room for her too. And it seems like you've already started doing that."
After Norman left, Andrew remained at the window, watching rain stream down the glass.
He needed to talk to Isobel. Needed to tell her how he felt, what she meant to him, that she'd somehow become more important than everything else combined.
But first, he needed to figure out what he was going to do about the Mayfair Fox. Because Norman was right about one thing: he couldn't keep juggling both forever.
Eventually, something would have to give. He just hoped it wouldn't be his marriage.