Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Isobel's body still thrummed with the aftershocks of pleasure, her breathing slowly returning to normal as she lay cradled in Andrew's arms on the settee in the room. They'd somehow made their way there from the table, a trail of clothes marking their path.
He had guided her away from the settee slowly, backing her toward the wall until there was nowhere left to retreat.
Then, with a quiet shift of intent, he’d turned her, leading her across the room instead — toward the table where scattered papers and candlelight marked a harder surface.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, his other arm wrapped securely around her waist. She felt safe. Cherished. Like maybe, finally, they were finding their way to something real.
"That was..." Andrew's voice was rough, satisfied. "You're magnificent, you know that?"
She smiled against his chest, too content to form words. This was what she'd been afraid to hope for—this closeness, this vulnerability, this feeling of being wanted for herself rather than for what she could provide.
"We should probably—" Andrew started.
A sharp knock at the door cut him off.
They both froze.
"Your Grace?" It was Pemberton, Andrew's butler, his voice carefully neutral through the closed door. "Forgive the interruption, but there's an urgent matter requiring your attention."
Andrew's entire body tensed beneath her. "Can it wait?"
"I'm afraid not, Your Grace. A messenger has arrived from the Mayfair Fox. He says it's critical."
Isobel felt Andrew's arms loosen around her, felt him already pulling away even before he'd moved. The warmth that had filled her moments ago began to drain away, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.
"I'll be there in a moment," Andrew called out.
Pemberton's footsteps retreated down the hall.
Andrew sat up, gently disentangling himself from her and reaching for his discarded waistcoat. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
"Go. I understand." The words tasted bitter, but she forced them out with a calm she didn't feel.
He paused in buttoning his waistcoat, his eyes searching her face. "Isobel, I’m sorry."
"It's fine, Andrew. Truly." She stood, hurriedly throwing on her clothes with shaking hands, not looking at him. "You should see what the emergency is."
"I'll be back as soon as I can." He reached for her hand, but she stepped away, busying herself with straightening her hair and garments.
"Don't rush on my account. I should prepare for bed anyway. Tomorrow is a busy day with the ball preparations."
"Isobel." His voice held a note of something, concern, perhaps, or guilt. "Don't do this. Don't pull away."
"I'm not pulling away." She forced herself to meet his gaze, to keep her expression neutral. "I'm simply being practical. You have business to attend to. I need rest. It's sensible."
He stared at her for a long moment, and she could see the war happening behind his eyes, the pull of duty against the desire to stay.
Duty won. It always did.
"Get some rest," he said finally. "I want you well-rested for tomorrow. Our ball should be perfect for Joan."
The fact that he thought she could simply go to sleep after this, after everything, made something inside her crack.
"Of course," she said, her voice hollow. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He hesitated at the door, his hand resting on the frame, as though he might turn back.
Beyond it, Isobel heard voices. Pemberton’s measured tones, followed by another, lower and unfamiliar.
Andrew straightened at once. Whatever the message was, it had already claimed him.
He left.
Isobel stood alone in the room, surrounded by the evidence of their passion—the scattered clothes, the rumpled cushions on the settee, the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with her perfume.
And she felt like the greatest fool in all of England.
What did you expect? He told you who he was. Told you the club was his priority. You're the one who convinced yourself that might change.
She'd been counting on him. Counting on the promises he'd made, the tenderness he'd shown, the way he'd held her like she was precious. She'd let herself believe that maybe she could be enough to make him choose her over the Mayfair Fox.
But at the first summons from his club, he'd left without a second thought. Left her alone in a room still warm from their passion, as if none of it had meant anything at all.
"Foolish," she whispered to the empty room. "So incredibly foolish."
She made her way upstairs to her chambers, her legs still unsteady, her body still humming with the memory of his touch.
Selene was waiting to help her undress, but Isobel sent her away, unable to bear the thought of anyone seeing her like this—raw and vulnerable and aching with a hurt that had nothing to do with her body.
She climbed into bed alone, pulled the covers up to her chin, and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep didn't come. How could it, when her mind kept replaying the last hour? The way he'd touched her and how she also responded by pleasuring him. The things he'd said. The promises he'd made, not with words, but with actions that spoke louder than any vow.
And then the way he'd left, so easily, so quickly, when his precious club called.
The sky was beginning to lighten with dawn when she finally heard his footsteps in the hall, the soft click of his chamber door closing.
He'd been gone all night.
Morning came too soon and was too bright.
“Mrs. Brendan, the lilies for the east table are insufficient,” Isobel said briskly as she examined the arrangements. “We shall require twice as many.”
“Twice, Your Grace?” Mrs. Brendan blinked. “The room will be a veritable conservatory.”
“Then let it be one,” she replied. “Now, have the footmen bring the menu drafts. The pheasant must be reconsidered.”
“You approved it not an hour past,” Mrs. Brendan said gently.
“Then I am approving it again.” Isobel’s eyes fixed on the papers as a footman hurried to present them for her inspection. “One cannot be too thorough.”
She shuffled the guest cards with unnecessary force. “Lady Pennington must not be seated beside Lord Hawthorne. They would start a war before the soup is served. The ball must be good. There is no room for distraction.”
Isobel lifted her chin quickly. “Make the flowers very symmetrical. Now, please, fetch the lists. There is work to be done.”
Isobel threw herself into preparations for the ball with single-minded determination. There were flowers to arrange, menus to approve, and guest lists to review. She kept herself so busy that she didn't have time to think, didn't have space for the hurt still festering in her chest.
Mrs. Brendan gave her concerned looks but said nothing. She simply carried out Isobel's instructions with her usual efficiency.
"Your Grace," the housekeeper said around midday, "His Grace has finally risen. He's asking for you in the garden."
"I'm rather occupied at the moment." Isobel didn't look up from the seating chart she was revising. "Please tell him I'll find him when I have time."
Mrs. Brendan hesitated. "He seemed quite insistent, Your Grace."
"As am I." Isobel's voice came out sharper than intended. She softened it with effort. "I'm sure whatever it is can wait. We have a ball to prepare for."
Mrs. Brendan curtsied and retreated, leaving Isobel alone with her charts and her wounded pride.
She knew she was being petty. Knew that avoiding him solved nothing. But she couldn't face him yet, couldn't look into those ocean-blue eyes and pretend everything was fine when her heart felt like it was shattering into increasingly smaller pieces.
He'd chosen. Just as she'd always feared he would. And she'd been naive enough to hope otherwise.
An hour later, she was in the ballroom overseeing the placement of floral arrangements when she heard Chance's excited barking from the entrance hall.
"At least someone is happy to see me," Andrew's voice drifted in, colored with amusement and something else, something that sounded almost hurt. "Everyone else in this house seems determined to ignore me."
Isobel's hands stilled on the roses she was arranging.
"There you are, boy. Good to see you too." A pause. "Your mistress, however, appears to have forgotten I exist. Do you think she's angry with me?"
Chance barked again, the sound echoing through the house.
"I thought not. She's far too dignified to show it when she's angry. She simply becomes very, very busy and pretends I'm not there." His voice was getting closer. "Do you know what I did wrong, boy? Because I'm at a complete loss."
Isobel bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the urge to march out there and tell him exactly what he'd done wrong.
"Perhaps you could put in a good word for me?" Andrew continued, clearly addressing the dog. "Tell her I'm sorry for whatever transgression I've committed? That I miss her desperately even though it's only been a few hours?"
Despite herself, despite the hurt still raw in her chest, Isobel felt her lips twitch.
He was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.
And she was dangerously close to forgiving him.
"Nothing?" Andrew sighed dramatically. "You're as cold as your mistress. I'm surrounded by heartless creatures, I tell you."
Footsteps approached the ballroom. Isobel quickly turned back to her flowers, determined not to let him see how his words affected her.
"There you are." Andrew appeared in the doorway, Chance trotting at his heels. "I've been looking for you everywhere."
"I've been here." She kept her voice neutral, her attention on the roses. "Preparing for the ball. As you requested."
"Isobel."
"These centerpieces need to be good. Joan deserves to have a beautiful time." She moved to the next table, refusing to look at him. "I trust your business at the club was resolved satisfactorily?"
Silence. Then: "You're angry with me."
"I'm not angry."
"You're something." He moved closer, and she felt his presence like a furnace at her back. "You've been avoiding me all day. You won't look at me. You're speaking in that terribly polite voice you use when you want to be anywhere but near me."
"I've been busy." She adjusted a rose that didn't need adjusting. "Some of us have responsibilities that can't be set aside the moment something more interesting comes along."
"Ah." His voice went quiet. "So you are angry. About last night."
"I said I'm not."
"Isobel." He caught her wrist gently, stopping her frantic arranging. "Look at me. Please."
She didn't want to. Didn't want to see the confusion in his eyes, the hurt that she was causing by pushing him away. But she also couldn't help herself.
She turned, lifting her chin defiantly, and met his gaze.
He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, his cravat was slightly askew, and his hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it all morning.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I'm sorry I had to leave last night. I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner. I'm sorry for... whatever I did that made you look at me like I'm the enemy."
"You didn't do anything." The lie tasted bitter. "You went to handle an emergency at your club. That's perfectly reasonable."
"Then why does it feel like you're a thousand miles away even though you're standing right in front of me?"
Because she'd let herself hope. Because she'd believed, for one moment, that she might be enough to make him stay. Because watching him walk away had felt like confirmation of every fear she'd been trying to ignore.
But she couldn't say any of that. Couldn't make herself that vulnerable when he'd already proven where his priorities lay.
"I'm simply tired," she said instead. "It was a long night and today has been busy. That's all."
He stared at her for a long moment, clearly not believing her but also not knowing how to push past her defenses.
"Right," he said finally, releasing her wrist. "Well. I'll leave you to your preparations then. I wouldn't want to be in the way."
He turned to go, and Chance immediately trotted after him—then stopped, looked back at Isobel, and returned to sit at her feet.
Andrew paused, glancing down at the dog. "Traitor."
Chance ignored him, leaning against Isobel's skirts with a contented sigh.
"Even the dog is taking her side now." Andrew's laugh was hollow. "I really am in trouble."
And then he was gone, leaving Isobel alone in the ballroom with a puppy and a heart that felt like it was breaking.
She sank down onto a chair, her carefully maintained composure finally cracking. Chance whined and put his head in her lap, and she stroked his soft fur with trembling hands.
"What am I doing?" she whispered. "Why does this hurt so much?"
But she knew the answer.
It hurt because she loved him. Despite everything—despite her fears, despite the warnings, despite knowing better—she'd fallen hopelessly, desperately in love with her husband.
And loving him meant giving him the power to hurt her. Meant watching him choose his club over her again and again. Meant accepting that she would never be his first priority, no matter how much she wished it could be different.
The question was: could she live with that?
Could she spend the rest of her life loving a man who would always put something else first