Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
"You're back."
Her father's voice held no warmth, only a kind of grim satisfaction as Isobel stepped through the door of the Leyton house. He stood in the hallway, a glass of whiskey already in hand despite the early hour, his eyes taking in her traveling bag with calculating interest.
"I am." Isobel moved past him without waiting for permission, heading toward the stairs. "Temporarily."
"Trouble in paradise already?" Lord Leyton followed her, his voice taking on that familiar mocking tone. "I knew that rake couldn't keep a woman satisfied for long. Too busy with his club and his whores to—"
"Careful." Isobel stopped on the third step, turning to look down at him. "I may be staying here temporarily, but I am still the Duchess of Foxdrey. And you will speak of my husband with respect, or you will not speak to me at all."
Her father blinked, clearly taken aback. "Since when do you have a spine?"
"Since I married a man who taught me that I deserve better than being treated like property." She continued up the stairs. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to rest."
She didn't wait for his response, didn't look back to see his reaction. The old Isobel would have cowered, would have apologized, would have made herself small to avoid his anger.
But she wasn't that woman anymore.
Joan appeared in the hallway as Isobel reached her old chamber, her eyes wide with concern. "Isobel? What are you doing here? What's happened?"
"Can we talk?" Isobel asked quietly. "In private?"
Joan nodded, following her into the room and closing the door behind them.
The chamber looked exactly as Isobel had left it—the faded wallpaper, the narrow bed, the window that looked out over the cramped garden. It felt smaller somehow, now that she'd experienced the spacious elegance of Foxdrey House.
Or perhaps she was the one who'd grown.
"Tell me," Joan said, sitting on the bed and patting the space beside her.
Isobel set down her bag and sank onto the mattress, suddenly exhausted. The events of the past twelve hours crashed over her—the ball, the whispers, Andrew's burned and broken appearance, their argument, her decision to leave.
"The Mayfair Fox burned down," she said finally.
Joan gasped. "Oh no. Was anyone hurt?"
"No. Andrew got everyone out safely." Isobel's throat tightened. "But the building is gone. Everything he built, just... gone."
"Poor Andrew." Joan took her hand. "He must be devastated."
"He is." Isobel stared at their joined hands. "And I left him."
The words hung in the air between them.
"You left him?" Joan's voice was careful, neutral. "Why?"
"Because he asked me to." Isobel looked up, meeting her sister's concerned gaze. "Not in so many words, but that's what he meant. He said he needed time alone to figure out who he is without the club. That he doesn't know what makes him different from his father without it."
"That's understandable, isn't it?" Joan asked gently. "The club was his entire life. His identity. It makes sense that losing it would send him into a crisis."
"Of course it makes sense." Isobel pulled her hand away, standing and pacing to the window. "I'm not some unfeeling monster, Joan. I understand that he's hurting. That he's lost something incredibly important to him. But..."
"But?"
"But he's so focused on what he's lost that he can't see what he still has." The words came out tersely. "He kept saying he doesn't know who he is without the Mayfair Fox. As if being a duke means nothing. As if restoring Foxdrey means nothing. As if being my husband means nothing."
Joan was quiet for a moment. "Did he say that? That being your husband means nothing?"
"He didn't have to say it." Isobel pressed her forehead against the cool glass. "He made it clear that figuring out his identity crisis is more important than our marriage. That he needs to be alone to sort himself out."
"So you gave him what he asked for."
"Yes." Isobel turned to face her sister. "I gave him exactly what he asked for. Time and space to figure out who Andrew Pasley is without the Mayfair Fox defining him."
"But you're hurt," Joan observed. "I can see it in your eyes."
"Of course I'm hurt!" The admission burst out of her. "I stood there watching him fall apart, and all I wanted was to help him. To hold him. To tell him everything would be all right."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because it wouldn't have helped." Isobel sank back onto the bed.
"Don't you see? If I stay and try to fix this for him, I'm just enabling him to keep avoiding the real issue.
He needs to believe in his own worth, not just rely on me to tell him he's worthy.
He needs to choose to be my husband, not just default to it because I'm there. "
Joan studied her for a long moment. "You've changed."
"Have I?"
"You have—in a good way. So, you think he can fix this?" Joan asked. "On his own?"
"I know he can." Isobel's voice was certain.
"Andrew is brilliant and strong and capable of anything he sets his mind to.
He rebuilt an entire Dukedom from nothing.
He created a successful business from the same vice that destroyed his father.
He's more than capable of figuring out who he is without the club. "
"But?"
"But he has to want to do it." Isobel met her sister's eyes. "He has to want to be whole for himself, not just for me. And I can't force that. All I can do is give him the space to figure it out and hope that when he does, he'll realize I'm worth fighting for."
"Of course you're worth fighting for," Joan said fiercely. "You're worth everything."
Isobel smiled sadly. "I hope Andrew comes to that conclusion too."
They sat in silence for a moment, the morning sun streaming through the window.
"What will you do now?" Joan asked finally.
"Wait," Isobel said simply. "And hope."
The hours bled together.
Andrew sat in his study at Foxdrey House, staring at the ledgers spread across his desk without really seeing them. Numbers swam before his eyes—accounts, investments, properties. He had more money than he could spend in several lifetimes.
And none of it mattered.
Chance lay at his feet, occasionally whining and looking toward the door as if expecting Isobel to walk through it at any moment. The dog had barely eaten since she left, and Andrew couldn't blame him. He'd barely eaten either.
Mrs. Brendan kept bringing trays of food that went untouched. The staff moved through the house like ghosts, speaking in hushed voices as if someone had died.
Perhaps someone had. Perhaps the Andrew Pasley who'd existed before the fire was gone, and what remained was just a hollow shell wearing his face.
A knock at the study door made him look up. "I said no visitors."
The door opened anyway.
Norman strode in, his expression thunderous. "Good morning to you too, cousin."
"Norman." Andrew turned back to his ledgers. "I'm not in the mood for company."
"I don't care." Norman crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy without asking. "You look like hell."
"Thank you. Your observational skills are as sharp as ever."
"When did you last eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
"When did you last sleep?"
"I'm not tired."
"When did you last bathe?"
Andrew's jaw tightened. "Get out, Norman."
"No." Norman settled into the chair across from the desk, stretching his legs out. "Not until you talk to me like a rational human being instead of a sulking child."
"I'm not sulking."
"You're wallowing." Norman took a sip of his brandy. "There's a difference, but not much of one. Both are equally pathetic."
"If you came here to insult me—"
"I came here to shake some sense into you." Norman set down his glass with a sharp click. "Where is your wife, Andrew?"
The question rocked Andrew. "You know where she is."
"I know she left. What I don't know is why you're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself instead of going after her."
"She left because she wanted to leave." Andrew's voice was flat. "She made her choice."
"Did she?" Norman leaned forward. "Or did you drive her away by telling her you needed to be alone?"
"I didn't—" Andrew stopped, because that was exactly what he'd done. "It's more complicated than that."
"Is it?" Norman's gaze was relentless. "From where I'm sitting, it looks pretty simple. You lost your club, you panicked, you pushed away the one person who could help you, and now you're sitting here alone wondering why you feel so bloody miserable."
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me." Norman crossed his arms. "Make me understand why you're throwing away your marriage."
"I'm not throwing anything away!" Andrew slammed his hand on the desk, making Chance yelp and scurry away.
"I'm trying to—" He stopped, his breath coming in short gasps.
"I'm trying to figure out who I am, Norman.
Without the Mayfair Fox. Without the identity I've built over twelve years.
I need to know if there's anything underneath all that. "
"And you think Isobel would judge you if there isn't?" Norman's voice was gentler now. "You think she'd love you less if you're just Andrew instead of the Mayfair Fox?"
"I don't know!" The admission tore out of him. "I don't know what she sees when she looks at me, Norman. Does she see me? Or does she see the Duke, the businessman, the man who saved her from ruin? If all of that disappears, if I'm just... nothing... will she still want me?"
"You're not nothing." Norman stood, moving around the desk. "You're a duke. A friend. A cousin. A husband. Those things don't disappear because a building burned down."
"Don't they?" Andrew looked up at him. "The only reason I restored the Dukedom was because of the Mayfair Fox. The only reason Isobel married me was because of the way I could scrub free her father’s debts.
Everything I am, everything I've accomplished, it all comes back to that club. Without it, I'm just—"