Chapter 30
Thirty
"Miss Leyton is asking for you again."
Isobel looked up from the book she'd been pretending to read, the same page she'd been staring at for the past hour. Mrs. Hartwell, the housekeeper, stood in the doorway of the drawing room, her expression sympathetic.
"Tell her I'll be up shortly."
"She says it's urgent, Your Grace. Something about her embroidery pattern."
Despite everything, Isobel felt her lips twitch. Joan's emergencies were rarely actual emergencies. "I'll go now."
She climbed the stairs slowly, her body feeling heavier with each step. Four days. It had been four days since she'd left Foxdrey House, and each day felt longer than the last.
She'd expected, hoped, that Andrew would come after her immediately. That he'd realize his mistake and show up at her father's door, ready to fight for their marriage.
But he hadn't come.
And with each passing day, a small voice in her head grew louder, insisting that perhaps he never would. That perhaps she'd been wrong about him. That perhaps the Mayfair Fox really had been all he was, and without it, there was nothing left worth fighting for.
Joan's room was bright with afternoon sunlight, her sister sitting by the window with her embroidery hoop in her lap. But the moment Isobel entered, Joan set it aside.
"There's no emergency with your embroidery, is there?" Isobel asked.
"No." Joan patted the seat beside her. "I needed to talk to you. Really talk."
Isobel sank into the chair, suddenly exhausted. "I'm fine, Joan."
"You're not." Joan took her hand. "You've barely eaten. You're not sleeping. You jump every time there's a knock at the door. This isn't fine, Isobel."
"What do you want me to say?" Isobel pulled her hand away, standing and pacing to the window. "That I'm waiting for my husband to come for me? That every morning I wake up thinking this will be the day? That every night I go to bed disappointed?"
"Do you still believe he will come?"
The question hung in the air.
Did she still believe?
"I don't know," Isobel admitted quietly. "Part of me does.”
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. “But part of me doesn’t. He hasn't come, Joan. It's been more than a week, and he hasn't even sent a note. What am I supposed to think?"
"That he's working through the hardest thing he's ever had to face." Joan stood, moving to her sister. "That he's fighting demons you can't see. That he loves you enough to want to be whole before he comes back."
"Or that he doesn't love me enough to fight for us." She fought back tears. "Maybe I made it too easy for him. Maybe by leaving, I just gave him an excuse to let me go."
"Isobel."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Mrs. Hartwell appeared again, slightly breathless.
"Your Grace, there's—there's a visitor. For you."
Isobel's heart stuttered. "Who?"
"The Duke of Foxdrey, Your Grace. He's waiting downstairs with a carriage."
The world seemed to tilt.
"Tell him—" Isobel started, then stopped. Tell him what? That she'd been waiting? That she was angry it took so long? That she was terrified and hopeful and so desperately in love she could barely breathe?
"Tell him I'll be down in a moment."
Mrs. Hartwell curtseyed and left.
Joan squeezed her hand. "Go. Listen to what he has to say. And Isobel? Trust your heart. It brought you this far."
Isobel nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. She smoothed down her dress—a simple day dress, nothing special—and wished she'd worn something nicer. Then she laughed at herself for caring about such trivial things when her entire future was waiting downstairs.
She descended the stairs slowly, each step feeling momentous. Through the open door, she could see the carriage waiting on the street. A fine carriage, newer than the one Andrew usually used.
And there, standing in the entrance hall, was her husband.
He looked different. Still haggard, still bearing the marks of the fire—she could see fresh pink scars on his neck and hands—but there was something in his bearing that had changed. He stood straighter. His eyes, when they met hers, held something she hadn't seen before.
Certainty.
"Isobel." Her name came out rough. "Thank you for seeing me."
"I wasn't aware I had a choice." She kept her voice neutral, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
"True." A ghost of his old smile flickered across his face. "Though I would have waited outside until you agreed to see me if necessary. I'm quite prepared to be persistent."
"Are you?" She descended the last few steps, maintaining careful distance between them. "And what exactly are you being persistent about?"
"You." The word was simple, absolute. "Us. Our marriage. Our future."
"Those are lovely words, Andrew." She hated how her voice wavered. "But you've always been good with words."
"I have." He took a step closer, then stopped, as if respecting the space she needed. "I've been very good at saying what I thought people wanted to hear. At playing roles. At being the Mayfair Fox instead of just Andrew."
"And now?"
"Now the Fox is gone." He spread his hands. "The building burned. The reputation is in ruins. The identity I spent twelve years building has turned to ash. And you know what I discovered?"
"What?"
"I'm still here." His voice was quiet but steady. "Andrew Pasley. Duke of Foxdrey. Your husband. I'm still here, and I'm still standing, and the world hasn't ended just because the club is gone."
Isobel felt something crack in her chest. "You figured it out."
"I'm figuring it out," he corrected. "I won't lie and say I have all the answers. I don't know who Andrew Pasley is without the Mayfair Fox, not completely. But I know who I want to be. Who I'm choosing to be."
"And who is that?"
"Your husband." He moved closer, close enough that she could see the earnestness in his ocean-blue eyes.
"Not because it's convenient or beneficial or expected.
But because you, Isobel Pasley, are the only thing I've found that actually matters.
The only part of my life that's real instead of performance. The only prize worth claiming."
Her throat tightened. "Andrew."
"Let me finish." He reached out, then stopped, his hand hovering between them. "Please. I need to say this. I've been practicing for two days, and if I don't get it all out now, I'll forget half of it."
Despite everything, she felt her lips twitch. "You practiced?"
"For hours. Norman said I sounded like an idiot the first forty times, but by attempt forty-one I was almost coherent." His smile was self-deprecating. "Though I suppose we'll see if all that practice actually helped."
"Go on then." She crossed her arms, armor against hope. "Say what you came to say."
He took a breath. "You once told me I turn everything into a wager."
"I did."
"You were right. I've spent my entire adult life gambling, not with cards or dice, but with my choices.
Every decision was calculated to prove I wasn't my father.
Every action designed to show the world that I was different.
Better. Worth something." He stepped closer.
"But the biggest gamble I ever took was with you. And I almost lost."
"Andrew."
"Consider this my last wager, my darling.
" The endearment came out tender, almost shy.
"If you step into that carriage—" He gestured toward the door.
"—I promise I will spend every day trying to be a worthy husband to you.
I will choose you over everything. I will love you loudly and proudly and without reservation. "
Her heart was racing so fast she felt dizzy. "And if I don't?"
His smile was gentle. "Then I shall keep coming until you do. Every day. Twice a day if necessary. I'll write letters. I'll send flowers. I'll stand outside this house and declare my love until your father has me arrested for disturbing the peace." His voice softened. "And I never lose, remember?"
The callback to their first real conversation, when she'd been running from a failed wedding and he'd been chasing his puppy, made something inside her break open.
This was what she'd been waiting for. Not pretty words or grand gestures, but this. Him. Andrew, stripped of all his armor, offering himself without the protection of his reputation or his club or his careful control.
Just him.
"That's one wager I want to lose," she whispered.
Hope flared in his eyes. "Does that mean—"
"It means I'm willing to take the risk." She moved toward him, closing the distance between them.
He took her hands, his grip warm and certain. Tears pricked her eyes. "You really figured it out."
"I had help." His thumb stroked across her knuckles. "Norman came and knocked some sense into me. Told me I was being an idiot."
"Your cousin is quite intelligent."
"Don't tell him that. His head is already too big." Andrew's smile faded into something more serious. "Isobel, I'm sorry. For all of it."
She kissed him.
It was impulse, pure and simple. She couldn't listen to another word without touching him, without showing him that she forgave him, that she loved him, that she was choosing him too.
He made a sound of surprise, then his arms came around her, pulling her close. The kiss was different from their others, less about heat and more about homecoming. About finding something lost. About choosing each other when it would have been easier to walk away.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she saw tears on his cheeks.
"Is that a yes?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "Will you get in the carriage?"
"Where are we going?"
"I want to show you something." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, unashamed. "Something I bought. Something I hope will be ours."
"Ours?"
"If you'll have me back."
She should make him wait. Should protect herself against the possibility of being hurt again.
But she was done with fear. Done with protecting herself at the cost of happiness.
"Show me," she said simply.
His smile could have lit all of London.
He kept hold of her hand as they walked out to the carriage, helping her up with careful attention. She saw Joan watching from the upstairs window, a wide grin on her face. Her father stood in the doorway; his expression unreadable.
Andrew climbed in beside her, and the carriage rolled forward.
"Where are we going?" she asked again.
"Somewhere you’ll love. Only a few hours ride away." He shifted nervously, a gesture so unlike his usual confidence that it made her heart squeeze. "I know I should have discussed it with you first. Should have asked your opinion. But I saw it and I just... knew."
"Knew what?"
"That it could be ours. Not mine. Not a monument to my past or proof of my worth. Just... ours. Something we could build together."
He had seen the place once before — months ago, before his marriage — when the property had been briefly offered to him as an investment. He had dismissed it then without much thought.
They rode in comfortable silence for a while, Andrew's thumb stroking circles on the back of her hand. The city gave way to countryside, green fields rolling past the windows.
"I've been thinking," Andrew said eventually. "About what to do next. About rebuilding."
Isobel tensed slightly. "The Mayfair Fox?"
"No." He met her eyes. "I'm not rebuilding the Fox. That chapter of my life is closed. Dalton burned it down, and perhaps that's what needed to happen. Perhaps I needed to lose it to finally understand I'm more than what I've built."
"Then what will you do?"
"I don't know yet." His smile was lighter than she'd seen in days. "And that feels... freeing."
The carriage slowed, then stopped.
"We're here," Andrew said, suddenly nervous again. "Close your eyes."
"Andrew."
"Please. Just for a moment. I want it to be a surprise."
She obeyed, letting him help her down from the carriage. She heard birds singing, felt warm sunlight on her face, smelled fresh-cut grass and flowers.
"All right," Andrew said softly. "Open them."
She opened her eyes and gasped.
Before them stood a manor house, bigger than Foxdrey House, but no less beautiful. Or at least, it would be beautiful. Currently, it looked a bit worse for wear.
The paint was peeling, several windows were cracked, and the gardens were overgrown. But the bones were good. The architecture was elegant, with tall windows and graceful columns.
It had potential.
"It needs work," Andrew said quickly. "A lot of work. The roof leaks in three places. The east wing needs completely new windows. The gardens haven't been tended in years. But the structure is sound, and the property is gorgeous, and I thought—I hoped—"
"It's beautiful," Isobel breathed.
"It's a disaster," Andrew corrected. "But it could be beautiful.
With time. With effort. With us working on it together.
" He turned to face her fully. "That's what I want to offer you, Isobel.
Not a pristine estate that proves how successful I am.
Not some grand gesture that shows the world I've rebuilt from the ashes.
Just this. A house that needs love. A project we can share.
A place that's ours from the beginning, not something I built before you or that I'm trying to restore to some former glory. "
She stared at the house, at the peeling paint and cracked windows and overgrown gardens, and felt something shift in her chest.
This wasn't a monument to Andrew's success. It wasn't proof of anything except that he was willing to start fresh. To build something new instead of clinging to the past.
She walked toward the house slowly, taking in every detail. The way the afternoon light caught the windows. The roses climbing up the walls, wild but beautiful. The small pond in the distance where ducks were swimming.
"There's a studio," Andrew said, following her. "On the second floor. Perfect light for painting. I thought you might like it."
She turned to look at him. "You thought about me when you chose this house."
"I thought about nothing but you." He moved closer. "About what you might want. About the life we could build here. About raising children in a place that's filled with love instead of ghosts." His hand came up to cup her cheek. "About growing old with you in a house we made beautiful together."
"Children?" Her voice caught on the word.
"If you want them." His smile was soft.
She looked at the house again, imagining it restored. Imagining curtains in the windows and flowers in the gardens. Imagining children running across the lawn while Chance chased them, barking happily.
Imagining a life built on love instead of fear.
"Show me the studio," she said.