Chapter 31
Thirty-One
The house was even more magnificent on the inside than Andrew had anticipated, or perhaps it was just that seeing it through Isobel's eyes made everything more vivid.
They walked through the entrance hall together, their footsteps echoing on dusty floorboards. Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, illuminating dancing dust motes. The walls needed fresh paint, the furnishings were covered in holland cloths, but the potential was undeniable.
"It's larger than it looks from outside," Isobel said, her voice hushed as if speaking too loudly might break the spell.
"Fifteen rooms total," Andrew said, his hand finding the small of her back naturally. "Not including the servants' quarters. The previous owner died without heirs, and the property has been sitting empty for almost two years. I got it for a song, really."
"When did you buy it?"
"Five days ago." He guided her toward the stairs.
"The morning after Norman came to see me.
I couldn't sleep, so I rode out before dawn, just trying to clear my head.
And I found this place." He paused at the base of the staircase, his hand tightening slightly on her waist. "The moment I saw it, I thought of you. Of us. Of starting fresh."
She looked up at him, those amber eyes searching his face. "Five days ago. You've been planning this for five days."
"I've been trying to find the courage for five days," he corrected.
"The planning took about an hour. The execution—actually buying the property, arranging for initial repairs, working out what I wanted to say to you—that was the easy part.
Finding the courage to face you after how I behaved? That took longer."
"Oh, Andrew."
"Let me show you the studio first." He took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "Then I need to say some things. Things I should have said days ago."
The stairs creaked under their feet as they climbed to the second floor. Andrew led her down a hallway, past closed doors, until they reached the room at the very end.
"Close your eyes again," he said softly.
"You're very fond of that request today."
"Indulge me. One last time."
She obeyed, a small smile playing at her lips. He opened the door, then positioned her in the doorway.
"Open them."
The studio was everything she imagined it would be.
The entire north wall was windows—tall, graceful windows that let in soft, even light. The walls were painted a warm cream, and while the room needed cleaning, the bones were extraordinary. There was even a small alcove with built-in shelving, perfect for storing supplies.
"Oh," Isobel breathed.
"The light is set just right for painting," Andrew said, moving to stand beside her.
"North-facing, so it stays consistent throughout the day.
And look—" He crossed to the windows, gesturing outside.
"The view overlooks the gardens and the pond.
Once we get the roses under control, it'll be spectacular. "
She moved into the room slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might make it disappear. Her fingers trailed along the windowsill, and he saw the exact moment she noticed the easel he'd had delivered yesterday.
"You bought an easel."
"I ordered several easels. And paints. And canvas.
And probably far too many brushes because I wasn't sure which kind you preferred.
" He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.
"They were brought in this morning and are all downstairs in the parlor.
I wanted to have them set up here, but I wasn't certain you'd come, and I didn't want to presume—"
"Andrew." She turned to face him fully. "You bought me art supplies."
"I bought us a house," he corrected. "The art supplies just seemed like a natural addition. You should have a space to paint. To create. To be yourself without anyone hovering or judging or demanding your time."
She stared at him for a long moment, and he saw tears gathering in her eyes.
"I need to say something," he said quickly, before he lost his nerve. "Several somethings, actually. Will you sit?"
There was no furniture yet, so they sank down to sit on the floor together, backs against the wall beneath the windows. The position was undignified for a duke and duchess, but Andrew found he didn't care.
"I bought this house," he began, "because I loved the area. It's not far from London—a few hours—so you can be near Joan whenever you want. But it's far enough from the noise and the gossip and the expectations. Far enough to breathe. To be ourselves instead of who Society expects us to be."
Isobel said nothing, just watched him with those luminous eyes. He took her hand, his thumb stroking over her knuckles.
"Andrew—"
"Let me finish," he said gently. "Please. I need to get all of this out."
She nodded, squeezing his hand.
"I was wrong," he continued. "About so many things.
I was wrong to make the Fox my entire identity.
I was wrong to let fear dictate my choices.
I was wrong to push you away when I should have been holding you closer.
And most of all, I was wrong to make you feel like you were second to anything—the club, my reputation, my need for validation.
You should have been first from the beginning. You are first now."
"Am I?" Her voice was quiet but steady. "Or am I just first until the next crisis? Until the next thing that makes you question who you are?"
The question hurt, but it was fair. More than fair.
"I can't promise I'll never doubt myself again," he admitted.
"I can't promise I'll always make the right choices or say the right things.
I'm going to fail sometimes, Isobel. I'm going to be selfish and stupid and scared.
Because I'm human, and I'm flawed, and I'm still figuring out how to be a good husband. "
"Then what can you promise?"
"That I'll never stop trying." He shifted to face her more fully.
"That when I fail, I'll admit it and do better next time.
That I'll choose you over my pride. That I'll love you loudly and honestly, even when it's uncomfortable or inconvenient.
That I'll build a life with you instead of asking you to fit into a life I've already built. "
He took both her hands now, his grip firm and certain.
"I'm begging you, Isobel. Take me back. Give me another chance to prove I can be the husband you deserve. Do you believe in second chances?"
Before she could answer, barking erupted from downstairs.
The sound of wheels in the courtyard drew her attention. A moment later, one of the footmen appeared at the door to announce that several servants had arrived from London, bringing additional supplies Andrew had ordered ahead.
Chance darted in after them, tail wagging furiously, clearly having taken advantage of the commotion to stow away among the crates.
Isobel's eyes widened. "Is that—"
"Chance!" Andrew called, and the barking intensified, accompanied by the thunder of paws on stairs.
The puppy burst into the room like a small brown and white tornado, making a beeline straight for Isobel. She laughed—actually laughed—as Chance jumped into her lap, licking her face with desperate enthusiasm, his entire body wiggling with joy.
"Hello, darling," she murmured, scratching behind his ears. "I've missed you too."
"He's been miserable without you," Andrew said, watching the reunion with a full heart. "Barely ate. Kept looking for you everywhere. Mrs. Brendan said he slept outside your chamber door every night."
"Poor baby." Isobel buried her face in Chance's fur. "I'm sorry I left you."
"He's not the only one who's been miserable.
" Andrew's voice was soft. "I know I said I needed time alone, but I was wrong about that too.
Being alone just made everything worse. Made me realize how empty the house felt without you.
How pointless everything seemed when I couldn't share it with you. "
Isobel looked up, Chance still squirming in her lap. "What about London? What about the Mayfair Fox?"
"What about it?" He shifted closer, until their knees were touching.
"The Fox served its purpose, Isobel. From Foxdrey's ashes, the Fox was born.
It saved us, rebuilt us, gave us a future.
And now, from the Fox's ashes, I'm reborn.
" He cupped her face gently. "Not as the Duke of Foxdrey.
Not as the Mayfair Fox. Just as your husband.
That's who I choose to be. That's the only identity that matters anymore. "
"You're certain?" She searched his eyes. "You won't wake up tomorrow and regret walking away from it?"
"I'm not walking away from anything. I'm walking toward something.
" His thumb stroked her cheek. "Toward you.
Toward us. Toward a life built on love instead of fear.
The Fox was my past. You're my future. And I finally understand that I can't have both, not really.
Not if I want to be the man I'm meant to be. "
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "What will you do? Without the club?"
"I don't know yet." And remarkably, saying it didn't terrify him the way it had days ago. "I have some ideas. Investments to manage. Properties to oversee. This is our first project.”
"A project," she repeated, her lips curving into a real smile.
"If you want it." He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes locked on hers. "I know my new purpose, Isobel. But I need you to make it come true. I need you by my side, as my partner, as my wife, as the woman I love more than anything in this world."
She was crying openly now, and Chance was trying to lick away her tears, which only made her laugh through them.
"Show me," she said. "Show me the rest of the house. Show me what you're imagining for us."
Hope exploded in his chest. "What does that mean?"
"It means show me." But her smile was radiant. "Show me our future."
He helped her to her feet. Chance danced around their ankles as they moved through the house room by room.
He showed her the master suite with its enormous windows overlooking the gardens.
The library that could be filled with books.
The dining room that needed new windows but had beautiful original molding.
The parlor where he'd stacked all the art supplies.
"This could be Joan's room when she visits," he said, opening a door to a sunny chamber on the second floor. "Close enough that she's nearby but far enough for privacy.”
They ended up in the gardens, overgrown but beautiful. Roses climbed the walls, lavender grew wild in the beds, and an old fountain sat silent in the center, waiting to be restored.
"It's wonderful," Isobel said softly. "All of it. The house, the gardens, the studio. It's everything I didn't know I wanted."
"Then say yes." Andrew turned her to face him, his hands on her waist. "Say you'll give me another chance. Say you'll come home with me. Say you'll help me build this. Say you love me, and you forgive me and you'll spend the rest of your life showing me what it means to be truly worthy of someone."
She looked up at him, and he saw everything he needed in her eyes.
"I love you," she said simply. "And yes," she continued, her hands coming up to frame his face. "Yes, I'll give you another chance. Yes, I'll help you build this. Yes, I forgive you. Yes, I love you. Yes to all of it."
He kissed her then, pouring everything he couldn't say into the press of his lips against hers. Relief and love and gratitude and promise and hope. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body pressing close to his.
Chance barked happily and danced around their feet.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Andrew rested his forehead against hers.
"I promise," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I promise to spend every day trying to be worthy of this. Of you. Of us."
"You already are worthy," she whispered. "You just needed to believe it yourself."
"I'm starting to." He pulled back to look at her properly. "Because you see me. The real me. Not the Duke or the Fox or the role I'm playing. Just Andrew. And you love him anyway."
"I love him especially." She smiled, brushing a tear from his cheek. "Because he's brave enough to be vulnerable. To admit when he's wrong. To choose love over fear. That's the man I fell in love with, Andrew. Not the Mayfair Fox. Just you."
He kissed her again, softer this time. A sealing of promises made and a beginning of the future they'd build together.
She looked around the wild garden, at the house that needed so much work, at Chance digging enthusiastically in a flower bed. "This is home. This is where we start fresh. This is where we build something that's ours."
"Then let's start now." He took her hand. "I have plans. Sketches. Ideas for every room. I want your input on all of it. Your opinions. Your vision. This is our project, Isobel. Our canvas. What do you want to paint?"
She laughed, bright and free. "Everything. I want to paint everything."
And as the afternoon sun began to lower, casting golden light across their future home, Andrew finally understood what he'd been missing all along.
The Mayfair Fox had given him success and reputation and proof that he wasn't his father.
But Isobel gave him something far more valuable.
She gave him a glimpse into the person he really was. She showed him who he could be, if he believed in himself.
And that, he realized, was worth more than any club, any fortune, any accomplishment the world could measure.
"I love you," he said again, just because he could. Just because she was there to hear it.
"I love you too," she replied, squeezing his hand. "Now show me these plans. I want to see what you've imagined for our bedroom."
His grin was pure mischief. "Oh, I have many ideas for the bedroom."
"Andrew Pasley!"
"What? I'm simply referring to paint colors and furniture placement."
"You're incorrigible."
"I'm yours." He pulled her close, breathing in the citrus scent of her hair. "Completely, utterly, irrevocably yours."
And finally, after all the fear and doubt and mistakes, he meant it.