Chapter 3 #2
They set off four abreast, her aunt filling the road with cheerful nonsense while Isadora stole glances at the duke beside her.
He had come all the way to York for her.
Each time she remembered that silly notion, happiness fluttered warmly beneath her ribs. She hardly felt the road beneath her slippers. Even the trees seemed greener than they had three days ago, when she had trudged home believing she might never escape the Chesters at all.
At the park gates, the duke offered her his arm and guided her toward the wider path. Aunt Judith hurried to keep pace, but after a quelling look from the duke, she fell back.
The moment Aunt Judith’s voice faded into the chatter of the promenade, Isadora loosened the breath she had been holding.
“Thank you,” she said, almost at once. The words had been pressing at her lips since they left the house. “For not revealing the reason for your visit. I did not tell them about my calling on you.”
She met his eyes for scarcely a heartbeat before looking away again. It was astonishing how a man could ask nothing at all and still leave her feeling she’d forgotten to answer.
“So I gathered.” His gaze remained on the winding path before them. “I had hoped at least to hear from you.”
Guilt pricked somewhere beneath her ribs.
“Sorry.” She gathered her skirts a little higher where the path dipped beneath an old oak root. “My aunt and uncle would not let me pen a letter, much less leave the house.”
He steadied her gently with his arm. “Are you prepared to give your answer now?”
She took a breath. “I am. But first, I suppose you at least deserve to know all it will entail from my side, too. My aunt and uncle are unscrupulous and will do anything to ensure that a match between us would benefit themselves.”
“The Chesters are hardly pioneers in family ambition, Miss Fairbourne,” he said dismissively. “My solicitor will draw the settlements tightly enough to keep their hands out of my purse.”
“They will… try to claim you as family as well,” she grimaced. “Aunt Judith can manufacture intimacy from a shared pew.”
“Then let them try. I am rarely in Town, and when I am, I am immune to those attempting to claim friendship or otherwise.”
The certainty in him should have soothed her. Instead, it made her feel how little he needed from anyone. How little he needed from her.
He slowed beneath the generous shade of an elm.
“Believe me, Miss Fairbourne, you have nothing to fear from them should you choose to accept my proposal. But allow me to reiterate my intentions for marrying. I am not looking for a wife. This is for the sake of my daughter alone. I have no other expectations for you.”
Isadora had known this from their last conversation—appreciated it even—yet still, coming from his mouth, it remained plain and cold as the stone edging the path. She kept her eyes on the sunlight dappling his sleeve.
“And what place would I have in your life?” she asked.
He turned his cane once between his fingers. “You would be mistress of Winchester Estate. You would have every privilege due to my wife.”
“That all sounds very grand.” She risked a glance at him. “It also sounds rather… lonely.”
His attention settled on her.
“What would you prefer?”
In the stead of returning to her old home? Quite nearly anything. But Isadora wouldn’t bargain this moment out of desperation. She wanted a fresh start, and this could be it.
“A civil marriage,” she said boldly, tucking a loose red curl behind her ear before the breeze could toss it into her mouth.
“A little conversation. Meals together sometimes. Companionship, if you will. I should hate to spend years passing my… husband, on staircases like a distant acquaintance. They say marry in haste and repent at leisure. I should only ask we repent in company.”
He glanced down at her. His icy eyes seemed to lighten by a shade. “Congreve. The Old Bachelor. You read, then.”
She felt the blush climb up her cheeks. “When I have time.”
“I believe I can provide some companionship.” He considered a moment. “Breakfast together, every morning, barring business that calls me away, or either of us too late to bed the night before.”
The promise settled warmly inside her. Breakfast was such an ordinary thing, which made it feel strangely precious. “Are you often late to bed?”
“Some days. My… club keeps late hours.” His thumb moved once over the silver head of his cane. “I imagine you will wish to attend balls and other functions. We will attend a few together, of course.”
It would not be the sort of marriage she had once envisaged for herself, that was for sure. But perhaps it was the best one she would ever have, and he had agreed to some of her conditions with remarkably little fanfare.
“And,” she said, inventing as she went, “I would on occasion like to have dinner together, too. And when we’re in London, I would like to attend the opera.”
“Have you ever been before?”
“No,” she tilted her chin. “But I should like to.”
His mouth curved then, faintly. “Very well. Though I doubt we will be in London all that often.”
“You prefer the countryside?”
“Where possible. It’s better for Sophia, too.”
Isadora nodded and decided to put her cards on the table, so to speak. “I would very much like to be your wife, if your offer still stands. And if Sophia is amenable to the match.”
The line of his mouth softened, just barely, and for the first time all afternoon, he looked less like a duke and more like a tired father. “As it happens, she was the one who proposed the idea in the first place.”