Chapter 9
“Have you lost your mind?” William snapped, his eyes flashing.
James had faced worse conversations than this. He was fairly certain of it. He stood near the window in his study and tried to remember, but failed as William paced in front of the fireplace with barely contained fury.
“I have not,” he replied.
He is going to keep pacing. He is going to pace and wear a hole into the floor, and we are going to have this conversation as if we were fifteen years old again and I had done something he particularly disapproved of. Which, to be fair, was most weeks.
“Of all the women,” William bit out. He stopped pacing and turned.
“I am aware—”
“Of all the women available,” he continued, as though James had not spoken. “Every respectable widow, every agreeable young lady whose family would be grateful for the match—which I think we both know is not a small number—you chose my sister.”
“I have.”
“And you thought this was sensible.”
“I thought it was practical.” James kept his voice even. “Which is not the same thing.”
The word practical landed the way he had expected it to.
William’s expression sharpened. “Good God. She is not a solution to a household problem,” he scoffed, pacing back to the fireplace.
“I know that.”
“Or a convenient answer. A practical arrangement.” He turned, and his expression was colder than the room. “She is my sister.”
“I am aware of who she is, William. I have been aware of who she is for many years.”
“Are you? Then you will understand why I am standing in your study at eight o’clock in the morning, asking whether you have lost your mind.”
James looked at him steadily. “I understand. I did not say it was unreasonable. I am telling you that it is not what you think it is.”
Silence ensued.
William dragged a hand over his face as if trying to master himself.
“Then explain it to me,” he demanded, his voice rising with each step he took toward James.
“Because from where I am standing, you need to marry before those solicitors make your life impossible. Isadora is in the house; she is of good family and better character than you deserve, and you’ve decided that she would do. ”
The words were accurate enough that James felt them land precisely where they were aimed.
“She would not simply do,” he said. “She would be… exceptional, in every capacity the situation requires.” He kept his voice level, because both of them raising their voices would not make things easier.
“She already knows Violet. The baby trusts her. She has the character and the steadiness the household needs, and she is not the kind of woman who requires performance or flattery or managing. She would have full security as the Duchess of Ashbourne. Complete independence. She would never have reason to fear instability in this house or in her life.” He paused. “I made that clear to her.”
“You made the terms clear.”
“Yes, William. Isadora understood the situation before she agreed to it. I explained the terms clearly. I offered her nothing I cannot deliver and promised nothing I do not intend to keep. She went into this with open eyes. I did not mislead her or persuade her against her better judgment. You know me well enough to know that I would never do that,” he said firmly. “She made her own choice.”
William was quiet.
“I would treat her with respect,” James continued. “In every respect. I want that clearly understood.”
“I understand it.” William’s voice was measured. “I do not doubt that you mean it.” He leaned forward and placed his balled fists on the desk. “But I have one question.”
“Ask.”
“What about love?”
The words hung heavy in the air.
James held his gaze. He did not look away, nor did he reach for the composure he affected when a question was inconvenient. This one deserved an honest answer.
“I cannot promise it, William,” he replied. “I told her that. She is fully aware of it.” He paused. “She refused me at first because of it.”
Something moved through William’s expression. “Yes, I thought so,” he murmured. “I cannot decide which offends me more, the fact that you proposed it or that she accepted.” He slowly uncurled his fists. “You think you know my sister.”
“I think I know her reasonably well.”
“You know what she presents.” He moved away from the desk toward the fireplace and stood with one hand on the mantelpiece, staring into the fire.
“You know the composure. The dry wit. The way she walks into a room and reads it before she’s crossed the threshold.
You know the woman she is in company.” He paused for a moment.
“You do not know what she looks like during Christmas, sitting by the fire with her book, pretending she does not care about the carols.” He turned.
“She does. She cares about everything, James. All of it. She simply does not show it because the world never rewarded her for it.”
James said nothing.
She is too romantic for her own good.
“She believes in love,” William added. It was not an accusation, but a fact.
“She has always believed in it. Quietly, without making a spectacle of it, in the way she believes in things she considers worth believing in and too private to discuss.” He shifted his gaze to James.
“She would enter into an arrangement and make the best of it with everything she had, and some part of her would spend every day of it waiting for something she was told at the outset she would never have.” He paused. “And you would watch it happen.”
James felt something curl in his chest that he did not immediately have a name for.
“You think I would watch it and not care,” he uttered.
“I think,” William said, “that friendship does not mean I will willingly place my sister in the hands of a rake and trust that it will work out.”
There it was.
James paced. He had not intended to, but he couldn’t stand still with the pressure building in his chest.
“I am aware of my reputation.” He could no longer keep the edge out of his voice.
“I have been aware of it for years, and I never found it worth fixing because it did not matter.” He moved around the desk, not toward William, but simply to expend his restlessness.
“For so long, I did not care what anyone thought of me or what they said about me in their drawing rooms. I did not care because nothing I valued was at stake.” He stopped and looked at his best friend. “That is no longer the case.”
He took a deep, steadying breath.
“I would never hurt her,” James said. “Not intentionally. Not under any circumstance I can conceive of. I am fully aware of what I am. I am aware of my history, and I am not arguing that it recommends me. But I would sooner take this house apart brick by brick than allow any harm to come to Isadora or to Violet.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I want you to know that.”
Silence fell over them, but it felt different from that of five minutes ago.
William looked at him for a long moment. Then he crossed the room.
He stopped two feet away, close enough that it felt deliberate.
“James.” The fury in his voice was colder and quieter. “If she gives this arrangement everything she has—which she will, because that is who she is—and she is unhappy—”
“William—”
“Let me finish.” He narrowed his eyes, and his body went rigid.
“If you make her unhappy or fail to keep the promises you made, there will be consequences.” His voice did not rise.
It did not need to. “Neither our friendship nor your title will protect you from them. I want that to be perfectly clear.”
James held his gaze.
He heard it. He felt the full weight of it. William had just asserted his sister’s worth and threatened what he would do if she were hurt.
“It is clear,” he said.
William studied him for another moment, then gave a curt nod and turned to leave. The door slammed shut behind him.
James stood in the center of the study. The pale light filtering in through the tall windows was a stark contrast to what had just happened in the room.
He went back to the desk, sat down, then reached for the nearest document and began to read it.
* * *
The church was small enough that he was at the front before he had fully prepared himself to be there, which was perhaps the point of small churches.
He turned when the door at the back opened.
He had told himself that the wedding would be unremarkable and that he was perfectly fine. He had told himself that everything would go smoothly and that he did not need to fret.
He had managed the morning adequately—dressed without incident, spoken to the steward about two estate matters that could not wait, drunk half of his coffee, and arrived at the church with time to spare.
He had told himself that he knew Isadora. That he knew what she looked like and that this moment would not require any attempt at composure.
He had been wrong.
She came in on William’s arm, and he forgot how to breathe.
It was not the dress—though the dress was simple and pale and right in a way that occasional wear would not have been. It was not the flowers Cecily had pressed into her hands at the last moment, soft and informal, nothing like the elaborate arrangements for weddings.
It was the way she moved—measured and deliberate, her chin up, her gaze forward. She wore her usual composure like armor, except this morning it had a different quality to it. It felt more… honest.
She was frightened.
He could see it because he knew how to look at her by now. He knew from the slight tension at the corners of her mouth, from her grip on William’s arm.
She was frightened, and she was here anyway, walking toward him with her chin up and her eyes clear. And that hit him somewhere he had not anticipated.
Eventually, she stopped before him.
William looked at him for a moment, and James held his gaze unflinchingly until he nodded, released her arm, and moved to stand beside Cecily.
James offered Isadora his arm, and she placed her hand on his sleeve. Her fingers were cool even through the wool. He felt them but did not look at them.
“All right?” he asked, his voice low enough so that only she could hear.
She looked up at him briefly, and something flickered across her face.
“Ask me again in ten minutes,” she replied.
He almost smiled. Then they turned to face the vicar.
The vows were short, but that had been the agreement anyway. There would be nothing elaborate, nothing that required more than was strictly necessary. The vicar was a sensible man who had received James’s request with equanimity.
James heard himself say the words. Heard her answer, her voice clear and even, each word placed with deliberate care.
Her hand remained in his during the exchange, cold still, or perhaps his skin was too hot.
He could not tell, yet he held her hand with the careful steadiness of a man who was paying attention to everything he was doing because the alternative was thinking about what it meant.
He did not look away from the vicar. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her profile, the slight bob of her throat when she swallowed before saying her vows, the way she quickly looked at their joined hands and then away.
The ring.
He had given it considerable thought. He had not wanted to give her something from the Ashbourne collection, some heavy heirloom that belonged to a history she had no part of.
So he had commissioned a ring from a jeweler in London.
The result was simple and bright, a single stone that caught the church light without demanding attention.
He put it on her finger.
She looked at it. The emotion that moved across her face was gone before he could decipher it. Then the vicar spoke the final words, wrapping up the ceremony.
The small congregation shifted behind them. Someone—Cecily, probably—made a small sound that well-mannered people made at the conclusion of ceremonies to fill the moment before applause became excessive and silence became uncomfortable.
Isadora turned toward him.
A kiss?
James saw the subtle tilt of her chin, the barely perceptible pause, as if she were expecting it. He knew it was natural and instinctive, the thing that happened at the end of a wedding regardless of the circumstances.
He thought about what he had told Henderson. About what he had promised himself in the corridor two nights ago. About giving himself time, giving her time, keeping the distance she deserved.
So he straightened and stepped back.
He offered her his arm again, watching her face receive the decision. She quickly smoothed her expression, lifted her chin a fraction, and rested her hand on his sleeve with the exact same light pressure.
She said nothing, and neither did he.
They walked back down the aisle together, her hand cool on his arm, the morning light spilling in long pale strips across the stone floor. James looked straight ahead, aware with a clarity that surprised him of precisely how much that half-step back had cost him.
Outside the church, William shook his hand.
“Take care of her,” he grunted.
“Yes,” James said.
William looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded once and turned away.
Cecily embraced Isadora near the church door. James did not hear what was said. He watched Isadora’s face over Cecily’s shoulder—the way it softened for just a moment, the way she closed her eyes briefly, the way she straightened again when they pulled apart.
She caught him watching, and he looked away.