Unless she chose differently.
“If I said yes,” she whispered, “how would we manage it? Father will never consent.”
“Leave your father to me.” Edmund’s smile was sharp as a blade. “A duke’s wishes carry considerable weight, even with ambitious earls.”
The promise of protection in his words made something flutter to life in her chest. When had anyone last offered to defend her choices rather than simply override them?
“The scandal—your reputation?—”
“Will become your burden as well. I won’t lie about that. Society will whisper about the dangerous duke and his mysterious duchess.” His expression softened almost imperceptibly. “But I think you’re strong enough to weather their whispers. I think you might even enjoy shocking them.”
Despite everything, she found herself smiling. The idea of shocking London’s gossiping matrons held undeniable appeal.
“You’re asking me to leap from one precipice to another.”
“Perhaps. But one leads to slow suffocation, while the other leads to the possibility of flight.” Edmund extended his hand, palm up. “The choice is yours, Lady Isadora. But choose quickly—your father approaches.”
The sound of boots on marble was growing louder, accompanied by Father’s determined stride. In moments he would burst through the door demanding answers she wasn’t prepared to give.
Unless she gave him an answer he wasn’t prepared to hear.
She looked down at Edmund’s outstretched hand—strong, scarred, marked by whatever violence had shaped him. If she took it, her life would change irrevocably. There would be no safety net of familiar expectations.
But there would also be no Lord Ashcombe. No slow death by degrees. There would be purpose, challenge, the chance to matter.
And there would be Edmund himself—dangerous, compelling, honest about his limitations but respectful of her strengths.
The footsteps grew louder.
Isadora placed her hand in his.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I accept.”
Edmund’s fingers closed around hers, warm and sure. For just a moment his guard dropped completely, and she saw something that might have been relief, or gratitude, or perhaps wonder at what they were undertaking.
Then the library door burst open, and Father’s voice filled the room with outraged authority.
“Isadora! What is the meaning of this?”
Edmund turned toward the Earl with lazy confidence, not releasing her hand.
“The meaning, Wexford,” he said with dangerous pleasantness, “is that your daughter has just accepted my proposal of marriage. I trust you’ll want to wish us both very happy.”
CHAPTER 5
The morning of her wedding dawned grey and bitter, with frost painting the windows of Cavendish House in delicate patterns that reminded Isadora of prison bars. She stood before her looking glass while Jenny fussed with the pearl buttons running up the back of her wedding gown, each fastening feeling like another link in the chain that would bind her to a future she could scarcely comprehend.
Three days. That was all the time that had passed since Edmund Ravensleigh had walked into Father’s library and turned her world upside down with six simple words: your daughter has accepted my proposal. Three days of frantic preparations, hastily arranged contracts, and Father’s barely concealed fury at having his carefully laid plans demolished by a man whose rank made opposition impossible.
Three days to prepare for marriage to a stranger.
The wedding gown had belonged to her mother—ivory silk that had yellowed slightly with age, its high neck and long sleevesspeaking to a more modest era. Jenny had worked miracles with it, taking in seams and adding fresh trim, but nothing could disguise the fact that it was a relic from another time. Like the marriage itself, it spoke more of duty than celebration.
“There now, my lady,” Jenny murmured, stepping back to survey her handiwork. “You look beautiful. Truly.”
Isadora studied her reflection with the detached interest of someone examining a portrait of a stranger. The woman in the glass was pale but composed, her chestnut hair arranged in an elaborate chignon threaded with the Cavendish pearls. The dress fit well enough, though its austere lines did nothing to soften her angular features. She looked exactly what she was—a well-bred lady prepared to do her duty, regardless of the personal cost.
“Beautiful,” she repeated, the word tasting strange on her tongue. “Yes, I suppose that’s what matters today.”
