“Studies.” Isadora’s tone suggested she found something lacking in this arrangement. “What manner of studies? Languages? History? Household management?”
“The usual accomplishments. French, deportment, watercolors.” Even as he spoke the words, Edmund could hear their inadequacy. Lillian was intelligent, quick-witted, hungry for knowledge that went beyond the narrow confines of feminine education. But what else could he offer her? What did he know of preparing a young woman for life in society?
“I see,” Isadora said again, and this time her tone carried a note of disapproval that made his jaw tighten defensively.
“She has everything she requires,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he had intended. “Books, teachers, proper supervision. What more could she need?”
Isadora turned from the window to fix him with a direct stare that was anything but properly submissive. “Companionship. Challenge. The opportunity to discover her own interests rather than simply following a prescribed curriculum designed to make her marriageable.”
The criticism stung because it was accurate. Edmund had provided for Lillian’s physical needs, had ensured she wanted for nothing material, but he had failed to consider what a bright, curious mind might require beyond the basics of genteel education.
“You seem to have strong opinions about matters of education,” he observed, deflecting rather than defending.
“I have strong opinions about many things, Your Grace. I thought you understood that when you proposed.”
The reminder of his proposal—and the practical motivations behind it—should have restored the emotional distance he was struggling to maintain. Instead, it seemed to emphasize the strange intimacy of their situation. Here they were, bound by law and custom, yet still fundamentally strangers to one another.
“Edmund,” he said abruptly.
She blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“My name. We are married now. There seems little point in maintaining such formality when we are alone.”
Her face changed, breaking open into a sweet smile. “Edmund,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. “And you may call me Isadora, if you wish.”
He had heard her name spoken dozens of times over the past few days—by her father, by wedding guests, by servants making arrangements. But hearing it from her own lips, offered as a gift rather than simple courtesy, made it sound entirely different. More personal. More dangerous.
“Isadora.” The syllables felt unfamiliar in his mouth, intimate in a way that formal address never was.
The conversation lapsed again, but the silence felt different now—charged with possibilities neither of them seemed prepared to examine. Edmund found himself stealing glances at her profile as she watched the countryside roll past, noting the determined set of her jaw, the way her fingers drummed against her knee when something outside caught her attention.
She was nervous, he realized. Trying to hide it behind composure and polite conversation, but nervous nonetheless. The sensation of ‘having to protect’ suddenly took hold of him, an unwelcome reminder that whatever practical arrangements had brought them together, she was still a woman facing an uncertain future with a man she barely knew.
“The Abbey may seem rather austere after London,” he said, surprising himself with the gentle tone. “It was built for defense rather than comfort, and successive generations have been more concerned with maintaining its character than modernizing its conveniences.”
“I’m sure it will be perfectly adequate.” Her chin lifted slightly, and he recognized the gesture as one of defiance. She would not be intimidated by cold stones and ancient ghosts, it seemed.
“Adequate.” He almost smiled at her choice of words. “I believe that’s the most diplomatic description anyone has ever given of Rothwell Abbey.”
“And what would be a less diplomatic description?”
This time he did smile, a genuine expression that felt rusty from disuse. “Forbidding. Isolating. The sort of place where Gothic novelists would set their most melodramatic tales of madness and imprisonment.”
To his surprise, she laughed—a genuine sound of amusement rather than polite acknowledgment. “How perfectly dreadful. I’m beginning to understand why Lillian finds it confining.”
“She has never complained,” Edmund said, though even as he spoke the words he could hear their insufficiency. Lillian might not have complained directly, but her restlessness had been evident in countless small ways—the way she stared out windows, the questions she asked about London, the books she chose from the library.
“Of course she hasn’t complained. She’s fifteen years old and entirely dependent on your goodwill. What choice does she have?” Isadora’s tone was matter-of-fact rather than accusatory, but it still stung.
“I have tried to provide what she needs,” he said stiffly.
“I’m sure you have. But perhaps what she needs is different from what you’ve been able to give her.”
The observation was delivered without judgment, but it forced Edmund to confront truths he had been avoiding for months.He had taken Lillian in out of duty to her father’s memory, had provided for her material needs, had protected her from the worst of society’s whispers. But he had never asked what she wanted, what she dreamed of, what future she envisioned for herself beyond the narrow confines of acceptable feminine behavior.
Perhaps it was because he had never learned to ask such questions of himself.
The carriage hit another rut, this one deep enough to jolt them both forward. Isadora’s hand shot out to brace herself against the seat, and for a moment her fingers brushed against his where they rested on the leather bench. The contact was brief, accidental, but it sent heat racing up his arm like lightning through a copper rod.
