The moment of private conversation was over. Now came the public performance, the careful dance of introductions and expectations that would determine how smoothly Isadora could take her place as the new Duchess of Rothwell.
But as Edmund prepared to hand her down from the carriage, he found himself hoping that perhaps, in time, there might be more conversations like this one. More moments when the careful walls between them might lower just enough to let something real pass through.
The thought was dangerous, foolish, entirely contrary to every promise he had made to himself about the nature of this marriage.
It was also, he was beginning to realize, entirely irresistible.
CHAPTER 7
At last, the carriage rattled through the iron gates of Rothwell Abbey, the sound echoing off the stone gatehouse like thunder in a cathedral. Isadora pressed closer to the window as they passed beneath the massive arch, noting the way the gatekeeper touched his cap with nervous deference rather than the easy familiarity she was accustomed to seeing between servants and their masters. Even in the gathering dusk, she could see the man’s relief as they rolled past, as though he had been holding his breath until the Dangerous Duke was safely within his own walls.
The drive curved through parkland that might have been beautiful in spring but now lay dormant beneath a blanket of snow. Ancient oaks stretched their bare branches toward a pewter sky heavy with the promise of more weather to come, their trunks disappearing into shadows that seemed to deepen with each turn of the wheels. Here and there, evergreen boughs had been arranged along the drive—a concession to the Christmas season that somehow made the landscape appearmore forbidding rather than festive, like funeral wreaths scattered across a battlefield.
Rothwell Abbey rose from the winter landscape like something conjured from a medieval illumination. It was truly an imposing sight, and she felt a chill run down her spine as she looked at it. Was this to be her home now?
“Impressive, is it not?” Edmund’s voice carried a note she could not quite decipher. Pride, perhaps, mixed with something that sounded almost like apology.
“It’s exactly as you described,” she replied, studying the approaching facade with fascination rather than the dismay he seemed to expect. “Built for defense rather than comfort.”
“The original structure dates to the thirteenth century, though each generation has added their own improvements. The east wing was rebuilt after the Civil War, when Cromwell’s forces thought to make an example of Royalist strongholds.” He gestured toward a section where the stonework appeared slightly newer, though still ancient by London standards. “My ancestor chose to rebuild rather than modernize. The Ravensleighs have always preferred strength to fashion.”
The carriage drew to a halt before the main entrance, where massive oak doors stood open to reveal a great hall that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it. Even through the windows, Isadora could sense the imposing scale of the interior—soaring stone arches, tapestries that might have been old whenthe Tudors ruled, and the sort of medieval grandeur that made most country houses seem like cottages by comparison.
A line of servants had assembled in the hall, and even from a distance Isadora could sense a nervous energy radiating from them. No laughter echoed from the kitchens, no comfortable chatter drifted from the servant’s quarters. This was a house where the master’s word was law, and where that law was enforced through something stronger than mere respect.
Edmund handed her down from the carriage with careful courtesy, his fingers firm and warm through her gloves.
“Your Grace.” A woman approached from the assembled line of servants, her black dress and starched white cap proclaiming her status as housekeeper. She was perhaps fifty, with iron-grey hair and the sort of ramrod posture that suggested decades of managing difficult households. “Welcome to Rothwell Abbey. I am Mrs. Pemberton.”
The woman’s manner was perfectly correct, but Isadora noted the way her hands trembled slightly as she offered her curtsy, the careful distance she maintained even while performing her duties. This was not the easy deference of servants secure in their position, but the nervous compliance of people who had learned to tread carefully around their master’s temper. She was… rather nervous, it seemed. Isadora swallowed. What had she gotten herself into?
“Mrs. Pemberton.” Edmund nodded stiffly at the woman, then gestured towards Isadora. “Present the staff to Her Grace, thensee that her belongings are properly handled. She will be tired from the journey.”
Though his voice was courteous, Isadora could quite easily see the dismissal for what it truly was. Irritation stirred within her. She was being treated like a mere piece of cargo. But before she could voice any objection, the housekeeper was guiding her through the line of assembled servants, each offering their practiced bows and curtsies while their eyes darted nervously toward their master.
The footmen were young and uniformly pale, as though they spent their days walking on eggshells rather than polished marble. The maids kept their gazes fixed firmly on the floor, their movements sharp with the sort of efficiency that came from knowing any mistake might have consequences beyond mere scolding. Even the senior staff—the butler, the head groom, the cook who had been summoned from her domain below stairs—carried themselves with the cautious deference of people who had learned that their Duke’s reputation for danger extended beyond the drawing rooms of London.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Pemberton said as they reached the end of the line, the smile on her lips rather stiff, “shall I show you to your chambers? Everything has been prepared according to His Grace’s instructions.”
Isadora glanced toward Edmund, noting the way the servants continued to watch him with wary attention even while addressing her. Whatever had earned him the title of Dangerous Duke, it was not merely the scandal of an old duel—it wassomething in his manner, his expectations, the rigid control he maintained over every aspect of his household that made grown men and women step carefully in his presence.
“That would be most welcome,” she replied, though her attention was caught by a movement at the top of the great staircase.
A slight figure appeared in the gallery above, her dark hair pinned back severely and her pale blue dress modest to the point of invisibility. Lillian Gray stood with the rigid posture of someone who had been drilled in proper deportment, but even from this distance, Isadora could sense the girl’s desperate curiosity warring with ingrained caution. As with their first meeting, Isadora was struck by the fragility that permeated from the girl, a fragility that spoke of too many careful lessons in not drawing attention to herself.
Their eyes met across the vast space of the hall, and for a moment, Lillian’s careful composure cracked. She offered a curtsy that was technically perfect but somehow rushed, as though she could not bear to hold Isadora’s gaze for long. Then, before Edmund could address her or Isadora could offer any greeting, the girl turned and fled, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls until they disappeared into the upper reaches of the house.
“Lillian,” Edmund called after her, his voice carrying a sharp edge of command that made several servants flinch visibly. But the girl was already gone, leaving only the echo of her retreat and the uncomfortable silence that followed.
Mrs. Hale appeared at the top of the stairs, her governess’s dignity somewhat compromised by the obvious haste with which she had pursued her charge. “Your Grace, forgive me. She was instructed to remain in her chambers until summoned, but she was most anxious to?—”
“See that she understands the importance of following instructions,” Edmund cut her off, his tone carrying the sort of cold authority that Isadora was beginning to recognize as his default response to any challenge to his control. “We will discuss her behavior in the morning.”
The governess paled, offering a hurried curtsy before disappearing in pursuit of her wayward charge. The assembled servants shifted uncomfortably, clearly familiar with their master’s intolerance for anything resembling disorder in his household.
Isadora, however, felt her heart go out to the girl. She could see that she was far from defiant. She was lonely, terrified, curious... She could vividly still remember her own years of careful, proper behavior.
“She is a curious one,” she observed carefully, testing Edmund’s reaction.
