He had risen in darkness, dressed by candlelight, and made his way through corridors that seemed different somehow—charged with possibilities he was not prepared to examine. The servants had moved through their morning routines with the same efficiency he demanded of them always, but he had caught their surreptitious glances, their whispered conferences that ceased the moment he appeared. The entire household was on edge, waiting to see how the new Duchess would fit into the rigid structure he had built around his exile.
Now Edmund sat at the head of the mahogany table and tried to find the same calm authority that had governed his every interaction for the past ten years. The Christmas garlands that had been arranged along the mantelpiece seemed to mock him with their festive cheer—holly and ivy wound through silver candlesticks, their red berries bright against the dark wood like drops of blood on snow.
The table had been set with the finest china, the Ravensleigh arms gleaming gold against white porcelain that had been in the family since the reign of Queen Anne. Crystal glasses caught the morning light, and silver serving dishes waited in perfect formation for whatever the new Duchess might require. Mrs. Pemberton had clearly spared no effort in ensuring that Isadora’s first breakfast as mistress of Rothwell Abbey would meet the highest standards.
But for all its grandeur, the room felt hollow. The sort of magnificent emptiness that spoke of meals taken in isolation, of conversations that had withered away until silence became preferable to the effort of maintaining human connection. Edmund had grown accustomed to this solitude, had even welcomed it as a barrier against the complexities that other people inevitably brought to his carefully controlled existence.
This morning, that solitude felt suffocating.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor made his pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with nervousness and everything to do with anticipation he refused to acknowledge. He had lain awake for hours thinking about their conversation in herchambers, about the way she had looked at him when he had warned her about boundaries and expectations. The intelligence in her hazel eyes, the slight lift of her chin that suggested she was not as easily managed as he might have hoped.
The door opened, and Isadora entered with the sort of quiet dignity that made the servants straighten unconsciously in her presence. She wore a morning dress of deep burgundy wool that brought out the warm tones in her chestnut hair, her only jewelry the simple gold band he had placed on her finger yesterday. There was nothing elaborate about her appearance, yet something about the way she carried herself transformed the austere dining room into something approaching warmth.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice carrying the careful politeness of someone navigating unfamiliar territory.
Edmund rose from his chair, executing the sort of formal bow that had been bred into his bones since childhood. “Good morning. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, thank you.” She moved toward the chair that had been placed at the far end of the table, separated from him by twelve feet of polished mahogany and the weight of unspoken expectations. “The rooms are quite comfortable.”
A footman appeared at her elbow with silent efficiency, pulling out her chair and settling her with the sort of practiced deference that made no allowance for the fact that she was still adjusting to her new position. Edmund watched her thank the young man with genuine warmth, noting the way his ears reddened withpleasure at the simple courtesy. When had he last bothered to acknowledge his servants as anything more than extensions of his will?
“I hope the household arrangements prove satisfactory,” he said, returning to his own seat while another servant appeared to fill their cups with coffee black as winter midnight. “I do believe that Mrs. Pemberton is capable.”
“She seems admirably efficient.” Isadora accepted a plate of delicate china, her movements graceful despite the obvious newness of her surroundings. “Though perhaps rather... formal in her approach.”
The observation was diplomatic, but Edmund could hear the subtext. He ran the house like a military operation, rather than a home. It was a system that had served him well during his years of self-imposed isolation, but he was beginning to wonder how it might accommodate a woman who clearly possessed opinions of her own.
“The staff are accustomed to certain standards,” he said carefully, watching as she selected modest portions from the array of breakfast offerings. “I have found that consistency in expectations produces the most reliable results.”
“Of course.” She cut her ham with precise movements, her attention apparently focused entirely on the simple task. “Though it is my belief that people work most effectively when they feel valued.”
The words struck him like a physical blow, though he was careful not to let his reaction show. Valued. When had he last considered whether his servants felt valued? When had he last thought of them as anything beyond the means by which his household functioned according to his specifications?
“The Ravensleighs have always expected loyalty from those in their service,” he replied, hearing the defensive edge in his own voice. “In return, we provide fair wages and secure employment.”
“Loyalty.” She repeated the word thoughtfully, as though testing its weight. “Yes, I imagine that is quite important in a household such as this.”
Something in her tone made him look at her more sharply, but her expression remained carefully neutral. She was learning to navigate the complexities of their situation with the same diplomatic skill she had no doubt employed during her years as Father’s unwed daughter—saying nothing that could be construed as direct criticism while making her position unmistakably clear.
The silence that fell between them was not comfortable. Edmund found himself cataloguing details he had no business noticing—the way morning light caught the auburn threads in her hair, the delicate movement of her throat as she swallowed her coffee, the ink stain on her right hand that suggested she had been writing before coming down to breakfast. Letters to friends in London, perhaps, describing her new circumstances with whatever degree of honesty their practical arrangement allowed.
He was searching for something neutral to say, some safe topic that might bridge the chasm of awkwardness stretching between them, when the dining room doors opened to admit Mrs. Hale and her charge.
Lillian entered with the rigid posture that had been drilled into her by years of deportment lessons, her pale blue morning dress modest to the point of invisibility. She had inherited her father’s dark hair and fine features, but where James had possessed an easy charm that could disarm the most suspicious opponent, Lillian carried herself with the careful distance of someone who had learned not to expect warmth from the world around her.
Edmund felt the familiar ache in his chest that always accompanied the girl’s presence—guilt and affection and the terrible weight of promises made to a dying friend. She was James’s daughter in every line of her face, a constant reminder of the life that had been cut short by Edmund’s pride and reckless sense of honor.
“Good morning, Uncle Edmund,” she said, offering a curtsy that was technically perfect but somehow lacking in genuine respect. Her eyes darted toward Isadora with barely concealed curiosity before returning to her guardian with the wariness that had become her default expression in his presence.
“Good morning, Lillian.” He gestured toward the chair that had been placed beside Isadora’s, noting the way the girl hesitated before taking her seat. “I believe you have yet to be properly introduced to your new guardian.”
The words came out more formally than he had intended, carrying the weight of duty rather than warmth. Lillian’s spine stiffened almost imperceptibly, and he saw her hands clench in her lap—a gesture of defiance she thought he would not notice.
“Your Grace,” she said, turning toward Isadora with a curtsy that managed to be both correct and somehow grudging. “I hope you are finding Rothwell Abbey to your satisfaction.”
The words were perfectly proper, exactly what Mrs. Hale had no doubt coached her to say. But Edmund could hear the undercurrent of resentment, the teenager’s conviction that this stranger had been imposed upon her life without her consent or consideration.
“Thank you, Lillian,” Isadora replied, her voice carrying genuine warmth that seemed to surprise the girl. “I am still discovering all of the Abbey’s treasures, but I confess I am quite enchanted by what I have seen so far.”
