The realization that his composure was so obviously shattered sent a fresh wave of irritation through his chest. He prided himself on maintaining perfect control regardless of circumstances, yet one morning’s worth of domestic discord had reduced him to the sort of moody introspection that belonged in Gothic novels rather than gentlemen’s clubs.
“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “I’m simply unaccustomed to having my judgment questioned by someone who’s been in my household for less than a week.”
“Or perhaps,” Tobias replied with the sort of gentle persistence that made him invaluable as both friend and political ally, “you’re discovering that absolute authority becomes rather lonely after a while. When was the last time anyone at Rothwell Abbey offered you an opinion that wasn’t carefully calculated to meet your expectations?”
The question struck uncomfortably close to truths Edmund preferred not to examine. When indeed? His servants anticipated his needs with the sort of nervous efficiency that spoke more of fear than loyalty. Lillian had learned to swallow her questions and complaints rather than risk his displeasure. Even Mrs. Hale, for all her rigid propriety, chose her words with the careful precision of someone who understoodthat disagreement with the Duke’s preferences could prove professionally hazardous.
Only Isadora had looked him in the eye and told him he was wrong. Only she had stood her ground when he’d tried to intimidate her into submission, had matched his intensity with her own rather than wilting beneath the force of his disapproval.
The memory of her voice—calm and steady despite the way her hands had been trembling—sent something that might have been longing through his chest. When had anyone last cared enough about his ward’s welfare to risk his anger in her defense?
“Woolgathering again,” Tobias observed mildly. “This is becoming a concerning habit, my friend. Perhaps you should consider returning home to continue this fascinating internal debate in the privacy of your own study.”
Before Edmund could form a suitable reply, the club’s main doors opened to admit a familiar figure. Bickham—the same predatory fool who’d been prowling around Lillian at the Cavendish musicale—entered with the sort of swagger that suggested he’d already visited several establishments before arriving at White’s. His cravat was askew, his color high, and when he spotted Edmund near the fire, his expression shifted from wine-flushed bonhomie to something approaching calculation.
“Rothwell!” he called out with the sort of false heartiness that made Edmund’s jaw clench. “Just the man I was hoping to see. Wanted to congratulate you on your recent nuptials. Quitethe surprise, that. Lady Isadora seemed so... particular in her standards.”
The words were delivered with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and Edmund felt something cold and familiar settle in his chest. This was the moment when his reputation for danger typically proved its worth—when lesser men realized they’d made the mistake of assuming his title and wealth made him safe to provoke.
“Bickham.” Edmund’s voice carried the sort of quiet menace that had once preceded dawn appointments in secluded fields. He rose from his chair with fluid grace, every line of his body conveying barely leashed violence. “How... unexpected to see you here.”
The temperature in their corner of the club seemed to drop several degrees. Conversations faltered as heads turned toward the developing confrontation, drawn by the sort of primitive instinct that recognized predator and prey even in the civilized confines of St. James’s Street.
Bickham’s smile wavered slightly, but he pressed on with the sort of desperate bravado that suggested either too much wine or insufficient intelligence. “Yes, well, I thought I might offer my congratulations in person. And perhaps apologize for any... misunderstanding that may have occurred at the Cavendish musicale. Your… new wife seemed to take exception to my conversation with your ward, though I’m sure she misinterpreted my intentions entirely.”
The euphemism hung in the air between them like a gauntlet thrown down. Around them, the club had fallen silent except for the crackle of fires and the soft whisper of pages being turned by men pretending not to listen while hanging on every word.
Edmund took a step closer, close enough that Bickham had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. This close, he could smell the wine on the man’s breath, could see the slight tremor in his hands that suggested his courage was largely liquid in nature.
“Misinterpreted,” Edmund repeated, his voice dropping to the sort of dangerous quiet that had earned him his reputation for settling disagreements permanently. “How fascinating. Tell me, Bickham, what precisely would you call a grown man cornering a fifteen-year-old girl in a darkened corridor and offering to show her parts of the house where she might be... more comfortable?”
The blood drained from Bickham’s face with gratifying speed. “I say, Rothwell, that’s rather a dramatic interpretation of a perfectly innocent?—”
“Innocent.” Edmund smiled, and the expression contained all the warmth of January frost. “Yes, I’m sure your intentions toward my ward were entirely innocent. Just as I’m sure you’ll have no objection to explaining those intentions to her father’s memory, should the occasion arise.”
It was a threat wrapped in silk, delivered with the sort of casual precision that spoke of a man entirely comfortable with violence as a means of resolving disputes. The mention of James’s death—and by implication, the duel that had taken his life—sent aripple of unease through their audience. Everyone knew the story, knew that the Dangerous Duke had ended up killing his closest friend and walked away with nothing but a scar to mark the encounter.
Bickham swayed slightly, whether from wine or fear was impossible to determine. “There’s no need for... that is, I’m sure we can resolve any misunderstanding without resorting to... dramatic measures.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain we can,” Edmund agreed, his tone remaining conversational despite the menace that radiated from every line of his body. “You see, Bickham, I find myself in an unusually charitable mood this evening. Perhaps it’s the season—Christmas does encourage thoughts of forgiveness and goodwill toward men, doesn’t it? So I’m prepared to overlook your behavior at the musicale, provided you demonstrate the wisdom to avoid any future... misunderstandings.”
He leaned closer, close enough that his next words were audible only to Bickham despite the strained silence that had settled over their corner of the room. “But should you find yourself in my ward’s vicinity again—at any social gathering, on any street corner, in any circumstance whatsoever—I will consider it a deliberate provocation requiring immediate correction.”
A chill went through the room at his words and Bickham nodded frantically, his face pale.
“Excellent,” Edmund said, stepping back with the sort of satisfied grace that suggested the matter was concluded tohis satisfaction. “I do so enjoy when reasonable men reach reasonable agreements. Don’t you, Tobias?”
“Absolutely riveting,” Tobias replied, though his tone suggested he was more entertained than concerned by the display of intimidation he’d just witnessed. “Nothing quite like a civilized discussion between gentlemen to resolve potential differences of opinion.”
Bickham made some inarticulate sound that might have been agreement, bobbed what could charitably be called a bow, and fled toward the card room with the haste of a man suddenly remembering urgent business elsewhere.
Silence stretched for several heartbeats before normal conversation gradually resumed, though Edmund could feel the weight of curious glances from around the room. His reputation for danger had been well-earned through years of refusing to tolerate disrespect, and tonight’s display would doubtless be discussed in drawing rooms across London by tomorrow evening.
He settled back into his chair with movements that spoke of complete satisfaction, reaching for his whiskey as though nothing more significant than a discussion of the weather had just concluded.
“Well,” Tobias observed mildly, “that was refreshing. It’s been months since I’ve seen you remind someone why challenging your family’s welfare is inadvisable. Though I do hope your newduchess appreciates the lengths to which you’ll go to protect what’s yours.”
The casual observation struck Edmund like a physical blow.What’s yours. Was that how he thought of Isadora now? As a possession to be protected rather than a person to be respected? The possibility was deeply unsettling, particularly given the way his pulse had quickened when Tobias had suggested she might appreciate his protective instincts.
