“She is my wife,” he said carefully, testing the words. “I would naturally defend her reputation, just as I would defend any member of my household.”
“Naturally,” Tobias agreed, though something in his expression suggested he’d heard more in Edmund’s tone than had been intended. “Though I notice you were rather more... creative in your approach to Bickham’s correction than usual. Mentioning James’s memory, for instance. That particular weapon hasn’t emerged from your arsenal in some time.”
The observation was delivered with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested Tobias was probing for information rather than making accusations. But Edmund could hear the unspoken question beneath his friend’s words: why had the threat to Lillian prompted such a visceral response? Why had he felt compelled to invoke the most painful chapter of his past in defense of a girl he claimed to view as nothing more than an obligation?
“Bickham required a reminder about the consequences of poor judgment,” Edmund replied, which was true enough without being particularly illuminating. “His behavior at the musicale suggested he’d forgotten certain basic principles of civilized conduct.”
“And your duchess’s intervention in that situation? How did she demonstrate such remarkable timing in appearing precisely when Lillian required rescue?”
The question was posed with Tobias’s usual casual precision, but Edmund could hear the deeper inquiry. His friend was wondering about Isadora’s motivations, her methods, perhaps even her worthiness of the protection Edmund had just demonstrated so dramatically.
“She was attending the same event. She observed Bickham’s behavior and chose to intervene.” Edmund took a careful sip of whiskey, using the gesture to buy time while he considered how much he was prepared to reveal. “It was... admirable. She acted without hesitation to protect someone weaker than herself.”
“Admirable,” Tobias repeated thoughtfully. “And I suspect rather attractive to a man who’s spent the better part of a decade convinced that genuine selflessness no longer existed among theton.Tell me, Edmund—when you observed her protecting Lillian, did it perhaps remind you of why you fell in love with the idea of marriage in the first place?”
The question was delivered with surgical precision, designed to penetrate defenses that Edmund hadn’t realized he’d lowered.Because Tobias was right, in his infuriatingly perceptive way. Watching Isadora stand between Bickham and his intended victim had stirred something in Edmund’s chest that had nothing to do with gratitude and everything to do with recognition. Here was a woman who understood that strength carried responsibility, that power should be used to protect rather than exploit.
Here was someone worthy of the protection he’d just offered, whether she knew it or not.
“I acted out of simple practicality,” Edmund said firmly, though the words felt less convincing than they had a week ago. “Nothing more romantic than that.”
“Of course,” Tobias replied with the sort of bland agreement that suggested he believed nothing of the sort. “Which brings us back to the fascinating question of why this practical arrangement has you so thoroughly unsettled. What exactly did your practical duchess do today that’s left you brooding like Hamlet contemplating skulls?”
The comparison was more accurate than Edmund cared to acknowledge. He had been brooding, and over questions that seemed to multiply rather than resolve themselves the more he considered them. Questions about authority and protection, about the difference between being respected and being feared, about whether the walls he’d built around his heart were keeping danger out or keeping life at bay.
It was not something he wanted to ponder on any longer than necessary. It felt far too dangerous.
CHAPTER 12
“You should have seen him!” Isadora exclaimed, her silk morning dress rustling as she paced the length of the blue drawing room like a caged lioness. “Brooding, domineering, utterly insufferable! He spoke as though I had no right to an opinion in my own household.”
Charlotte bit back a smile from her position beside the fire, where Christmas garlands wound around the marble mantelpiece cast dancing shadows in the flickering candlelight. Her traveling dress was still creased from the journey from London, but her dark eyes sparkled with the sort of mischievous interest that had made her invaluable as a confidante during their years navigating the treacherous waters of theton.
“And you told him otherwise, naturally,” Charlotte replied, reaching for her teacup with movements that spoke of barely contained amusement.
“Of course I did!” Isadora threw up her hands, sending the Christmas holly arrangement on the side table trembling withthe force of her gesture. “He thinks me presumptuous—me! As though having opinions about the welfare of a child in my care were some sort of revolutionary act.”
She paused in her pacing to stare out the tall windows at the snow-covered grounds, where evergreen boughs had been arranged along the garden paths like nature’s own Christmas decorations. The winter landscape should have been beautiful, but all she could see was the rigid perfection that seemed to govern every aspect of life at Rothwell Abbey.
“And yet, Charlotte...” Her voice faltered as she remembered the moment his eyes had locked with hers in that charged schoolroom confrontation, sharp and unyielding yet somehow hungry. “I fear I must admit… He is not entirely what I expected.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline with the sort of knowing expression that had always made Isadora slightly uncomfortable. “Not what you expected? Or far more than you expected?”
“Do not tease me,” Isadora said sharply, though she could feel heat rising in her cheeks despite the December chill that seemed permanently settled in the Abbey’s ancient stones. “He is impossible. Utterly impossible. And yet?—”
“And yet,” Charlotte finished with a grin that was pure mischief, “you cannot stop thinking about him.”
Isadora sank into the chair opposite her friend with movements that spoke of bone-deep exhaustion, burying her face in her hands while Charlotte’s knowing laughter filled the room with warmth that had nothing to do with the blazing fire.
“You are incorrigible,” Isadora muttered through her fingers, though she couldn’t entirely suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. “This entire situation is rather... complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Charlotte leaned forward with the sort of avid curiosity that had made her theton’smost accomplished gatherer of interesting gossip. “Come now, my dear friend, you cannot possibly leave me hanging after such a tantalizing confession. What exactly has the Dangerous Duke done to capture your attention so thoroughly?”
Isadora lifted her head to study her friend’s face, noting the genuine concern that lurked beneath Charlotte’s habitual levity. They had known each other since childhood, had weathered the storms of three London seasons together, had shared secrets that would have scandalized their mothers and delighted their enemies.
“He caught me,” she said quietly, the words escaping before wisdom could stop them. “On our wedding day, I slipped on the church steps, and he caught me. For just a moment, I was pressed against his chest, close enough to see that his scar isn’t a single clean line but a network of smaller marks, as though whatever blade marked him had caught and torn rather than slicing cleanly.”
Charlotte leaned forward slightly.
