And she couldn’t decide whether that terrified her or thrilled her more.
CHAPTER 2
The drawing room felt suffocating when Isadora returned, thick with the cloying scent of hothouse roses and the competing perfumes of London’s finest ladies. Miss Hartwell had mercifully concluded her musical assault, replaced by a tenor whose voice carried the promise of Christmas carols to come. The season was approaching fast—holly and ivy would soon grace the mantels, and families would gather for the traditional festivities. Yet all Isadora could think about was the electric moment in that shadowy alcove, when green eyes had met hers with an intensity that left her breathless.
“There you are,” Father hissed, appearing at her elbow with the sort of smile that fooled no one who knew him well. “Lord Ashcombe has been asking for you particularly. Something about the Christmas house party at Thornfield. Apparently his late wife always hosted the most elegant celebrations, and he’s eager to... establish new traditions.”
The implication hung between them like a noose. Ashcombe wanted a new wife to play hostess to his Christmas gatherings, to warm his bed and manage his household while he grew fat on port and self-satisfaction. The thought made her stomach clench with revulsion.
“How thoughtful of him to share his domestic arrangements,” she managed, forcing brightness into her voice.
Father’s fingers closed around her arm, not quite painfully but with enough pressure to make his displeasure clear. “You will be charming, Isadora. You will show interest in his plans. And you will stop whatever nonsense has gotten into your head tonight.”
Before she could form a suitable reply, they were swept into the orbit of male conversation. Three gentlemen rose as she approached: Lord Ashcombe with his doughy features and calculating eyes, the Honorable Mr. Fitzsimmons whose youth couldn’t quite disguise his mercenary nature, and Lord Pemberton whose gambling debts were the talk of every drawing room in Mayfair.
“Lady Isadora,” Ashcombe simpered, bowing over her hand with lips that lingered too long against her glove. “Radiant as always. I was just telling your father about my plans for Christmas. Thornfield will be magnificent this year—the finest musicians, the most elaborate decorations. Perhaps you might have thoughts on how a lady would arrange such festivities?”
She smiled with all the warmth of December snow. “I’m sure any lady would be honored to assist with your seasonal entertainments, Lord Ashcombe.”
The careful phrasing wasn’t lost on him, though his ego prevented him from acknowledging the subtle rejection. “Just what I hoped to hear. And of course, there’s the Christmas morning service to consider. The estate chapel is particularly lovely during the season. Perfect for a family celebration.”
Family. The word tasted bitter in her mouth. Was this to be her future? Playing the devoted wife while he calculated her worth in terms of heirs and household management?
“Christmas is indeed a time for reflection on one’s blessings,” she replied, which could mean anything and committed her to nothing.
Mr. Fitzsimmons cleared his throat, his narrow eyes cold upon what he seemed to view as his rival before he turned back to Isadora. “Lady Isadora, I wonder if you might have thoughts on the musical entertainments planned for the season? I understand you have excellent taste in these matters.”
Before she could answer, a shift in the room’s atmosphere made every conversation falter. Heads turned, fans fluttered, and whispers multiplied like winter frost spreading across glass. Edmund Ravensleigh, Duke of Rothwell, had appeared in their circle with the sort of presence that commanded attention whether one wished to give it or not.
He was even more imposing in the bright light of the drawing room, all dark elegance and barely leashed power. The scar along his jaw caught the candlelight, a stark reminder of whatever violence had marked him. When the other gentlemen stammered through their greetings, she could see the effort it cost them to maintain their composure.
“Your Grace,” Ashcombe managed, his voice pitched higher than usual. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Indeed,” Rothwell replied, sounding almost bored. His gaze swept over their little group before settling on Isadora with an intensity that made her pulse race. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being properly introduced to your daughter, Wexford.”
Father practically beamed, clearly seeing opportunity in the Duke’s attention. “Of course, Your Grace. May I present Lady Isadora Cavendish? Isadora, His Grace the Duke of Rothwell.”
She curtsied with practiced grace, but when she rose, those green eyes were waiting for her, sharp with intelligence and something else she couldn’t quite name. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Isadora.” He inclined his head, the gesture perfectly correct and somehow intimate at the same time. “I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Her breath caught as she remembered the weight of Lillian’s trembling hand in hers, the fury in his voice when he’d confronted Bickham, the moment when his guard haddropped and she’d glimpsed something vulnerable beneath his dangerous facade.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace,” she managed, though her voice sounded breathless even to her own ears.
A smile ghosted across his lips—barely there, but unmistakably real. “Don’t you?”
The conversation around them had resumed, the other gentlemen discussing estate management and political matters with the sort of masculine importance that excluded feminine participation. Still, Isadora found herself drawn into the Duke’s orbit, pulled by a force she seemingly could not resist.
She moved slightly away from the group, though she remained close enough to maintain the appearance of listening while creating space for private words, words she could only share with this man who fascinated her like no other. The scent of his cologne—something dark and complex with notes of sandalwood and bergamot—surrounded her like an embrace.
“You ought to be more protective of her,” she murmured, keeping her gaze fixed on the crystal chandelier above their heads. The Christmas greenery wound through its arms caught the light, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mirror the uncertainty in her chest.
“She is not my daughter.”
’She looked up at him, and he turned his gaze from her almost instantly. But not soon enough—not before she noticed the troubled look in his gaze or the downward pull of his lips.
Before she could form a reply, he was stepping back, executing a crisp bow to the assembled gentlemen. “Forgive the interruption, gentlemen. Lady Isadora.” His gaze lingered on her for one charged moment. “I believe it is time I collect my ward and return to Rothwell Abbey. The evening has grown rather... late.”
