“As though I what?” Isadora prompted, her voice softer now.
“As though you are a wife in love with her husband.” The admission escaped in a rush, heat flooding his face in a way that hadn’t happened since he was a green boy facing his first duel. “I need society to believe this marriage is genuine. That you chose me rather than being forced into it. That our household contains warmth and affection rather than cold practicality.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the fire’s crackle and the wind’s howl beyond her windows. Edmund could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, could taste the vulnerability of what he’d just asked. He was requesting that she playact the very thing their arrangement specifically excluded—emotion, connection, the dangerous territory of genuine feeling.
“So now you require me to pretend devotion?” Isadora’s voice held careful neutrality that revealed nothing of her thoughts. “To manufacture affection I don’t feel for the benefit of an audience I don’t know?”
“Yes.” Edmund forced himself to hold her gaze, refusing to flinch from the judgment he deserved. “For my ward’s sake. For my name’s sake.” He paused. “And for yours. Whether you like it or not, you’re the Duchess of Rothwell now. Your reputation is bound to mine, and mine is currently destroying any chance Lillian has for happiness.”
Isadora moved to the window, her green wrapper catching firelight as she stared out at snow-covered grounds. Edmund watched the line of her shoulders, the proud set of her head, waiting for either agreement or the refusal he probably deserved.
“You’re asking me to lie,” she said finally.
“I’m asking you to perform. There’s a difference.”
She turned back to face him, and the expression in her eyes made his breath catch. “Is there? Because from where I stand, pretending to feel something I don’t seems rather like dishonesty regardless of what pretty name we give it.”
“Then call it what you will.” Edmund heard desperation creeping into his voice, hated himself for it. “But know that without your help, everything I’ve tried to build for Lillian crumbles. Society will never accept her if they continue seeing me as the Dangerous Duke who killed his best friend. And they won’t stop seeing me that way unless someone convinces them I’m capable of inspiring genuine affection.”
“And you believe I’m capable of such convincing performance?”
“I’ve seen you manage your father’s political gatherings with perfect grace despite detesting half the guests. I’ve watched you navigate social situations that would destroy lesser women without ever breaking composure.” Edmund took a step closer, drawn by something he couldn’t name. “If anyone can make society believe the impossible, it’s you.”
The compliment hung between them, more honest than he’d intended. Because it was true—Isadora possessed a strength and intelligence that had captivated him from their first meeting. She could face down predators in darkened corridors and challenge his authority in front of his household with equal composure. If anyone could transform his reputation through sheer force of will, it was this woman who’d married him to escape one trap only to find herself in another.
“And what happens after the dinner?” Isadora asked quietly. “Do we continue this performance indefinitely? Pretend devotion at every social gathering until even we forget it’s pretense?”
The question carried implications Edmund wasn’t prepared to examine. What did happen after? Did they maintain this charade for weeks, months, years? Did they eventually forget where performance ended and reality began? Did the lie become truth through repetition, like alchemists claimed base metal could become gold through sufficient transformation?
“We do whatever is necessary,” he said, the non-answer revealing more than any honesty could. “Whatever protects Lillian and gives her the future she deserves.”
Isadora studied his face with an intensity that made him want to look away. “You truly love that girl, don’t you? Beneath all the distance and control and determined isolation, you actually care what becomes of her.”
The observation was too accurate to deny, too painful to acknowledge. “She is my responsibility.”
“She’s more than that.” Isadora moved closer, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of lavender that clung to her hair. “She’s James’s daughter. Your dearest friend’s legacy. And you’re terrified you’ll fail her the way you believe you failed him.”
Edmund’s hands clenched at his sides, every instinct screaming to deny the accusation. But standing in her chambers with Christmas candles burning and snow falling beyond the windows, he found himself incapable of the comfortable lies that had sustained him for years.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I’m terrified. Of failing Lillian. Of proving James’s faith in me was misplaced. Of being exactly as inadequate as I’ve always suspected.” He met her eyes directly, refusing to flinch from whatever judgment he saw there. “So yes, I’m asking you to lie. To pretend affection for a man who offers you nothing but his failures and his desperate need for help he doesn’t deserve. And I’ll understand entirely if you refuse.”
The admission cost him everything—every scrap of pride, every carefully maintained wall.
For an uncomfortable, silent minute, the pair could only stare at one another. Then Isadora nodded.
“I’ll do it,” she said quietly. “I’ll be your devoted duchess at the Fairfax dinner. I’ll smile and laugh and look at you as though my heart beats faster when you enter a room.” Her hand dropped away, leaving his skin burning where she’d touched him. “But not because you’re asking me to lie, Edmund. Because you’re finally telling me the truth.”
She dismissed him with another nod, a simple one—and he walked out, feeling once more that he had married a woman who was dangerous in a different way people supposed he was.
CHAPTER 16
“You must try the syllabub, Your Grace—Cook outdid herself this year, adding just a hint of orange to complement the Christmas spices.”
Lady Fairfax’s voice carried across the dining table with the determined cheer of a woman hosting what she clearly believed would be the social event of the season. Around them, Fairfax House blazed with Christmas glory—holly and ivy wound through every available surface, candles burning in crystal holders that cast dancing light across silver and porcelain, the scent of roasted goose and plum pudding thick enough to make Isadora’s stays feel uncomfortably tight.
She smiled at their hostess with practiced warmth, very aware of Edmund’s presence beside her. “How thoughtful. I confess I’ve never tasted syllabub with orange—it sounds divine.”
The lie came easily. She’d been lying all evening, every word and gesture carefully calculated to present the picture of wedded bliss that Edmund required. And heaven help her, it wasworking. She could see it in the way Lord Wilcox watched them with barely concealed surprise, in Lady Blackwood’s grudging approval, in the whispers that rippled around the table whenever Edmund leaned close to murmur something in her ear.
