Edmund released her hand slowly, his attention returning to his untouched syllabub with studied casualness. But Isadora could see the tension in his shoulders, could sense the effort it cost him to maintain composure after that unscripted moment of apparent tenderness.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced conversation and careful performance. Isadora laughed at Lord Fairfax’s stories, offered opinions on Christmas decorations that she didn’t actually possess, allowed Edmund to refill her wine glass with the sort of attentive care that suggested he monitored her every need.
And through it all, she was intensely aware of him. The way his jaw tightened when someone mentioned the duel—obliquely, couched in references to “past difficulties”—that had defined his reputation. The slight relaxation of his posture when conversation shifted to safer topics like estate management or the season’s hunting.
When Lady Fairfax finally suggested the ladies withdraw while the gentlemen enjoyed their port, Isadora felt Edmund’s hand at her elbow, steadying her as she rose. The gesture was unnecessary—she was perfectly capable of standing without assistance—but she understood its purpose. One more demonstration of his devotion, his attentiveness, his transformation from dangerous recluse into proper husband.
“Don’t be too long,” she said softly, the words meant for him alone but pitched to carry to their audience. “I shall miss your company.”
His fingers tightened briefly against her arm. “I’ll join you as soon as courtesy permits.”
The promise in his voice sounded almost genuine. Isadora allowed herself to be swept away with the other ladies, veryaware of Edmund’s gaze following her progress across the dining room.
The drawing room where they gathered was a riot of Christmas excess—more greenery, more candles, a fire blazing hot enough to make Isadora’s cheeks flush within moments of entering. Lady Fairfax settled into her favorite chair with the satisfied air of a general surveying a successful campaign, while the other ladies arranged themselves according to rank and familiarity.
“You must tell us everything,” Lady Blackwood said without preamble, fixing Isadora with a stare that had probably reduced lesser women to stammering confession. “How did you manage to capture the Duke of Rothwell? We’d all quite given up hope that he would ever marry.”
Isadora accepted the tea that appeared at her elbow, using the gesture to buy time while she constructed an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much. “I’m not certain I captured him, my lady. Rather, we discovered a mutual understanding that seemed worth pursuing.”
“Mutual understanding.” Lady Fairfax’s smile suggested she found this phrasing delightfully romantic. “How very modern of you both. Though I must say, Your Grace, His Grace appears quite besotted. The way he watches you—it’s positively tender.”
Was it? Isadora couldn’t tell anymore. Edmund’s performance had been flawless all evening, his every gesture and word calculated to convince their audience of his transformation. But that moment when he’d kissed her hand—that had felt different.Unscripted. Real in a way that made her pulse race with something she refused to examine too closely.
“We are still discovering each other,” she said carefully. “Marriage is rather new to us both.”
“But you must have known him before the wedding?” This from Lady Wilcox, whose curiosity was apparently stronger than her sense of propriety. “Or was it truly as sudden as the rumors suggest?”
Here was dangerous ground. Admitting the hasty nature of their marriage would confirm the incessant speculation about scandal and desperation. Claiming a long courtship, however, would be a too-blatant lie, one that would be easy to disprove.
“His Grace made his intentions clear,” Isadora replied at last. “And I found his proposal... compelling.”
The truth, if not the whole truth. Edmund’s proposal had been compelling—an escape from Lord Ashcombe’s doughy hands and her father’s ambitions, an opportunity to matter in ways she’d never been permitted. The fact that love hadn’t entered into their arrangement was information these women didn’t require.
“Well, whatever the circumstances,” Lady Fairfax declared, “I think it’s perfectly lovely. The Duke has been alone far too long. That business with poor Mr. Gray—” She stopped, apparently realizing she’d strayed into forbidden territory. “Well. What’spast is past. The important thing is that you’ve brought him back to society.”
Except she hadn’t, Isadora thought. Not really. They’d simply performed a convincing charade for a few hours, pretending to be something neither of them actually was. Once they returned to Rothwell Abbey, Edmund would retreat into his study and his isolation, and she would return to her chambers and her books, and the careful distance they maintained would reassert itself.
Unless—
The thought was dangerous enough that Isadora pushed it away before it could fully form. She was not going to start imagining that their performance held genuine feeling. She was not going to make the mistake of believing Edmund’s tender gestures meant anything beyond their agreed-upon deception.
She absolutely was not going to acknowledge the way her heart had raced when his lips touched her glove, or the heat that had flooded her chest when his eyes met hers with that unguarded confusion.
The gentlemen rejoined them after an interminable wait, bringing the scent of port and tobacco and masculine conversation. Edmund found her immediately, crossing the drawing room with movements that suggested urgency barely contained.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly, settling beside her on the settee with proximity that would have been improper between mere acquaintances. “You look flushed.”
“The room is rather warm,” Isadora replied, which was true but not the whole truth. The flush in her cheeks had less to do with Lady Fairfax’s excessive fires and more to do with Edmund’s nearness, the way his thigh pressed against hers through layers of silk and superfine.
“Shall we take our leave?” His voice carried hope that seemed genuine. “We’ve made the required appearance. Surely no one could fault us for retiring early.”
Isadora glanced at the clock—barely past ten. Early indeed for a Christmas Eve gathering. But Edmund’s expression held something approaching desperation, and she found herself nodding before considering the implications.
“Yes,” she said. “I confess I’m rather tired from the journey.”
The lie came easily. She wasn’t tired at all—was in fact more alive than she’d felt in weeks, every nerve humming with awareness of the man beside her. But escape sounded infinitely preferable to another hour of careful performance and Lady Blackwood’s penetrating stares.
Their departure created the expected flutter of polite protests and knowing smiles. Lady Fairfax whispered something to Lady Wilcox that made both women giggle like girls rather than matrons. Lord Fairfax clapped Edmund on the shoulder with thesort of masculine camaraderie reserved for fellow sufferers of matrimonial devotion.
