“Can’t blame you for wanting to get home,” he said with a wink that made Isadora’s cheeks flame. “Young bride and all that. Perfectly understandable.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained cordial as he made their final farewells. And then they were outside in December darkness, snow crunching beneath their feet as they moved toward the carriage that waited with breathtaking patience.
Edmund handed her up without speaking, his movements stiff with tension that had nothing to do with cold. The interior of the carriage was dark except for a single lamp, its flame casting shadows that made his scarred face appear almost demonic.
They sat opposite each other—proper distance maintained despite having just spent hours pressed together in apparent intimacy. The silence between them felt thick enough to choke on, weighted with everything they weren’t saying.
The carriage lurched into motion, and Isadora watched Edmund’s profile as he stared out the window at snow-covered landscape. His hands were clenched in his lap, knuckles white with tension, and she could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
“That went well,” she offered finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.
“Yes.” The word emerged clipped, final. “They believed our performance. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Cooperation. As though she’d done him some business favor rather than spent hours pretending to be desperately in love with him. As though the heat between them had been entirely manufactured, carrying no echo of genuine feeling.
“You’re welcome,” Isadora replied, her own voice cooling to match his tone. “I trust Lillian’s prospects will benefit from this evening’s... cooperation.”
Something flickered across his expression—pain, perhaps, or regret. But it vanished so quickly she might have imagined it, replaced by the careful neutrality that seemed his default setting whenever genuine emotion threatened.
The rest of the journey passed in silence broken only by the crunch of wheels through snow and the occasional jingle of harness. Isadora found herself remembering the way Edmund’s hand had felt against her back, the heat of his mouth on her glove, the confusion in his eyes when she’d complimented him with unscripted sincerity.
Had any of it been real? Or had she simply been too caught up in their performance to recognize acting when she saw it?
Rothwell Abbey appeared through the darkness like a medieval fortress, all stone and shadow and impenetrable walls.
Edmund handed her down without speaking, his touch brief and impersonal. They entered the house together, acknowledged the servants’ curious glances with careful courtesy, and moved through halls decorated with holly and ivy toward the drawing room where a fire had been laid against their return.
Isadora stopped just inside the doorway, very aware that they were alone now. No audience to perform for, no witnesses to their charade. Just the two of them and the questions that had been building all evening.
“Why did you marry me, Your Grace?”
The words escaped before wisdom could stop them, raw and demanding in the firelit silence. Edmund froze halfway to the sideboard, his shoulders going rigid beneath perfectly tailored superfine.
“We’ve discussed this,” he said without turning. “Lillian required appropriate female guidance?—”
“Was it truly for Lillian?” Isadora stepped closer, her silk skirts rustling in the quiet. “Or only because you cannot bear to lose control of your life? Because a wife could be managed more easily than acknowledging you might actually need help?”
Now he turned, and the expression on his face made her breath catch. “Do not presume to know my reasons.”
“Then tell me what they are.” She moved until they were separated by only a few feet of carpet, close enough to see the firelight catching in his green eyes. “Tell me what happened to you that you fear being seen. Why are you so terrified of vulnerability that you’d rather perform devotion than risk experiencing it?”
His hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment she thought he might actually answer. His eyes locked with hers, holding storms she wanted desperately to understand. She could see him warring with himself, walls cracking just enough to let her glimpse the man beneath.
“Edmund—” she whispered, reaching toward him.
But just as quickly, the walls rose again. Shuttered. Impenetrable.
“It does not concern you,” he said, voice flat and final.
The dismissal stung worse than any slap could have. Isadora felt something crack in her chest—hope she hadn’t known she was harboring, foolish dreams about what they might become if he would only let her see him.
“I am your wife,” she whispered.
“Not a real one.”
The words hit like physical blows, brutal in their honesty. Edmund’s expression remained carefully neutral, but she could see something that might have been regret flickering in his eyes before he looked away.
Isadora straightened, pulling together the shreds of her dignity with movements that felt mechanical. Her heart ached with a pain she had no right to feel—they’d agreed this was practical, purely business, nothing resembling genuine marriage. But somewhere between his hand at her back and his lips on her glove, she’d started believing their performance might contain truth.
