“This should be enlightening,” Charlotte murmured. “I’ve been hearing the most extraordinary things about your husband, you know. People are genuinely terrified of him in London. Lord Ashford told me he once saw the Duke reduce a man to stammering apology simply by staring at him for thirty seconds without speaking.”
“That’s absurd.” But even as Isadora protested, she remembered the way Bickham had paled when Edmund appeared in that corridor. The fear that had transformed the predator into prey with nothing more than Edmund’s presence and cold authority.
“Is it? Because Lady Pemberton swears her husband witnessed Edmund threatening someone at White’s last month. Something about staying away from his ward on pain of rather permanent consequences. Apparently the entire club went silent.”
Isadora’s hands clenched in her skirts. “He was protecting Lillian from a man who’d been inappropriate with her at the Cavendish musicale. That’s hardly evidence of dangerous character.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed thoughtfully. “But it does suggest he’s capable of violence when properly motivated. Combined with the duel that killed his best friend…”
“That was ten years ago.” The defense emerged before wisdom could stop it, passionate enough to make Charlotte’s eyebrows climb toward her elaborate coiffure. “And I’m certain there were circumstances we don’t understand. Edmund isn’t—” She stopped, realizing she’d used his given name without thinking.
Charlotte’s smile turned positively feline. “Edmund, is it? How very informal for a purely practical arrangement.”
Before Isadora could formulate a suitably cutting reply, the door opened again. Edmund entered with movements that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else—his shoulders carried tension visible even beneath perfectly tailored superfine, and his jaw was set with the rigid control she’d come to recognize as his default when facing situations beyond his mastery.
But he’d come. Despite whatever discomfort this social call caused him, despite the careful distance they’d been maintaining, he’d requested permission to join them for tea.
“Lady Charlotte,” he said, executing a bow that was technically perfect yet somehow conveyed reluctance. “I hope I’m not intruding on private conversation.”
“Not at all, Your Grace.” Charlotte rose to curtsy, her movements carrying none of the nervous energy that seemed to characterize most people’s interactions with the Duke. “I’m delighted to finally meet you properly. Isadora speaks of you often.”
The lie was delivered with such smooth confidence that Isadora nearly choked on air. Edmund’s attention shifted to her, one dark eyebrow rising in question that she pretended not to notice.
“How kind of my wife,” he said, his voice carrying an edge she couldn’t quite interpret. “I hope her accounts have been... flattering.”
“Endlessly so,” Charlotte replied with a grin that suggested she was enjoying this far too much. “Though I confess I’m rather disappointed. All the rumors suggest you’re absolutely terrifying, but you seem perfectly civilized to me.”
Isadora’s mortification intensified. “Charlotte?—”
“No, it’s quite all right,” Edmund interrupted, settling into the chair opposite with surprising grace. “I’m well aware of myreputation. Though I’m curious which particular rumors have reached Lady Charlotte’s ears.”
The invitation was delivered mildly enough, but Isadora caught the steel beneath silk. Edmund was testing Charlotte, assessing whether her boldness was genuine or merely performance designed to provoke reaction.
Charlotte, bless her fearless heart, met his gaze directly. “Oh, the usual nonsense. That you once made a man weep simply by looking at him. That you’ve fought half a dozen duels and killed at least three opponents. That you keep your household staff in terror through sheer force of personality.” She paused, then added with deliberate provocation, “And of course, that you murdered your best friend in cold blood and somehow escaped justice.”
The temperature in the morning room dropped several degrees. Isadora’s breath caught, horror flooding through her chest at Charlotte’s audacity. But Edmund’s expression remained carefully neutral, only the slight tightening around his eyes betraying any reaction.
“An impressive collection of fiction,” he said quietly. “Though I’m disappointed the rumors haven’t become more creative over the years. These are the same accusations that followed me from London a decade ago.”
“So they’re false?” Charlotte leaned forward with genuine curiosity rather than mere gossip-mongering.
“Some are exaggerated. Others are outright fabrications.” Edmund accepted the tea that Isadora poured with trembling hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly enough to send heat racing up her arm. “I have fought duels, though never with fatal outcome save one. I do maintain certain expectations regarding my household’s efficiency, though I like to think terror is an overstatement. And as for James Gray?—”
He stopped, jaw working as though the words had lodged in his throat. Isadora watched emotions chase across his face—grief, guilt, something that looked almost like longing before being ruthlessly suppressed.
“James was my dearest friend,” Edmund continued, his voice dropping to something raw and honest. “His death was tragedy, not murder. And anyone who suggests otherwise is welcome to face me directly.”
Charlotte grinned brightly at this, despite his menacing tone.
“Well, I like you,” she declared, raising her teacup in salute. “You’re far more interesting than the stuffy dukes Papa keeps trying to marry me off to. At least you’re honest about your failures rather than pretending perfection.”
Edmund’s lips twitched—barely, but unmistakably. “I’m gratified to meet your exacting standards, Lady Charlotte.”
“Oh, call me Charlotte. We’re practically family now that you’ve married my dearest friend.” She shot Isadora a look that clearly said see? He’s not so frightening after all.
What followed was perhaps the most surreal half hour of Isadora’s life. Charlotte, apparently determined to prove some point about Edmund’s humanity, launched into an enthusiastic discussion of literature that drew him out despite obvious reluctance. She asked his opinion on Byron’s politics, debated the merits of Gothic novels versus social comedies, even managed to make him laugh when she described Lady Pemberton’s reaction to discovering her husband reading Frankenstein with apparent fascination.
And Edmund—heaven help her, Edmund was charming when he chose to be. Not in the polished way of London drawing room gallants, but with genuine intelligence and dry wit that suggested the man James Gray had described in those letters Lillian had found. The man who’d existed before grief and guilt had armored his heart.
