“I thought it wise to understand the women who came before me. To see what they endured in this role.” Her gaze traveled along the portraits. “They all look rather solemn. As though being Duchess of Rothwell was a burden to be borne rather than a position to celebrate.”
“Perhaps it was. Is.” Edmund moved to stand beside her, studying the faces he’d known all his life. “The weight of expectation. The duty to produce heirs and manage households and represent the family name without ever revealing the cost of such performance.”
“Is that what you think marriage should be? Performance without substance?”
The question landed like a blow. Edmund’s hands clenched behind his back.
“I think marriage in our class is rarely about personal happiness. It’s alliance and duty and the continuation of bloodlines.” Even as he said it, the words felt hollow. “What we feel matters less than what we provide.”
“How desperately sad.” Isadora’s voice had softened. “To go through life never knowing genuine connection. Never allowing yourself to care because caring might complicate the careful performance.”
She was talking about him. About the walls he’d built and the isolation he maintained.
Edmund should have changed the subject and offered some cutting remark to reestablish distance.
Instead he found himself saying, “My parents defied that expectation. They married for love—scandalous in their generation. And for twenty years, they were genuinely happy.”
“What happened?”
“She died. Fever took her in a matter of days.” The old grief rose, familiar and worn smooth by years. “My father never recovered. Spent the next fifteen years existing rather than living, until his heart finally gave out. I sometimes wonder if he died of grief rather than any physical ailment.”
Isadora turned to face him fully. “And you decided that loving someone was too dangerous. That the pain of loss outweighed any possible joy.”
“I decided that control was safer than vulnerability.” Edmund met her gaze. “That walls kept out pain as effectively as they kept out connection.”
“You hide behind that scar as if it defines you,” she said softly. “As though one tragic morning negates thirty years of living. As though you’re nothing more than the Dangerous Duke society whispers about.”
Her hand lifted, slowly, giving him time to retreat.
Edmund didn’t move.
Her fingertips brushed along his jaw. Traced the scar with the same gentleness she’d shown in the library. This time, he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Every nerve ending had caught fire from that simple contact, every carefully constructed defense crumbling under her touch.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, Isadora,” he said. The words emerged raw. Honest in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be since James’s death.
“Then show me,” she whispered.
Later—much later—Edmund would wonder at what point he’d lost the battle with his own restraint. Whether it was the challenge in her eyes or the warmth of her touch or simply the accumulated weight of three days spent watching her from across rooms.
Perhaps it didn’t matter.
His hand came up to cover hers, pressing her palm more firmly against his scarred jaw. Their eyes locked. He could see his own desire reflected in her face, could feel the way her breath had quickened.
“If I show you,” he said quietly, “there’s no taking it back. No pretending this is merely a practical arrangement.”
“Then stop pretending.” Her free hand settled on his chest. “Stop hiding behind walls and duty and the fear that caring about me might somehow betray your friend’s memory.”
The mention of James should have broken the spell. It should have reminded Edmund of all the reasons this was dangerous.
Instead it felt like permission.
He pulled her closer. Not gently—there was nothing gentle about the need that had been building for days. His hands framed her waist, fingers spreading across silk and the warmth beneath. She fit against him perfectly, curves aligning in ways that made coherent thought difficult.
“Isadora.” Her name emerged as something between prayer and curse.
She rose onto her toes, closing the remaining distance. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down to meet her.
Their lips met in a kiss that tasted of inevitability and desire finally unleashed.
