Lillian’s expression fell. “But it’s only a small gathering. Not even a formal ball. Just families from the neighborhood celebrating?—”
“I will decide.”
Too sharp. Edmund heard it in his own voice. Saw Lillian flinch. But he couldn’t soften the blow. Couldn’t explain that the thought of presenting her to society—even Yorkshire’s modest version of it—terrified him.
Because society would judge. Would whisper. Would look at Lillian and see illegitimacy and scandal and all the things Edmund had spent fifteen years trying to protect her from.
Better to keep her safe at Rothwell Abbey. Safe and isolated and miserable.
Isadora’s fork clinked against her plate. Edmund glanced up despite himself.
She was staring at him. Eyes bright with something that looked like anger barely leashed.
“Perhaps we might discuss this privately,” she said. Calm. Measured. “After dinner.”
A command disguised as suggestion. Edmund’s jaw tightened.
“There’s nothing to discuss. Lillian isn’t ready?—”
“With respect, Your Grace, I believe she is. And I believe this conversation requires more than your unilateral decision.”
The words carried edges. Challenge barely concealed.
Edmund set down his fork. “Very well. My study. After dinner.”
He rose before propriety allowed. Left the dining room without another word.
Behind him, silence. Then the soft murmur of Isadora’s voice as she tried to comfort Lillian.
Edmund fled to his study. Poured whiskey with shaking hands. Stared at flames while his mind replayed dinner’s disaster.
He was destroying everything. Driving away the people who cared about him. Proving every accusation society had ever leveled.
The Dangerous Duke. Cold. Cruel. Incapable of tenderness.
Perhaps they were right.
Isadora arrived precisely fifteen minutes after dinner concluded.
Edmund heard her footsteps in the corridor. He recognized the determined cadence. Braced himself.
She entered without knocking and closed the door behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.
“We need to discuss Lillian.”
No greeting. No preamble. Straight to the attack.
Edmund took a swallow of whiskey. “There’s nothing to discuss. She’s not ready for society.”
“She’s nearly sixteen.” Isadora moved closer to his desk. “In one month, she’ll be of age to begin appearing in company. She should be preparing for that. Learning to dance, to converse, to navigate social situations she’ll inevitably face.”
“She has time?—”
“She has one month,” Isadora insisted, her voice firm. “And you’re keeping her locked away like some shameful secret. Denying her the preparation she desperately needs because you’re terrified of society’s judgment.”
The accusation landed like a blow. It was true, which made it all the more devastating.
“I’m protecting her?—”
