“Yes, Your Grace,” Hawthorne replied. “And if I may say so, it seems you have made an excellent choice in your duchess.”
Evan huffed a quiet laugh. It was rare for Hawthorne to offer praise at all, much less toward a woman he had barely met.
So, his little wife had managed to impress even him.
Interesting.
He pushed back from his desk, rising abruptly.
“Hawthorne.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Have them set for dinner. I assume my wife is already there?”
The butler gave a knowing nod. “She is. She does not seem to tolerate lateness.”
Evan grinned at that.
“Good,” he said, striding out of the study. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
As expected, she was already there.
Evan barely made it past the dining room threshold before Isadora’s sharp gaze met his, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“You’re late.”
He smirked, taking his time to step inside.
“Apologies, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Am I to be scolded on my first full day as a husband?”
She gave him a pointed look and reached for her glass. “You should have more discipline, Your Grace.”
There it was again—Your Grace.
Not Evan, not husband, just the formal distance she clung to so desperately.
He pulled out a chair and sat across from her, watching her as she placed her napkin in her lap with practiced grace. Even in irritation, she was poised.
Perfect. Proper. Untouchable.
And yet…
For the briefest second, a different image flickered in his mind.
Her—breathless, disheveled after her ride, the night he had first told her she would be his wife. It had been a glimpse of something else entirely, something so contrasting to her usual restraint.
Something, he realized, he wanted to see again.
He cleared his throat, pushing the thought aside.
If he entertained it too long, he would be tempted to provoke her even more.
No.
This was a business arrangement.
“Shall we eat?” she prompted, clearly eager to move past the lateness of his arrival.
