She moved into the room slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might make it disappear. Her fingers trailed along the windowsill, and he saw the exact moment she noticed the easel he'd had delivered yesterday.
"You bought an easel."
"I ordered several easels. And paints. And canvas. And probably far too many brushes because I wasn't sure which kind you preferred." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. "They were brought in this morning and are all downstairs in the parlor. I wanted to have them set up here, but I wasn't certain you'd come, and I didn't want to presume?—"
"Andrew." She turned to face him fully. "You bought me art supplies."
"I bought us a house," he corrected. "The art supplies just seemed like a natural addition. You should have a space to paint. To create. To be yourself without anyone hovering or judging or demanding your time."
She stared at him for a long moment, and he saw tears gathering in her eyes.
"I need to say something," he said quickly, before he lost his nerve. "Several somethings, actually. Will you sit?"
There was no furniture yet, so they sank down to sit on the floor together, backs against the wall beneath the windows. The position was undignified for a duke and duchess, but Andrew found he didn't care.
"I bought this house," he began, "because I loved the area. It's not far from London—a few hours—so you can be near Joan whenever you want. But it's far enough from the noise and the gossip and the expectations. Far enough to breathe. To be ourselves instead of who Society expects us to be."
Isobel said nothing, just watched him with those luminous eyes. He took her hand, his thumb stroking over her knuckles.
"Andrew—"
"Let me finish," he said gently. "Please. I need to get all of this out."
She nodded, squeezing his hand.
"I was wrong," he continued. "About so many things. I was wrong to make the Fox my entire identity. I was wrong to let fear dictate my choices. I was wrong to push you away when I should have been holding you closer. And most of all, I was wrong to make you feel like you were second to anything—the club, my reputation, my need for validation. You should have been first from the beginning. You are first now."
"Am I?" Her voice was quiet but steady. "Or am I just first until the next crisis? Until the next thing that makes you question who you are?"
The question hurt, but it was fair. More than fair.
"I can't promise I'll never doubt myself again," he admitted. "I can't promise I'll always make the right choices or say the right things. I'm going to fail sometimes, Isobel. I'm going to be selfish and stupid and scared. Because I'm human, and I'm flawed, and I'm still figuring out how to be a good husband."
"Then what can you promise?"
"That I'll never stop trying." He shifted to face her more fully. "That when I fail, I'll admit it and do better next time. That I'll choose you over my pride. That I'll love you loudly and honestly, even when it's uncomfortable or inconvenient. That I'll build a life with you instead of asking you to fit into a life I've already built."
He took both her hands now, his grip firm and certain.
"I'm begging you, Isobel. Take me back. Give me another chance to prove I can be the husband you deserve. Do you believe in second chances?"
Before she could answer, barking erupted from downstairs.
The sound of wheels in the courtyard drew her attention. A moment later, one of the footmen appeared at the door to announce that several servants had arrived from London, bringing additional supplies Andrew had ordered ahead.
Chance darted in after them, tail wagging furiously, clearly having taken advantage of the commotion to stow away among the crates.
Isobel's eyes widened. "Is that?—"
"Chance!" Andrew called, and the barking intensified, accompanied by the thunder of paws on stairs.
The puppy burst into the room like a small brown and white tornado, making a beeline straight for Isobel. She laughed—actually laughed—as Chance jumped into her lap, licking her face with desperate enthusiasm, his entire body wiggling with joy.
"Hello, darling," she murmured, scratching behind his ears. "I've missed you too."
"He's been miserable without you," Andrew said, watching the reunion with a full heart. "Barely ate. Kept looking for you everywhere. Mrs. Brendan said he slept outside your chamber door every night."
"Poor baby." Isobel buried her face in Chance's fur. "I'm sorry I left you."
