“I’m not.”
Isobel scoffed and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Tell me something, Your Grace. Does this wedding day of yours look like the freedom you promised me?”
He put his own cutlery to the side, trying to gauge what had happened between their dance this morning and now. “What is the problem?”
“I may be your wife, but that does not give you permission to govern me as you please,” she seethed, anger flashing in her eyes.
“I hardly ordered you to do anything.” Andrew turned his attention to Selene. “What was the message you delivered to the Duchess?”
Selene’s cheeks turned red as she looked between Andrew and Isobel. “I told Her Grace that shemustjoin you for supper.”
Andrew nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind going to unpack the Duchess’ belongings while we dine?”
Though it was said like a question, the intention was clear. He wanted her out of the room while he tried to explain the matter to Isobel. He would not argue with her in front of the servants if he had a choice. The last thing either of them needed was whispers about their marriage falling apart on the very day they were wed.
With a dip of her head, Selene left the room, scurrying out as if she was afraid of being called back in once more. Andrew could hardly blame her for that. While he doubted that Isobel had said anything to her, the anger rolling off the Duchess in waves was enough to suck all the air from the room.
"My request was not transferred correctly," Andrew said, though even as he spoke, he felt the old instinct rising—the need to maintain control, to manage every detail of his household the way he managed every detail of the Mayfair Fox. "I wouldn't deign to tell you what to do."
"Wouldn't you?" Isobel's eyes flashed. "Because it seems to me that ordering people about is what you do best. At your club, in your household, with me."
The words struck deeper than she likely intended. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" She set down her fork carefully. "You've built an empire on control, Andrew. On managing people, manipulating situations, ensuring everything runs according to your design. And now you expect me to simply fall in line like one of your employees or your patrons."
"I don't." He stopped, because there was truth in her words that he didn't want to examine.
The Mayfair Fox had taught him control. After watching his father destroy everything through lack of it—gambling away fortunes, seducing women without thought for consequences, drinking himself into oblivion—Andrew had sworn he would be different. He would be disciplined. Controlled. Master of his domain.
And he'd succeeded--mostly. The club was proof. Every detail of the establishment was perfect, every operation ran smoothly, and every outcome turned out exactly as he designed it.
But Isobel wasn't a business to be managed.
"You're right," he said quietly, the admission costing him. "I am used to control. The Mayfair Fox requires it. But that doesn't mean I view you as something to overpower."
He leaned forward, needing her to understand. "The club isn't just a business to me. But you, Isobel, are important.”
"But not more important than the club."
It wasn't a question, and he couldn't bring himself to lie.
"The Mayfair Fox is part of who I am," he said carefully. "I can't simply set it aside, not without understanding what that means for me. But I'm here now, aren't I? I stayed away from the club all day and even had you summoned here so we could enjoy dinner together. I'm trying to find balance."
"Are you?" Her voice was quiet but firm. "Or are you just avoiding the club temporarily while you figure out how to have both without truly choosing either?"
The observation was too close to the truth. He stood, moving to the window to avoid her penetrating gaze.
He could feel her disappointment even with his back turned, but he couldn't give her the vulnerability she was asking for. Not yet. Not when he wasn't certain what it would cost him.
She continued, watching him carefully. "Who are you? Now that we are married, I deserve to know the truth. If the Mayfair Fox disappeared tomorrow, would there be anything left? Anyone left? Or would you just... vanish?"
He wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that he was more than his business, more than his fear, more than his father's shadow.
But being there, looking into her knowing amber eyes, he wasn't certain.
Andrew turned his full attention on her. "I know you think I'm going to be a man like your father, but I'm not. I won’t squander my income or treat you abominably."
She pursed her lips before turning to her food, cutting a piece of the roast and eating it, not saying anything.
