"And you've not been present for dinner each evening," she reminded him. "But you’ve walked with me in the gardens twice. You've asked about my day and listened to the answers. That's more than many wives can say of their husbands after three days of marriage."
"The bar is remarkably low, it seems."
"It is," she agreed. "Which makes it easier for you to exceed my expectations."
He laughed again, and she felt something warm unfurl in her chest. These moments—when he dropped the careful control and just existed beside her—these were the moments that made her believe their marriage could be more than convenient.
"Have dinner with me tonight," he said suddenly. "Not in the dining room with the staff hovering. In my study. Just us."
Her heart stuttered. "Just us?"
"Just us. I'll have Cook prepare a tray. We can be informal. Relaxed." His smile turned slightly wicked. "Unless you're afraid of being alone with me, Duchess."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Then prove it. Seven o'clock. My study."
He walked away before Isobel could mention her sister.
She had been hoping to speak to the Duke about Joan’s situation and had meant to raise it while they strolled through the gardens, where servants would be less likely to linger.
No matter. That conversation could be had over dinner tonight.
"You're late again."
Andrew paused in the entrance hall, his hand still on the door he'd just closed. Isobel stood at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown, a candle flickering in her hand, casting dancing shadows across her face.
"I wasn't aware I needed permission to come and go from my own home, Duchess." His words came slower than usual, slightly slurred at the edges.
She descended the stairs with measured steps, her bare feet silent against the marble. "You don't. But you do need to stop stumbling about like a drunkard and waking the entire household."
"I'm not stumbling." He straightened, though the slight sway rather contradicted his claim.
"You're drunk."
"Barely." Andrew waved a dismissive hand, then seemed to lose track of the gesture halfway through. "Just had a few drinks. Business discussions require a certain... lubrication."
Isobel reached the bottom step and studied him in the candlelight. His cravat hung loose around his neck and his dark hair was disheveled.
"Business discussions that last until three in the morning?" She kept her voice carefully neutral, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "How very dedicated you are."
"The Mayfair Fox doesn't run itself." He moved past her toward the stairs, gripping the banister with more force than necessary. "Some of us have responsibilities we cannot shirk."
"Some of us have wives we've been avoiding for a week."
He stopped mid-step. "I haven't been avoiding you."
"No?" Isobel climbed two steps so she could meet his eyes. "Then what do you call dining separately, leaving before breakfast, and returning after I've retired each night?"
"Giving you space." Andrew turned to face her fully. "Isn't that what you wanted? Freedom?"
"Freedom and abandonment are not the same thing, Your Grace."
Something flickered across his face—pain, perhaps, or regret. "I'm not abandoning you. I'm simply... managing my affairs."
"Your affairs." The word tasted bitter. "How very specific a term."
"Don't." His voice dropped low. "Don't do that. Don't twist my words into something ugly when you know perfectly well what I mean."
