"I just know."
Isobel felt heat rise in her cheeks. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?” Eleanor stood. "Now, I expect you to wear that dress to a ball soon. I’ll love to see what a beauty you are. And I expect an invitation too."
After Eleanor left, Isobel sat staring at the dress, her mind churning.
Perhaps Eleanor was right. Perhaps it was time to stop waiting for the perfect moment and simply ask Andrew for what she needed.
For Joan's sake, if not her own.
The next morning, Isobel found Andrew in the breakfast room, looking remarkably composed for a man who'd stumbled home reeking of brandy a few days ago.
"Good morning, Duchess." His voice was steady, controlled, showing no sign of the vulnerability he'd displayed that night.
"Good morning." She sat across from him, accepting tea from a footman. "How are you feeling?"
"Perfectly well, thank you." He turned the page of his newspaper casually.
"That’s good, though I was concerned when you arrived home in such a state the other night." She aimed to keep her own voice just as nonchalant as his, but Isobel knew that she slightly missed the mark.
"I'd had a drink or two. Nothing more." His eyes remained on the newspaper. "Gentlemen sometimes indulge. It's hardly noteworthy."
"Andrew."
"I believe Mrs. Brendan mentioned you needed new calling cards ordered?" He finally looked at her, his expression perfectlypleasant and completely closed off. "As my Duchess, you should have the finest. I'll have my secretary arrange it."
She recognized the deflection for what it was—a man reasserting control after being vulnerable in a way that clearly made him uncomfortable in the harsh light of morning.
"That's thoughtful of you."
"I take care of what's mine." The words were matter of fact. There was a reminder lingering there that he was still the Duke of Foxdrey, still the man who commanded the Mayfair Fox, and was still in control despite the other night's lapse.
"Is that what I am? Yours to take care of?"
His gaze sharpened, and for a moment she saw the shrewd business owner beneath the polished exterior. "You're my wife. That means you're under my protection. My responsibility. Yes, Isobel, you're mine. Does that trouble you?"
The possessiveness in his voice should have angered her. Should have triggered all her fears about being controlled, owned, and treated as property.
Instead, it sent an unwelcome shiver of heat through her.
"No," she admitted quietly. "It doesn't trouble me."
"Good." He returned to his newspaper, the moment of intensity passing as quickly as it had appeared. "Because I take my responsibilities very seriously. You'll want for nothing as my Duchess."
"Except perhaps honesty?"
The newspaper lowered. "I beg your pardon?"
"The other night, you told me what was on your mind. You spoke openly about your father. This morning, you're pretending as if that conversation never happened." She met his gaze steadily. "Which version is real, Andrew? The man who came home troubled and let me see his fears? Or this one, who's acting as if nothing of consequence occurred?"
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he folded the newspaper with precise movements and set it aside.
"Both are real," he said finally. "The man you saw the other night exists. But he's not the one who runs a business or navigates thetonor protects his wife from gossip. That requires control, Isobel. It requires a certain... performance."
“You think I know nothing of that subject?” Isobel scoffed harshly. “I had to pretend all was well for years while my father fostered one bad habit after another. I do not know how many times I had to escort my father from a room discreetly so that my family could avoid embarrassment because he had over imbibed. Even now that I have left his house, I still worry about my sister. Joan is there and she is…”
Andrew stood then and moved around the table to stand beside her chair. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. The touch was firm and possessive.
