“We have much in common, my feral darling. We have both struggled to claw our ways out of the depths.” He sighed heavily. “We understand each other completely.
She turned toward him slowly. But then, before she could say anything further, before she could ask him to help rescue her little sister from her desperate situation, Andrew relinquished his hold on her shoulder and stalked out of the room.
Isobel was left sitting there, with her tea growing cold, wondering which version of Andrew Pasley, the Duke of Foxdrey, she had married.
Was this man troubled, broken, and simply trying to find a better way to live his life? Or, was he haunted so greatly by the ghost of his father that he had copied the old man’s vices and made them his own?
A few days later, Isobel stood outside Andrew's chambers, her hand raised to knock, her heart hammering so hard she could barely breathe.
She'd spent nearly a week convincing herself this was necessary. That she had every right to demand answers. That she wouldn'tbe one of those wives who turned a blind eye while their husbands carried on with mistresses.
But now, standing here, doubt crept in.
What if he confirms your worst fears? What if he laughs at you for even asking?
No. She squared her shoulders. She deserved to know the truth.
She knocked firmly.
"Enter."
His voice sent a shiver down her spine—low, distracted, slightly irritated at the interruption.
Isobel pushed open the door and stepped inside, then froze.
Andrew stood in the middle of his chambers, a towel wrapped around his hips, water still dripping from his dark hair. His chest was bare, all those ridges of muscle she'd only felt through fabric now on full display. Droplets traced paths down his skin before disappearing beneath the towel.
Her mouth went dry.
"Isobel." He stilled and surprise flickered across his face before transforming into something darker. "This is unexpected."
"I—" She forced her eyes up to his face, refusing to let her gaze wander. "I need to speak with you."
"Clearly." A slow smile curved his lips. "Though most wives wait until their husbands are dressed before storming into their chambers."
"I wasn't storming." She stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her. "I was... entering with purpose."
"Ah yes, purposeful determination. We Pasleys are quite familiar with that particular form of locomotion." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "What can I do for you, Duchess? Or should I ask what you'd like me to do to you?" Heat flooded her cheeks. "Don't be vulgar."
"Vulgar?" He moved closer, each step deliberate. "I'm simply clarifying the nature of your visit. After all, a wife doesn't typically invade her husband's chambers right after his bath unless she has... specific intentions."
"My intentions involve having a conversation." Isobel held her ground even as her pulse raced. "A serious conversation that doesn't involve your insufferable attempts at seduction."
"My attempts are never insufferable. Successful, perhaps. Maddening, certainly. But never insufferable." He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his damp skin. "Now, what's so urgent that it couldn't wait until I was properly clothed?"
She tried to focus, but it was nearly impossible with him standing there half-naked, smelling of soap and that damn forest-rain scent. "How would you like it if I were out every night?"
Andrew's eyebrows rose. "Is that what this is about?"
"Answer the question."
"Technically, you're free to do as you please." He crossed his arms, the movement making muscles flex in ways that shouldn't be legal. "I promised you freedom, did I not?"
"But?" She heard the slight edge in his voice, the tension beneath the casual words.
"But what?" He tilted his head, studying her.
"You like to be in control, Andrew. Don't pretend otherwise." Isobel took a step back, finding that she needed space to think. "If I were to leave this house as you do, you would surely have something to say about my behavior."
