Isobel stared at him. "You expect me to believe that."
"It's the truth." He held her gaze steadily. "I haven't touched another woman since I proposed to you. Not even a thought of it."
"Why?" The word escaped before she could stop it.
His hand returned to her waist, fingers tightening slightly. “I made you a promise, Isobel. And besides, I’m a very busy man."
"Promises can be broken."
"Not by me." His other hand came up to cup her face, tilting it up to meet his eyes. "I have many faults, Duchess, but dishonesty isn't one of them. When I give my word, I keep it."
She wanted to believe him. God, how she wanted to believe him. But years of watching her father lie with such ease had taught her that words meant nothing.
"Then why?" Her voice came out quieter than she intended. "Why keep your promise? You said it yourself; you're a busy man. That's your reason for avoiding other women? Because you're busy?"
His voice turned hard, cutting off whatever she'd been about to say. "Did you really ask me that? Do you truly think so little of me?"
"I had to know."
"Then know this." His eyes blazed. "Not even the thought of touching a woman who works for me has ever crossed my mind. They depend on me for their livelihood. I've seen what men like my father did to women in their employ, and I would rather cut off my own hands than become that kind of man."
The vehemence in his voice, the disgust, struck her silent.
"But being busy," he continued, his tone softening slightly, "is that really the only reason? Is that all you think keeps me faithful?"
"What else is there?" She barely breathed the words.
He stared at her for a long moment, something raw and unguarded in his expression. Then slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, his lips hovering just above hers.
"Ask me," he whispered. "Ask me properly, and I'll show you exactly what else there is."
She was drowning in him—in his heat, his scent, the weight of his gaze. Her hands moved of their own accord, starting toreach for him, to pull him closer, to finally surrender to this maddening need.
But then, a knock sounded at the door, sharp and urgent.
They both froze.
“Your Grace,” Mrs Brendan voice came from outside. “You have a visitor.”
Seventeen
"Your Grace, another round for the table?"
Andrew glanced up from the ledger he'd been pretending to study, noting the eager faces of three lords gathered around the hazard table he was on. Their pockets were deep, their losses thus far minimal, the kind of players who kept establishments like the Mayfair Fox thriving.
"By all means," he said, nodding to the footman. "And ensure Lord Bancroft's glass never runs dry. A man celebrating his son's engagement deserves the finest."
Lord Bancroft raised his glass with a broad smile. "You're too generous, Your Grace. I must say, marriage seems to agree with you. You're far more genial than your reputation suggested."
"My reputation is often exaggerated," Andrew replied smoothly, though he noted the shift in the room with quiet satisfaction.
It had been weeks since the wedding, and finally the change was palpable. Men who'd previously avoided his establishment now returned, their wives apparently mollified by his newly respectable status. The whispers that had threatened to destroy everything he'd built were transforming into something far more palatable, admiration for the rake who'd finally settled down.
If only they knew how unsettled I actually am.
"The Duchess of Foxdrey," Lord Mansfield said from across the room, his tone speculative. "I understand she is Lord Leyton's daughter? The one who was…"
"Rescued from a most unfortunate situation," Andrew cut in, his voice pleasant but brooking no argument. "My wife is not a subject for idle speculation, gentlemen. I trust we understand each other?"
