Andrew watched her stroke the puppy's fur with gentle fingers, and something in his chest cracked open.
This was the Isobel he was coming to know, the one beneath the sharp wit and defensive walls. The one who cared deeply, who wanted things to matter, who looked at a sleeping puppy with such tenderness it made his throat tight.
"What about Chance?" he heard himself say.
She looked up. "Chance?"
"Eleanor said he was meant to help us learn to work together. To share responsibility." He met her gaze. "Perhaps he's our second chance at getting things right."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning that had nothing to do with dogs.
"Chance," Isobel repeated softly, testing the name. Then she smiled, a real smile, unguarded and warm. "Yes. That's perfect."
"We finally agree on something."
"Don't get used to it."
"I wouldn't dream of it. I rather enjoy our arguments." He stood, offering her his hand. "Though perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere other than the floor? My knees aren't what they used to be."
"You're thirty-one, not ancient."
"Tell that to my knees." But he pulled her up gently, Chance stirring but not waking in her arms. "It's grown late. We should both retire."
He walked her to the stairs, acutely aware of how close she stood, how the candlelight caught gold in her hair, how her lips parted slightly as she looked up at him.
"Goodnight, Andrew," she said softly.
His name on her lips was sweeter than any endearment. "Goodnight, Duchess."
She smiled once more, then continued up the stairs with Chance still sleeping peacefully in her arms.
Andrew watched until she disappeared down the hallway, then made his way to his own chambers. His mind was full of amber eyes and soft smiles and the way she'd said his name.
The bathwater was growing cold, but Isobel couldn't bring herself to get out.
She kept replaying the afternoon, Andrew on the floor, competing with her for a puppy's affection. The easy laughter between them. The way he'd looked at her when he suggested the name Chance, as if he was offering her something far more significant than a name for a dog.
My second rejection. My wife.
The words circled in her mind, refusing to let go.
He'd impliedshewas the one pulling away, the one rejecting him. But that wasn't fair, was it? He was the one who'd sent her back to her room last night when every part of her had beenscreaming to stay. When she'd been seconds away from begging him to kiss her properly, to stop this maddening dance they'd been doing for weeks.
"Insufferable man," she muttered, sinking deeper into the water.
But even as she said it, she knew the anger was directed as much at herself as at him. Because the truth was, shehadbeen pulling away. Every time they got close, every time she felt that warmth spreading through her chest, she retreated behind her walls and her sharp words and her determination not to need him.
Eleanor's words from the garden echoed in her mind:
If you never give him a chance, you'll never know what you might have had.
"Damn meddling Duchesses," Isobel said to the empty room.
But Eleanor had been right. They'd been circling each other for weeks, both too proud and too frightened to make the first move. And if something didn't change, they'd spend their entire marriage in this frustrating limbo, wanting but not having, desiring but not daring.
Well, she was done being a coward.
She stood abruptly, water sloshing over the sides of the tub. Selene had left her nightgown and dressing gown laid out on the bed, and Isobel dried herself quickly before pulling them on.Her hair hung damp down her back, but she didn't care about propriety or proper appearances.
