Because it mattered. She mattered. In a way that made every previous encounter seem hollow by comparison.
God, I'm in trouble.
Isobel stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a heartbeat, confusion crossed her features—then recognition, followed by a blush that spread down her neck and disappeared beneath the neckline of her nightgown.
"Good morning," he said softly, fighting the urge to pull her closer and pick up where they'd left off last night.
"Good morning." Her voice was husky from sleep, and it did absolutely nothing to help his already tenuous control. "You stayed."
"You asked me to."
"I did." She seemed surprised by her own boldness. "I wasn't certain you would."
"I promised I would give you everything you asked for." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "That includes staying when you request it."
He paused.
"And besides I feel like I need to do it again," he admitted. "And again. Like I want to chase that feeling of watching you lose control. Of being the one you trust enough to let down your guard with." He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. "Like I'm an addict who's just discovered his favorite vice."
Her breath hitched. "Andrew."
"But—" he continued, rolling away from her before he did something foolish, "we should probably get dressed and have breakfast like proper married people. Otherwise, I'm liable to scandalize the servants by keeping you in bed all day."
"Would that be so terrible?" The question was soft, almost shy.
He groaned. "Don't tempt me, wild cat. I'm already hanging on by a thread."
She sat up, the bedclothes pooling around her waist. Her hair was a tangle, her nightgown askew, and she'd never looked more beautiful. "Then perhaps you should go. Before that thread snaps entirely."
"Practical and cruel." But he was already standing, retrieving his shirt from where he'd discarded it last night. "Very well, Duchess. I'll see you at breakfast."
He fled before he could change his mind about leaving.
"More tea, Your Grace?" Mrs. Brendan asked, hovering at his elbow.
"No, thank you." He hadn't touched his breakfast. His appetite was entirely focused on the woman across from him.
Isobel's lips curved slightly, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. She took a delicate bite of toast, and he found himself transfixed by her mouth.
Get yourself together, man. You're acting like a besotted fool.
"I received an invitation this morning," he said, forcing himself to focus on something other than the memory of her gasps."Lord and Lady Pembroke are hosting a garden party tomorrow afternoon. I thought it might be an excellent opportunity to help Joan meet some suitable gentlemen.”
Isobel's expression shifted, pleasure lighting her eyes.
He reached for his coffee, grateful to have something to occupy his hands. "We'll attend together as a devoted couple and ensure your sister is introduced to the most eligible bachelors in attendance."
"Thank you." She set down her toast, her gaze soft. "This means a great deal to me. To both of us."
"I know." And he did. He understood how important Joan's happiness was to Isobel, how she'd spent years protecting her sister from their father's cruelty. "We'll make certain she finds someone worthy of her. Someone kind."
"Someone unlike my father," Isobel said quietly.
"Yes." Andrew held her gaze. "Someone who will cherish her. Who will give her the family she dreams of. Who will never make her feel small or frightened or controlled."
"Someone like you?" she teased.
The words hung between them, weighted with meaning.
