"Of course they are." Joan's eyes sparkled with mischief. "You're here with your devastatingly handsome husband, and you haven't stopped smiling since we arrived. Thetonis probably taking bets on how long before the notorious Mayfair Fox is completely domesticated."
"Andrew's not—" Isobel stopped, catching sight of her husband across the lawn. He stood with a group of gentlemen, looking every inch the Duke in his dark blue coat and buff breeches. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up and smiled—a real smile, unguarded and warm—before returning to his conversation.
Her heart did something foolish in her chest.
"You're glowing," Joan observed, linking their arms as they walked. "I haven't seen you this happy in... well, ever, actually."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm simply enjoying the weather." But she couldn't keep the smile from her face.
"Mm-hmm. And it has nothing to do with the fact that you just referred to your husband as 'Andrew' instead of 'the Fox' or 'that rake' or any of the other charming epithets you've used over the past months?"
Isobel felt her cheeks warm. "I may have been... premature... in some of my judgments."
"May have been?" Joan laughed. "Is this the same husband you insisted was going to be your ruin?" She squeezed Isobel’s arm. "What changed?"
Everything. Nothing. She didn't know how to explain what had shifted between them—the vulnerability they'd shared, the trust that was slowly building, the way her body still hummed with the memory of his touch.
"He makes me feel things I didn't think I was capable of feeling." The admission felt like opening a door she'd kept locked for years. "When I'm with him, I forget to be afraid. I forget all the reasons I was supposed to guard my heart."
Joan's expression softened. "You're falling in love with him."
"Don't be absurd." But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. She was falling. Had been falling since the moment he'd held her after he had given her body pleasure. Since he'd promised to help Joan. Since he'd looked at her like she was something precious instead of convenient.
"It's not absurd. It's wonderful." Joan paused beside a rose bush, turning to face her fully. "But I can see the worry in your eyes. What are you afraid of?"
Isobel glanced around, ensuring no one was close enough to overhear. "That we can never truly be a family as long as the Mayfair Fox remains his priority. That he'll always choose the club over me. Over us."
"When was the last time he chose the club over you?"
The question caught her off guard. "What?"
"When was the last time he left you to go to the Mayfair Fox?”
Isobel opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.
She couldn't remember.
Andrew had been home almost every evening for the past week.
"Exactly," Joan said softly, reading her silence. "Sometimes priorities change without us even noticing. Sometimes a man realizes that what he thought defined him isn't as important as the woman who's captured his heart."
"You're too young to be this wise," Isobel said, her voice slightly choked.
"I'm twenty. And I've spent years watching you sacrifice your happiness for mine. I think I've earned the right to be wise about love, even if I haven't experienced it myself yet." Joan took her hand. "Now, speaking of which, we're here to find me a suitor, not to analyze your marriage. So stop worrying about Andrew and help me identify which of these gentlemen are worth meeting."
Isobel laughed, grateful for the shift in topic. "Very well. Let's see..." She scanned the crowd, noting the various groups of men. "Lord Hartley is kind but dull. Lord Morrison is charming but reportedly deep in debt. Lord—oh."
"Oh?" Joan followed her gaze. "Who is that?"
A tall gentleman with auburn hair and an easy smile was making his way toward them carrying two glasses of lemonade in his hands. He was perhaps five-and-twenty, with intelligent hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose.
"Ladies," he said, "Forgive my presumption, but you both looked as if you could use refreshment. The afternoon is rather crisp.”
"How thoughtful," Joan said, accepting a glass with a smile that made Isobel's heart squeeze. "I'm Miss Joan Leyton. This is my sister, the Duchess of Foxdrey."
"An honor." He bowed again, this time to Isobel.
"I am Thomas Blackwood, Earl of Ashford,” he replied. “Your husband and I were at Cambridge together, though I doubt he remembers me. I was terribly bookish and spent most of my time in the library."
