And somehow, impossibly, Andrew had caught her.
Twenty-Two
“Disgraceful!" The word carried across the lawn, loud enough to turn heads. "Absolutely disgraceful that such a man would be permitted among decent Society.”
The afternoon had taken on a dreamlike quality. Isobel stood beside Andrew, watching Joan and Lord Ashford stroll through the gardens, their heads bent together in animated conversation. The sun was warm, the company pleasant, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt... content.
And then a man’s voice shattered the peace.
Isobel felt Andrew tense beside her, his hand tightening on her waist.
"I am Lord Dalton and someone should inform Lady Pembroke that she's allowed a fox into the henhouse.” The man went on, his face flushed with either alcohol or anger. "Though I supposestandards have fallen considerably if we're now welcoming proprietors of gambling dens to respectable gatherings."
Several people nearby shifted uncomfortably, casting sidelong glances at Andrew. Isobel's stomach twisted with a protective anger she hadn't known she could feel.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice carrying with crystalline clarity as she stepped away from her husband’s side. "Lord Dalton, is it? I couldn't help but overhear your commentary. Pray tell, to whom are you referring?"
Dalton turned to her, his lips curling into a sneer. "There is only one sly fox in London, madam. Or should I say, Your Grace?" He made the title sound like an insult. "Though I confess, I'm surprised you're not already hiding in shame, given the nature of your husband's... enterprises."
"My husband," Isobel said, her voice steady despite the fury burning in her chest, "is far more than his business. He is a duke. A devoted husband. A man who has worked tirelessly to restore his family's legacy after his father nearly destroyed it. Perhaps you should consider the full measure of a man before casting judgment based on a single aspect of his life."
"A single aspect?" Dalton laughed, harsh and cruel. "Your husband runs a gambling house that has ruined countless families. He lures men with promises of fortune and strips them of everything they own. He's a parasite dressed in fine clothing, preying on those weaker than himself."
"That's quite enough."
Andrew's voice cut through the garden like a blade, cold and precise. He moved to Isobel's side in three long strides, positioning himself slightly in front of her—not caging, but protecting.
"You will apologize to my wife for speaking rudely to her," Andrew said, his tone deceptively calm. "Now."
"I will do no such thing." Dalton drew himself up, though he had to tilt his head back to meet Andrew's eyes. "I simply told the truth. If your Duchess cannot handle hearing about her husband's true nature?—"
"What kind of excuse for a man," Andrew interrupted, his voice dropping to something dangerous, "speaks to a lady in such a manner? What kind of coward hides behind cruel words directed at a woman?"
"I'm no coward!" Dalton's face turned purple. "I'm simply the only one brave enough to say what everyone else is thinking. You're a disgrace to your title, Foxdrey. A shame to every decent man here."
Andrew regarded him calmly. “That is a curious accusation to hear from a man who had to be escorted from my club for causing a public disturbance. One might think you would be cautious about drawing attention to faults on such a subject.”
Andrew saw that got him quiet.
"Prove you're not a coward." Andrew's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Meet me at dawn. Choose your weapon. We'll settle this like gentlemen, though I use that term loosely where you're concerned."
Isobel's heart stopped. "Andrew, no."
"A duel?" Dalton said and there was a tremor beneath it. "You would challenge me to a duel over a few honest words?"
"I would challenge any man who insults my wife." Andrew took a step forward, and Dalton stumbled back. "So yes, Dalton. Name your second. Tomorrow at dawn. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to admit that you're nothing more than a blustering fool who speaks brave words only when he thinks there will be no consequences."
The garden had gone utterly silent. Every eye was fixed on the two men, watching the standoff with undisguised fascination.
Isobel felt frozen, her mind racing with images of Andrew bleeding on some foggy field, of pistols and surgeons and?—
"Wait!" Dalton's voice cracked slightly. "There's no need for such extremes. I merely spoke out of turn. The heat of the afternoon, perhaps. Too much sun."
"Then you'll apologize." Andrew's voice remained cold. "To my wife. On your knees, if necessary."
"Andrew," Isobel said quietly, touching his arm. She could feel the tension thrumming through him, barely leashed violence ready to spring. "Please."
He glanced at her, and something in her expression seemed to reach him. His jaw unclenched fractionally.
