"That won't happen."
"Won't it?" She dropped her hand. "You haven't been to the Mayfair Fox in weeks, Andrew. How long before that starts to feel wrong? How long before you resent me for keeping you away?"
The question struck too close to truths he'd been avoiding.
Because she was right. The absence of the club gnawed at him sometimes, a phantom limb he couldn't quite forget. He missed the energy of it, the control, the satisfaction of running something he'd built with his own hands.
Andrew had not dismissed Isobel when Mr. Greene arrived. Instead, he had gestured for her to sit beside him, his hand briefly resting at the small of her back as though daring anyone to object.
Greene had done nothing of the sort — though his eyes had flicked, more than once, toward Isobel before returning to Andrew.
“The rumors about the Mayfair Fox are spreading again,” Greene had said carefully. “If we allow the managers to take care of it.”
“No,” Andrew interrupted. “I’ll handle it.”
Greene hesitated. “Your Grace, there are questions being asked. Investors. Patrons. They want reassurance.”
Andrew leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Then I will give it to them.”
Isobel had watched the exchange in silence, unease stirring. There had been too many questions, too much weight placed squarely on Andrew’s shoulders — and not once had he considered stepping back.
He couldn't imagine going back to the way things were before Isobel. Coming home late to an empty house. Sleeping alone. Living a life that was full of everything except what mattered.
"That won’t happen," he said finally.
She stepped back, putting distance between them. "I can't be second to anything. Not anymore. I spent my entire childhood being second to my father's gambling, to his needs, to his pride. I won't spend my marriage the same way."
"You're not."
"Aren't I?" Her voice was quiet but firm. "I know you’re going back to the club, Andrew. I knew it the moment Mr. Greene appeared and demanded to know more about your business. I can see in your eyes that you are eager to go check on the place. But must you go? Can you not just stay here with me instead?"
He opened his mouth to answer and realized he couldn't.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they weren't saying.
"I should check on the dinner preparations," Isobel said finally. "Mrs. Brendan wanted to discuss the menu for when Lord Ashford calls next week."
She walked away, leaving him standing in the garden with a half-trained puppy and a heart full of questions he didn't know how to answer.
"You look troubled."
Andrew glanced up from his untouched whiskey to find Norman settling into the chair across from him. They were in Andrew's study, the fire crackling in the hearth, rain pattering against the windows.
"I'm fine.”
"You're brooding. There's a difference." Norman stretched his legs out. "What's happened?"
"Nothing's happened. Everything is perfectly fine."
"Andrew." Norman's voice took on that patient tone that meant he wasn't going anywhere until Andrew talked. "I've known you since we were children. I can tell when something's eating at you. So either tell me what it is, or I'll be forced to guess, and my guesses tend to be embarrassingly accurate."
Despite himself, Andrew smiled. "Fine. It's Isobel."
"More trouble?"
"Not trouble. Just..." Andrew set down his glass. "Complications."
"Marriage is complicated—especially during the first year when the bride and groom are just getting used to one another’s quirks." Norman leaned forward. "What sort of complications?"
