Norman laughed, loud and delighted. "Finally! I was beginning to think you'd never figure it out."
"When did this happen?" Andrew felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. "How did this happen?"
"Gradually, I imagine. Then all at once." Norman raised his glass in a toast. "Welcome to the club, cousin. The 'Hopelessly Besotted Husbands' club. Membership: permanent. Benefits: terrifying. Worth it: absolutely."
"She doesn't know."
"Then tell her."
"I can't just—" Andrew stood, pacing to the window. "What if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I'm alone in this?"
"You're not." Norman's voice was certain. "I've seen the way she looks at you when you're not watching. The way she defended you to that ass Dalton. The way she lights up when you walk into a room. Trust me, Andrew. You're not alone in this."
Andrew pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his mind racing.
He was in love with his wife.
The woman he'd married for convenience. For business. For respectability.
He'd gone and fallen completely, irrevocably in love with her.
And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
"Norman?" he said without turning around.
"Yes?"
"If I have to choose between the Mayfair Fox and Isobel..." He took a breath. "I'm choosing her. I think I've been choosing her for weeks now. I just didn't realize it."
"Good man." Norman stood, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now you just need to tell her that. And preferably before you do something stupid like try to keep juggling both and end up losing everything."
"Helpful as always," Andrew said dryly.
"That's what I'm here for." Norman headed for the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, I think Isobel will surprise you. She's not asking you to give up the club entirely. She's just asking you to make room for her too. And it seems like you've already started doing that."
After Norman left, Andrew remained at the window, watching rain stream down the glass.
He needed to talk to Isobel. Needed to tell her how he felt, what she meant to him, that she'd somehow become more important than everything else combined.
But first, he needed to figure out what he was going to do about the Mayfair Fox. Because Norman was right about one thing: he couldn't keep juggling both forever.
Eventually, something would have to give. He just hoped it wouldn't be his marriage.
Twenty-Four
"Iwas thinking we should host a ball."
Isobel looked up from her painting, the brush pausing mid-air. Andrew stood in the doorway of the morning room, Chance at his heels, looking infuriatingly handsome in his riding clothes.
"A ball?" she repeated, trying to ignore the way her pulse quickened at the sight of him. "Here?"
"Why not?" He crossed the room and settled into the chair beside her. "We have the space. Mrs. Brendan would be thrilled to organize it. And it would give Joan a chance to meet more eligible gentlemen beyond Lord Ashford."
"That's thoughtful of you." She returned her attention to her painting, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze.
"This weekend," he continued. "We could send invitations today, have everything arranged by Saturday. What do you think?"
"I think it sounds lovely." But her voice was flat and mechanical.
