He tapped a finger lightly against his chest. “I never chased what didn’t want me. Never touched a woman who wasn’t fully aware of exactly what she sought.”
She swallowed. “You speak as though that makes you noble.”
“It makes me disciplined,” Andrew corrected. “And honest. Two things thetonpretends to value but rarely practices.”
Isobel didn’t respond.
He watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I know what people say. That I ruin households. That I corrupt women. That I have no honor.”
A faint, almost amused huff escaped him. “If I had lived half the life thetonaccuses me of, I would be dead.”
Isobel’s lips twitched before she could stop them.
Andrew’s voice softened, steady, not fragile. “I am not ashamed of the Mayfair Fox. I took a ruin and made it an empire. I made rules for myself and kept them. That is a victory most men will never understand.”
Isobel held his gaze. “You surprise me.”
“Good,” he murmured. “Surprising you is far more interesting than impressing them.” He said, lowering his voice, “you judge me more honestly than the rest. And I prefer honesty.”
She blinked. “You… prefer mine?”
Andrew smiled. “Even when it irritates me.”
A short silence stretched between them—tense, charged, but not consoling or desperate.
“The Mayfair Fox is my anchor. My reminder."
"Your prison," Isobel finished quietly.
Andrew froze, staring at her. “You think I’m repeating my father’s mistakes.”
Isobel stiffened. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t need to.” His voice was calm, not wounded — firm, certain. “You look at me as though I’m one wrong step away from becoming him.”
“That is not?—”
“It is,” he cut in, but without heat. “And you’re wrong.”
Isobel’s jaw tightened. “Then what do you want me to see?”
“A man who knows precisely what he is doing.” He stepped closer, his gaze steady, unwavering. “I don’t run my life on impulse. I never have. Every choice I make is deliberate.”
She opened her mouth, but he continued.
“I am nothing like my father, Isobel. Not because Ifearbecoming him, but because Idecidedlong ago that I wouldn’t.”
Her breath hitched, not because he sounded broken, but because he didn’t. He sounded infuriatingly certain.
Isobel looked away. “You speak as if it’s that simple.”
“It is for me,” Andrew replied. “But not for you, it seems.”
Her eyes snapped back to his. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said, leaning in just enough to make her pulse stumble, “that you don’t trust me. Not truly. Not my judgment, not my choices, not my control.”
“That is not fair.”
