Isobel's body still thrummed with the aftershocks of pleasure, her breathing slowly returning to normal as she lay cradled in Andrew's arms on the settee in the room. They'd somehow made their way there from the table, a trail of clothes marking their path.
He had guided her away from the settee slowly, backing her toward the wall until there was nowhere left to retreat.
Then, with a quiet shift of intent, he’d turned her, leading her across the room instead — toward the table where scattered papers and candlelight marked a harder surface.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, his other arm wrapped securely around her waist. She felt safe. Cherished. Like maybe, finally, they were finding their way to something real.
"That was..." Andrew's voice was rough, satisfied. "You're magnificent, you know that?"
She smiled against his chest, too content to form words. This was what she'd been afraid to hope for—this closeness, this vulnerability, this feeling of being wanted for herself rather than for what she could provide.
"We should probably—" Andrew started.
A sharp knock at the door cut him off.
They both froze.
"Your Grace?" It was Pemberton, Andrew's butler, his voice carefully neutral through the closed door. "Forgive the interruption, but there's an urgent matter requiring your attention."
Andrew's entire body tensed beneath her. "Can it wait?"
"I'm afraid not, Your Grace. A messenger has arrived from the Mayfair Fox. He says it's critical."
Isobel felt Andrew's arms loosen around her, felt him already pulling away even before he'd moved. The warmth that had filled her moments ago began to drain away, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.
"I'll be there in a moment," Andrew called out.
Pemberton's footsteps retreated down the hall.
Andrew sat up, gently disentangling himself from her and reaching for his discarded waistcoat. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
"Go. I understand." The words tasted bitter, but she forced them out with a calm she didn't feel.
He paused in buttoning his waistcoat, his eyes searching her face. "Isobel, I’m sorry."
"It's fine, Andrew. Truly." She stood, hurriedly throwing on her clothes with shaking hands, not looking at him. "You should see what the emergency is."
"I'll be back as soon as I can." He reached for her hand, but she stepped away, busying herself with straightening her hair and garments.
"Don't rush on my account. I should prepare for bed anyway. Tomorrow is a busy day with the ball preparations."
"Isobel." His voice held a note of something, concern, perhaps, or guilt. "Don't do this. Don't pull away."
"I'm not pulling away." She forced herself to meet his gaze, to keep her expression neutral. "I'm simply being practical. You have business to attend to. I need rest. It's sensible."
He stared at her for a long moment, and she could see the war happening behind his eyes, the pull of duty against the desire to stay.
Duty won. It always did.
"Get some rest," he said finally. "I want you well-rested for tomorrow. Our ball should be perfect for Joan."
The fact that he thought she could simply go to sleep after this, after everything, made something inside her crack.
"Of course," she said, her voice hollow. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He hesitated at the door, his hand resting on the frame, as though he might turn back.
Beyond it, Isobel heard voices. Pemberton’s measured tones, followed by another, lower and unfamiliar.
