Joan's eyes widened. "Oh."
"And I thought, I hoped, that maybe he felt the same way. That maybe what we had was real. But then the club needed him, and he left without a second thought, and I realized..." She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. "I realized that I'll never be his priority. The Mayfair Fox will always come first."
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" Isobel gestured around the ballroom. "He's not here, Joan. On the night he promised to stand beside me. On the night we're supposed to be helping you. He's at his precious club, and I'm here looking like a fool."
"Perhaps there's a good reason."
"There's always a good reason." The words came out sharper than intended. "An emergency. A crisis. Something that requires his immediate attention. And I'm supposed to just accept that I'll always come second."
Joan was quiet for a moment, then: "Do you really think he doesn't care for you?"
"I think he cares as much as he's capable of caring." Isobel blinked back tears. "But I don't think I'll ever be more important than the club. And I don't know if I can live with that."
"The past few weeks have been wonderful though, haven't they?" Joan asked. "He's been attentive. Present. Kind. Doesn't that count for something?"
"It counts for everything." Isobel's voice broke. "That's the problem. It gave me hope. It made me think maybe things could be different. Maybe I could be enough to make him choose me. But the past few days proved I was wrong."
"What happened then?"
Isobel hesitated, then decided there was no point in hiding it. "We were together. Truly together. It was splendid and wonderful and everything I'd been afraid to want. And then someone from the club came to fetch him because there was an emergency, and he left immediately. Left me alone in a room that still smelled like him, like us, as if none of it had mattered at all."
"Oh, Isobel."
"I told myself I wouldn't do this." She wiped angrily at a tear that escaped. "I told myself I wouldn't fall in love with him. I knew better. I knew he was married to his business, that I'd always be secondary. But I fell anyway, and now I'm paying the price."
"Have you told him how you feel?"
"How can I?" Isobel laughed bitterly. "How can I tell him I love him when I'm terrified he won't say it back? When I already know where I rank in his priorities? At least if I don't say it, I can maintain some dignity."
"That's not dignity, that's fear." Joan squeezed her hand. "And you're the bravest person I know. You stood up to Father. You married a man you barely knew to save our family. You defended Andrew against Lord Dalton in front of half theton. Surely you can tell your own husband how you feel."
"It's different."
"It's not. It's just scarier." Joan's smile was sad. "Because telling him means risking real rejection. Not just him choosing the club over you, but him hearing that you love him and actively choosing not to love you back."
The truth of it hit Isobel and rattled her completely.
That was what she was afraid of.
Not that Andrew would prioritize the Mayfair Fox; she'd already accepted that as inevitable. But that he would hear her confession of love and feel nothing in return. That she would share her heart completely, and he would look at her with pity or discomfort or worse, indifference.
"I can't risk it," she whispered. "I can't tell him and watch him pull away. I'd rather have this, whatever this is, than lose him."
"But you're already losing him," Joan said gently. "By not telling him how you feel, by pushing him away, by assuming the worst... you're losing him anyway. At least if you're honest, you'll know the truth. You'll know if there's something real to fight for."
“I really don’t know what to say right now. I just want to enjoy the ball.” Isobel replied, looking around and realizing she did a good job setting the place up.
“Then let’s dance and go have a talk with Lord Ashford.”
Twenty-Seven
"Did you hear about the altercation at the Mayfair Fox?"
Isobel's fingers tightened around her champagne glass. She stood near the refreshment table, pretending to be interested in the elaborate sugar sculptures while Lady Foster's voice carried across the ballroom.
"An altercation?" another woman asked, her tone dripping with false concern. "How dreadful."
