Isobel's heart stuttered. "Who?"
"The Duke of Foxdrey, Your Grace. He's waiting downstairs with a carriage."
The world seemed to tilt.
"Tell him—" Isobel started, then stopped. Tell him what? That she'd been waiting? That she was angry it took so long? That she was terrified and hopeful and so desperately in love she could barely breathe?
"Tell him I'll be down in a moment."
Mrs. Hartwell curtseyed and left.
Joan squeezed her hand. "Go. Listen to what he has to say. And Isobel? Trust your heart. It brought you this far."
Isobel nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. She smoothed down her dress—a simple day dress, nothing special—and wished she'd worn something nicer. Then she laughed at herself for caring about such trivial things when her entire future was waiting downstairs.
She descended the stairs slowly, each step feeling momentous. Through the open door, she could see the carriage waiting on the street. A fine carriage, newer than the one Andrew usually used.
And there, standing in the entrance hall, was her husband.
He looked different. Still haggard, still bearing the marks of the fire—she could see fresh pink scars on his neck and hands—but there was something in his bearing that had changed. He stood straighter. His eyes, when they met hers, held something she hadn't seen before.
Certainty.
"Isobel." Her name came out rough. "Thank you for seeing me."
"I wasn't aware I had a choice." She kept her voice neutral, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
"True." A ghost of his old smile flickered across his face. "Though I would have waited outside until you agreed to see me if necessary. I'm quite prepared to be persistent."
"Are you?" She descended the last few steps, maintaining careful distance between them. "And what exactly are you being persistent about?"
"You." The word was simple, absolute. "Us. Our marriage. Our future."
"Those are lovely words, Andrew." She hated how her voice wavered. "But you've always been good with words."
"I have." He took a step closer, then stopped, as if respecting the space she needed. "I've been very good at saying what I thought people wanted to hear. At playing roles. At being the Mayfair Fox instead of just Andrew."
"And now?"
"Now the Fox is gone." He spread his hands. "The building burned. The reputation is in ruins. The identity I spent twelve years building has turned to ash. And you know what I discovered?"
"What?"
"I'm still here." His voice was quiet but steady. "Andrew Pasley. Duke of Foxdrey. Your husband. I'm still here, and I'm still standing, and the world hasn't ended just because the club is gone."
Isobel felt something crack in her chest. "You figured it out."
"I'm figuring it out," he corrected. "I won't lie and say I have all the answers. I don't know who Andrew Pasley is without the Mayfair Fox, not completely. But I know who I want to be. Who I'm choosing to be."
"And who is that?"
"Your husband." He moved closer, close enough that she could see the earnestness in his ocean-blue eyes. "Not because it's convenient or beneficial or expected. But because you, Isobel Pasley, are the only thing I've found that actually matters. The only part of my life that's real instead of performance. The only prize worth claiming."
Her throat tightened. "Andrew."
"Let me finish." He reached out, then stopped, his hand hovering between them. "Please. I need to say this. I've been practicing for two days, and if I don't get it all out now, I'll forget half of it."
Despite everything, she felt her lips twitch. "You practiced?"
