“I was speaking of you,” he continued, still in that whisper, gentle and harsh at once, the juxtaposition writing sonnets across her skin. “You have no idea what you’re asking and what it might mean foryou.” He exhaled harshly and pushed away from her, moving to the door.
“Go to sleep now,” he said over his shoulder. “And stop thinking of me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Isadora rapped on Nicholas’s study door a few days later, her knuckles aching against the tough oakwood. The butler had informed her that His Grace wished to speak to her, and the absurd formality of the affair made her increasingly nervous.
“Come in,” he commanded.
Her hands trembled as she opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it again.
He looked just the same as he always did, which was to say, he looked remarkably immaculate. Midnight-blue superfine sat across his shoulders above a snowy linen shirt, unbuttoned near the collar, where a cravat tied in a child’s knot hung loose. At the sight, she felt her mouth go dry. There was something so captivating about his sapphire eyes in the sunlight, so crystal clear and deep, and the harsh planes of his cheeks that occasionally softened in a manner that was endlessly endearing.
When he saw her, his expression went blank. Of course. This was usually the expression he wore when he was around her, except for those few occasions where he looked at her as though she were a rabbit, and he, a wolf.
“You came,” he started.
“Yousummonedme. Of course I came.” She took the seat before his desk, waiting for him to tell her whatever she had done that had displeased him so. Perhaps she was not being an adequate mother to Sophia in some manner or other, or perhaps she was teaching the girl poorly? Perhaps she was not dressing in a manner that befitted a duchess?
Or, perhaps she had majorly overstepped the other day, and she was about to receive a dressing down.
She arrived at the slightly ajar door of his study. Ghostly pale, he was ensconced in a letter open on the blotter before him, and he flipped it face-down with two fingers just as she knocked.
Sighing, she tried to get ahead of it first, “I realize I may have overstep—”
Instead, he held up a card between two fingers, flicking it with his thumb. “We have been married for two weeks on the dot. I think it’s time we show our faces in Society again. Were it down to me…” He inhaled sharply. “Alas, it is not.”
“You want us to… attend a social…together?” she asked, slightly dumbfounded. Then again, his clear reluctance made his feelings on the matter plain. “For what purpose?”
“Sophia will make her bow in ten years’ time, and by then her parents’ names must be as pristine as polished silver. As Duke and Duchess of Winchester, it means we must beseen. Seldom enough to keep them wondering and frequently enough to keep them quiet.” He set the card down. “We have been invited to Lady Carmichael’s ball, and I deem it best we attend.”
Isadora’s stomach twisted viciously. They had very little practice at being civil in the same house—they largely occupied separate rooms. For them to attend a ball, they would have to show the world that they got along well. If not inlove, they would at least have to pretend to be perfectly cordial.
In public.
“There is also the added benefit of showing your relatives that you are happily situated,” Nicholas said, and although his tone was perfectly pleasant, she had the sudden idea that he might have seen all the petty, bitter thoughts running through her head about her family over the past two weeks.
How they had never hoped for anything this good for her, and how she wanted them to know that she was far happier with Nicholas—despite everything—than she had ever been with them.
They had never once allowed her to be chosen; Nicholas had chosen her. The rest could be forgiven for now.
“Do you agree?” Nicholas arched a brow.
Isadora frowned at him. “Does my consent matter?”
“Naturally. It’s my belief we should attend, but if you have some objection, then I shan’t force you. Or, if you would prefer something smaller, there are numerous other socials that we might attend instead.”
“Oh.” She attempted to clear her mind and find her equilibrium. “No, I should be—I should be very happy to attend the ball with you. As you say, people expect us to keep up appearances, and I would hate for my family to be worried.”
For a second, she thought she caught a flash of understanding in his eyes, but a blink later and it was gone. “Good. If you require a new ballgown, you may send for Mrs. Spenser. I believe she spent some time in France and knows all the best fashions.” He looked back down at the letter he had been reading. “I imagine you will want to look your best.”
For your family.
The words resonated between them unsaid, but she knew he understood. And gratitude overpowered her resentment for a brief moment, leading her to say, “You are too good, Nicholas.”
At the sound of his name, he inhaled, nostrils flaring, and his gaze flicked up to hers, heat scorching through his reserve. Then it was gone, so thoroughly she might have dreamed it. “You’re welcome. We may not know each other well, but you are still my wife, and I will do all I can to protect you against the world when it seeks to demean you.”
Overcome, her heart still pounding from the look in his eyes, she dipped a curtsy and fled without answering, pulling the door shut behind her. She sagged against the wood, eyes falling closed, wishing she knew how to cross the distance between them—the few feet of study, the whole uncharted country of him.
