The lie came so easily that for a moment she almost believed it herself. Mother’s final words had actually been a request for water, whispered through lips cracked with fever. But Father didn’t know that, and the stricken look that crossed his face suggested the fictional deathbed confession had found its mark.
“She was delirious with illness,” he said after a moment, but his voice lacked its usual conviction. “She didn’t know what she was saying.”
“Didn’t she? Or was she finally free to speak the truth about a life spent serving everyone’s interests but her own?”
Before Father could respond, a commotion in the hallway drew their attention. Voices—Henderson’s carefully modulated tones and something deeper, more commanding that made her pulse stutter with sudden recognition.
“What the devil—” Father began, but his words were cut short by a knock at the library door.
“Enter,” he called, irritation plain in his voice.
Henderson appeared in the doorway, his usually perfect composure slightly ruffled. “Your Lordship, forgive the intrusion, but His Grace the Duke of Rothwell has called. He wishes to speak with Lady Isadora. Immediately.”
The world tilted sideways.
Edmund Ravensleigh was here. In her father’s house. Demanding to see her with the sort of arrogance that only a duke could display without consequence. But why? What could he possibly want with her after their brief encounter at last night’s musicale?
“The Duke of Rothwell?” Father’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Here? What business could he have with my daughter?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Isadora managed, though her voice sounded breathless even to her own ears. ’She still could not shake the memory of this man, the effect he had had on her.
Father’s gaze sharpened with suspicious calculation. “Show His Grace in. And Isadora—” His tone was dangerous now, as though he was warning her and it made her spine straighten. “You will be respectful, brief, and entirely proper. Whatever this is about, we haven’t time for lengthy social calls.”
Henderson bowed and withdrew, leaving them alone with the suddenly electric atmosphere of anticipation. Isadora smoothed her skirts with trembling fingers, trying to prepare herself for whatever storm was about to descend upon her already chaotic morning.
The Duke of Rothwell entered the library quickly, his imposing figure filling the room at once. His gaze was icy. Cold and alltoo powerful. It sent a chill down her spine. He truly was an imposing figure.
But his eyes... those remarkable eyes swept the room with predatory efficiency before settling on her face with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
“Your Grace.” Father executed a perfect bow, though his tone held the careful neutrality of a man unsure whether he was greeting friend or foe. “This is... unexpected.”
Edmund’s gaze never left Isadora’s face. “I’ve come to speak with Lady Isadora. On a matter of some urgency.”
“What sort of urgency?” ’
“A private matter.” It was clear that he did not expect Father—or anyone for that matter—to question him.
“Absolutely not.” Father’s refusal was swift and decisive. “I don’t know what sort of household you believe this to be, Your Grace, but my daughter does not receive private callers. Particularly not gentlemen with reputations such as yours.”
Something dangerous flickered in Edmund’s eyes, though his voice remained level. “Then summon a maid. But I will speak with Lady Isadora, Wexford. The matter will not wait for your convenience.”
The quiet threat in his tone made Father’s jaw tighten, but he was too politically astute to risk making an enemy of a duke over something as minor as social proprieties. “Very well. Henderson! Send for Jenny.”
Jenny appeared with suspicious promptness, taking up position near the door with the sort of watchful discretion that made her invaluable as a lady’s maid. Father gathered his papers with obvious reluctance, clearly loathing the idea of leaving his daughter alone with the Dangerous Duke even under supervision.
Father said nothing, merely looked at the duke coldly before leaving.
The door closed behind him with perhaps more force than strictly necessary, leaving them alone save for Jenny’s discreet presence. The room was quiet while Edmund studied Isadora with the sort of penetrating attention that made her feel stripped bare despite her modest morning dress.
“You look,” he observed finally, “like a woman facing execution.”
The accuracy of his assessment startled a bitter laugh from her throat. “Perhaps because I am.”
He moved closer, his boots silent on the thick carpet, until he stood just beyond arm’s reach. Close enough that she could catch the faint scent of his cologne, that complex blend of sandalwood and something darker that had haunted her dreams.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, and the simple command broke something inside her chest.
“Father has arranged my marriage.” The words escaped before wisdom could stop them, raw and painful as fresh wounds. “To Lord Ashcombe. The banns will be read starting Sunday.”
