“It has a lovely tone. Someone once cared for it well.”
“My mother. She played every evening after dinner. The entire house could hear it.”
The past tense hung between them like a bridge neither seemed willing to cross. She wanted to ask about those evenings, about the woman whose portrait had gazed down at her with such warmth, about the transformation that had turned a house of music into a tomb of silence. But something in his expression warned her away from such dangerous territory.
“I shall confine my playing to more appropriate hours in future,” she said instead.
“That won’t be necessary.” He stepped forward, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. “The music is... pleasant. A welcome change from the usual quiet.”
Pleasant. Such a careful word, one that committed him to nothing while acknowledging something. But his eyes told a different story—they held a hunger for the warmth she had brought to his cold halls, even as his rigid posture warned her not to make too much of such small concessions.
“I should retire,” she said, though neither of them moved. “Tomorrow will bring its own obligations.”
“Yes. Sleep well, Isadora.”
Her name on his lips sent an odd flutter through her chest. Without his formal titles and careful distance, it sounded almost intimate—a recognition of her as a person rather than simply a solution to his domestic difficulties.
She curtsied and moved toward the door, but his voice stopped her at the threshold.
“Isadora.” She turned back, noting how the firelight painted him in shades of shadow and flame. “Thank you. For the music.”
The simple gratitude in his words was more dangerous than any grand gesture could have been. It spoke of a man starved for beauty, for warmth, for the simple human comforts he had denied himself in his fortress of solitude.
“You’re welcome,” she replied softly, then fled before she could say something foolish, something that might shatter the fragile peace they had achieved.
As she climbed the stairs to her chambers, Isadora allowed herself to acknowledge what she had been avoiding since her arrival at Rothwell Abbey. Edmund Ravensleigh was indeed dangerous—not because of his reputation or his scarred past, but because beneath his rigid control lay depths that called to parts of herself she had never known existed. He was a man capable of inspiring not just fear but fascination, not just obedience but the far more treacherous emotion of genuine care.
The realization should have sent her running back to London, should have made her grateful for the emotional distance he maintained between them. Instead, it made her want to stay and fight—for Lillian’s freedom, for the servants’ dignity, and perhaps most dangerously of all, for the soul of the man who had built such beautiful walls around his wounded heart.
CHAPTER 10
“Iwill not recite another word of this ridiculous poem about shepherdesses and their virtuous thoughts!” Lillian’s voice carried through the corridor, sharp with frustration. “It is insipid, childish, and beneath any person with half a brain! I despise it!”
Isadora froze outside the schoolroom door, her hand on the brass handle. She’d been heading to the library when the raised voices reached her—Lillian’s passionate declaration, Mrs. Hale’s scandalized response, and beneath it all, Edmund’s low rumble of authority.
“Miss Gray, you will mind your tongue this instant,” Mrs. Hale’s voice quavered. “Such language is entirely inappropriate for a young lady of your station. His Grace, please explain to your ward that?—”
“Enough.” Edmund’s single word cut through the room like steel. “Lillian, you will apologize to Mrs. Hale immediately, andyou will complete the recitation as assigned. Your opinions on your lessons are neither requested nor relevant.”
Through the crack in the door, Isadora could see Lillian standing beside her desk, slight frame rigid despite the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
“I am not a child,” she said now, her voice trembling but determined. “I am nearly sixteen years old, and I am capable of forming judgments about what I study.”
Mrs. Hale gasped as though the girl had uttered blasphemy. “Your Grace, I must insist she be corrected immediately.”
“She will be corrected,” Edmund replied simply, his voice low. Through the crack in the door, Isadora could see him moving closer to Lillian. “You will apologize, complete your lessons, and conduct yourself as befits your position. Is that understood?”
The girl merely nodded and Isadora could feel the anger boiling over in her stomach. Here was everything wrong with how society treated intelligent women distilled into one bitter observation from a girl who should have been celebrated for her quick mind rather than punished for it. The pain in Lillian’s voice, the rigid control in Edmund’s posture, Mrs. Hale’s satisfied smugness—it crystallized into perfect clarity about what needed to happen.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside, silk morning dress rustling in the sudden silence that followed her entrance. The schoolroom felt smaller with all four of them in it, theChristmas decorations that had seemed cheerful yesterday now appearing forced and artificial against the backdrop of this confrontation.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward her—Mrs. Hale’s alarmed, Lillian’s hopeful, Edmund’s coolly assessing. His gaze swept over her with the sort of attention that made her skin warm beneath her modest neckline, though his expression remained carefully neutral.
“Forgive the interruption,” she said, voice carrying the calm authority she’d learned during years of managing her father’s household tensions. “I could not help but overhear, and I felt compelled to offer my perspective.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, his tone held the sort of warning that most people were wise enough to heed. “This is a matter of discipline, Isadora. It does not require your intervention.”
The icy use of her name stung, but she refused to be dismissed so easily. “Perhaps not,” she replied, moving until she stood beside Lillian’s desk. The girl’s relief at having an ally was palpable, her rigid posture softening slightly as though she could finally breathe properly again. “But it does concern the education of a young woman who will soon need to move through society with confidence and intelligence. On that subject, I believe I might have insight to offer.”
