“Touché. Though in my defense, I was assured Mrs. Hale was competent.”
“Mrs. Hale is past sixty and fell asleep during the second movement. Hardly adequate protection for a girl like your ward.”
“A girl like my ward. What exactly do you know about girls like my ward?”
The change in his demeanor was subtle but unmistakable, walls sliding into place behind those green eyes, shutting her out. She’d touched something raw, though she couldn’t understand what.
“I know she’s fifteen and alone in a world that will judge her for sins she didn’t commit,” Isadora said quietly. “I know she watches everyone like she’s starving for acceptance and terrified of rejection at the same time. And I know that whatever protection you think you’re giving her isn’t enough.”
For a long moment, he simply stared at her. The sounds of the musicale drifted down the corridor—polite applause, murmured conversation, the clink of crystal—but here in their small alcove, the world had shrunk to just the two of them and whatever strange current was crackling between them.
“You see quite a lot for someone who’s known her five minutes,” he said finally.
“I see what you refuse to acknowledge.” The words came out bolder than she’d intended, but she pressed on. “That girl needs more than a guardian who lurks in shadows and appears only when disaster strikes. She needs guidance, friendship, someone to teach her how to survive in a world that will never be entirely kind to her.”
“And you believe yourself qualified for such a position?”
There was mockery in his voice again, but underneath it, she heard something else. Something that sounded almost like hope, quickly buried but unmistakably there.
“I believe I understand what it means to be a woman in a world run by men who think they know what’s best for us.”
His eyes searched her face with an intensity that made her pulse flutter. Whatever he found there seemed to surprise him, because when he spoke again, his voice had lost its cutting edge.
“She’s not an easy charge,” he warned. “Headstrong. Willful. Full of opinions that would shock you.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Isadora said, meaning every word. “Perhaps what she needs is someone who appreciates those qualities instead of trying to crush them.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured, though he sounded doubtful.
’Their eyes met and she felt her breath hitch in her throat. Something… odd was happening, something that caused her heart to flutter.
Then, with visible effort, he seemed to shake himself free of whatever spell had held him. “I should return her to Rothwell Abbey. This evening has been... educational.”
He turned, and the fluttering of her heart increased.
“Your Grace,” she called as he reached the edge of the alcove.
He turned back, dark eyebrows raised in polite inquiry that didn’t quite mask the sharp attention in his eyes.
“If you ever need help with your ward’s... social education,” she said, the words tumbling out before wisdom could stop them, “I’d be happy to assist.”
“That’s... generous of you, Lady Isadora,” he said instead. “I’ll consider your offer.”
He bowed then, a gesture of perfect courtesy that somehow felt more intimate than it should have. When he straightened, his eyes met hers one last time. Isadora could feel heat rushing to her cheeks as she stared into the depths of his eyes, for some reason rather feeling as though she was standing on the edge of a cliff and staring into an abyss of some sort.
“Until we meet again,” he murmured, and then he was gone, disappearing down the corridor like smoke on the wind.
Isadora could not move. She pressed a trembling hand against her heart, thoughts jumbling through her mind all at once. What had just happened? What strange alchemy had occurred in those charged moments when their eyes had met and held?
She’d spent three years rejecting suitors, telling herself that none of them stirred her heart or captured her imagination. Butfive minutes in the company of the Dangerous Duke of Rothwell had left her more shaken than years of proper courtship.
From the drawing room came fresh applause, indicating that Miss Hartwell had finally concluded her torture of Mozart. Soon, the guests would begin mingling again, and Father would expect her to return to the serious business of husband-hunting. She should go back, smile at Lord Ashcombe, flirt with Mr. Fitzsimmons, play the part of the dutiful daughter seeking a suitable marriage.
Instead, she found herself touching the place where Lillian’s fingers had gripped hers, remembering the girl’s grateful smile and the Duke’s reluctant approval. In a strange twist of fate, something had stirred with in her. She realized with a start what it was: she’d felt useful. Necessary. More than just a pawn in Father’s political games.
“Isadora!” Father’s voice echoed down the corridor, sharp with irritation. “Where have you gotten to?”
She smoothed her skirts, checked her hair, and prepared to rejoin the glittering world of the musicale. But as she stepped from the alcove, she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had changed in the space of those few charged minutes.
