Her chambers occupied the east wing—the Duchess’s traditional domain that had stood empty since his mother’s death. Edmund had ordered them opened and aired for Isadora’s arrival, though he’d avoided visiting them himself. Too many memories lived in those rooms, too many ghosts of the woman who’d taught him that gentleness wasn’t weakness.
Now he stood outside her door like some nervous suitor rather than the master of this house. His hand was raised to knock before he’d quite decided to do so, and the sound of his knuckles against oak seemed unnaturally loud in the evening quiet.
“Come in.”
Her voice carried through the door, slightly muffled but clear enough. Edmund pushed the door open and stepped into warmth that had nothing to do with the fire blazing in her hearth.
Isadora sat before her dressing table in a wrapper of deep green velvet that made her chestnut hair appear almost auburn in the candlelight. She’d been brushing it—the silver-backed brush lay abandoned beside scattered hairpins—and the loose waves falling past her shoulders made her look younger than her three-and-twenty years. More vulnerable than the composed duchess who’d challenged him in front of his ward and household staff.
She turned to face him, surprise flickering across her features before being replaced by careful neutrality. “Your Grace. I wasn’t expecting you.”
The formal address stung despite being entirely appropriate. They’d been married less than a fortnight—hardly enough time to establish the sort of intimacy that would make given names natural between them.
“Forgive the intrusion.” Edmund remained near the door, very aware that propriety demanded he not enter his wife’s privatechambers uninvited. “I have a matter to discuss that cannot wait until morning.”
One elegant eyebrow rose at this pronouncement. “Indeed? What manner of matter requires such urgency?”
Edmund forced himself to step fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt far too final. Christmas candles burned on every surface—she’d clearly been decorating, transforming the austere chambers into something approaching festive. Holly arranged in crystal vases, evergreen boughs wound with scarlet ribbon, the scent of pine and beeswax thick enough to taste.
His mother would have approved.
“We are to attend dinner with Lord and Lady Fairfax,” he said, the words emerging more curtly than intended. “Three days hence, on Christmas Eve. I require your company.”
Isadora merely looked at him, her face impassive. “Require?”
“Request,” Edmund amended, though the correction tasted like surrender. “I request that you accompany me to the Fairfax dinner.”
She rose from her dressing table with fluid grace, the green wrapper rustling as she moved. “And why, precisely, must we attend this dinner? I was under the impression you’d declined social obligations for years.”
Because his isolation had become untenable. Because Lillian needed him to be something more than the Dangerous Duke. Because the whispers about his household were growing louder and more damaging with each passing week.
Because he was desperate, though he’d die before admitting it.
“The neighborhood has begun asking questions,” he said carefully, choosing words that wouldn’t reveal too much. “About my sudden acquisition of both ward and wife. About Lillian’s parentage and your... willingness to bind yourself to my reputation.”
Understanding dawned in her hazel eyes. “They’re wondering what scandal forced me to marry you.”
“Among other speculations, yes.” Edmund began to pace, unable to remain still under the weight of her attention. “The gossip grows more pointed with each week. Questions about whether Lillian is actually my daughter rather than my ward. Whether you knew about her existence before accepting my proposal. Whether our hasty marriage suggests some impropriety that required immediate correction.”
“And attending a Christmas dinner will somehow silence these rumors?”
“It will demonstrate that we are a normal household. Respectable. The sort of family that accepts social invitations and participates in seasonal festivities like everyone else.” He stopped pacing to face her directly. “It will show them thatthe Dangerous Duke has reformed. That marriage has gentled whatever wildness earned me that particular epithet.”
Isadora studied him with the sort of penetrating attention that made Edmund want to check his cravat for imperfections. “And has it? Has marriage gentled you?”
The question struck closer to truths he wasn’t prepared to examine. “That’s irrelevant. What matters is perception.”
“So we’re to perform reformation we haven’t actually achieved?” Her voice carried an edge now, sharp enough to draw blood. “Pretend devotion neither of us feels for the entertainment of Yorkshire gossips?”
“Yes.” The admission tasted bitter, but Edmund had never learned to sweeten unpleasant truths. “For Lillian’s sake, if nothing else. Her prospects depend on my reputation, and my reputation currently sits somewhere between ‘dangerous eccentric’ and ‘possible murderer.’ If we want her to have any chance at decent marriage, we need to convince society that I’ve become worthy of raising James’s daughter.”
Something shifted in Isadora’s expression at the mention of Lillian. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”
This was it, then. The moment when he revealed the full extent of his desperation and hoped she possessed enough compassion—or pragmatism—to agree.
“We must appear united,” Edmund said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite the heat building in his chest. “The whispers about me have gone on long enough. It is time society believes I have changed.” He paused, gathering nerve he hadn’t known he possessed. “You will smile at me. Laugh at my attempts at conversation as though they charm you. You will look at me as though you?—”
The words stuck in his throat, too revealing to speak aloud.
